Declan just scoffed and nudged her out of the way with the uncompromising force and speed of a glacier, a sweet but intractable smile on his pouty mouth. He was so good at that. It meant our friends underestimated him over the years. But it also meant no one cared if we hung out all the time. Since he wasn't burdened with a crown like my other friends, he always found time to gossip, help, or just be there.
As his cool palms met mine in a perfect slide of skin, Irealized I had come to rely on his presence. My gaze instinctively latched on to him. How were his eyes so warm when they were such a cool color? Maybe it was the way his dark hair kind of brushed over his forehead like he invited me to share a secret.
I stuffed my smile down because any time he saw it, he would tease me for days with declarations that the Harrowlands were about to fall into the seven hells or some such nonsense to imply I never smiled. I smiled… sometimes. There was just a lot to do and I couldn’t help it if I had “resting serious face”. That’s what Declan called it, rather than the “resting feral bitch face” everyone else called it.
He rubbed his thumbs across my knuckles, gazing into my cinnamon eyes with his blueberry ones, as if he tracked every twitch of my pupils. My breath came out slowly and time melted down into the two of us. My hands relaxed, some of the pain easing. Something I didn’t want to name softened his gaze, and I had to whisper to dispel it. I didn't know if I could summon more breath.
“Why are you up, Declan? It’s four in the morning.”
His eyes sparkled, never leaving mine, his thumbs tingling my skin. “It’s your big day. Where else would I be?”
“Helping the others? Annoying Ward and Noth? Sleeping?” I suggested.
“Wow, you know how to have a good time, Honey.”His sarcasm almost broke me into a laugh. “I’ll be sure to put those on my to-do list later. Right now, I can finish dressing that duck on the floor while you work on the next thing.”
Holding hands with Declan soothed even better than Lenora’s magic. It always felt so perfect. I almost asked him to hold my knees like a psycho, but how would I ever explain that? Declan was right. There was a lot of work ahead for the dinner tonight. While he normally only kept me company, I wasn’t about to pass up help when my list was a mile long. He could do the basic stuff like rip out innards.
We would get back to that… in just a second. After I was definitely able to let go of his warm hands. Any second… I would let go. I just needed another minute–
“Excuse me. I’m looking for the head cook.”
I snatched my hands away from Declan as if I’d been caught doing something sinful. He didn’t appear offended, but a bit of sadness came into his gaze. Before I asked what was wrong, he turned to the stranger.
“Fallon is the head cook.”
The man, dressed in a pristine white double-breasted jacket, surveyed my kitchen like he owned it. I bristled. The rigid way he held himself, the thinning blade of his mouth announced he was a screamer. The worst kind of cook in a kitchen. Now he stood in mine.
“Be serious,”he said, his mustache puffing out like an angry bird. “Just because she eats a little too much from the kitchen doesn't make her in charge of it.”
Anger simmered beneath my skin. He meant my hips and thighs, which had always been more generous than my top half and somehow disqualified me from participating in life, according to every man I’d ever met.
He twitched his hand at Declan. “There is a lot to do for tonight’s feast and the scullery maid can go get the head cook. I have critical work to do.”
Men were always in the way, or telling you things you already knew, or failing up around you. They were barely tolerable for sex. The little I’d had was fast and uncomfortable, hardly worth the effort. That’s why my friendship with Declan remained so surprising. It didn't make sense that he turned into my best friend over these past couple years. Usually, men only came in this flavor of ass-hattery. His impatient foot tapping only confirmed it. This guy was about to see some damage.
I stepped into his line of sight, mentally preparing a full list of takedowns. “Don’t act like you didn’t hear him. I’m the head cook. And you are?”
It was easier to start by defending Declan. A few of the kitchen staff filtered in with sleepy stares. Great. Just what we needed: an audience.
“I am in charge tonight. The Queen requested my presence to make everything look perfect.”
What was that supposed to mean? “My food is ‘perfect’.”
His mustache poofed out again with indignation. “Since your dinner standard is probably eating ham with your hands. We can certainly do better than that.”
“Doubt it,” I hissed.
Declan rested his hand at the small of my back in encouragement. He had that far-away look in his eye, saying he was mentally talking to someone else.
What are you doing?I asked as the mustachioed man ranted about proper technique and the Taurian school of culinary aesthetics he attended.
Getting Evie so she can straighten this out. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,Declan replied.
The woman herself walked in, yawning wide enough to crack her jaw. “What’s happening?” She cinched her very un-queenly robe closed.
“This…man,” I scoffed, “is in my kitchen for some unknown reason.”
Evie woke right up, smiling, eyes sparkling. Her hands flapped in excitement and my eye twitched.
