Hollywood Prince (Hollywood Royalty #3) - Natasha Madison Page 0,40

and forgives me more this week than she should have.

“If I told you to stay, you would, wouldn’t you?” I ask her the question.

“Well, yeah,” she says, coming in and sitting on the bed next to me. “Isn’t that what friends do?”

“I don’t know. Never had any real friends,” I tell her the truth. “I’ve only had Hollywood friends.”

“I take it those aren’t real friends?” she asks. I notice she has a bread crumb in her hair.

“Did you turn off the stove?” I ask her, and her eyes go wide. Jumping off the bed, she runs to the kitchen, and I grab my phone and follow her. Luckily, nothing is burned, and the water is boiling.

“Okay, let me see if we can pull up a recipe and do this,” I tell her, and she turns around.

“No,” she says loudly. “I want to do this, so go watch television. Or, I don’t know, read your script for tomorrow. I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure?” I ask her, and she nods.

“You can make room for us to eat since every surface is full of flowers,” she says. I look around, and she isn’t wrong. The table is so full, as is the living room table and the counter, so I don’t know where to start. When I look back into the kitchen, she is frying the chicken. She looks over at me and smiles. “Watch out Iron Chef, I’m coming for you.”

I laugh at her when she finally places the chicken in the oven, and she is stirring the pasta. “The pasta is going to be done before the chicken is ready,” she says and groans. “It’s going to be so bad.”

“It isn’t going to be bad,” I tell her. “Just broil the chicken since it’s already cooked. All you need is for the top to cook.”

“Great idea, sous chef,” she says and turns the knob. Ten minutes later, she is plating the pasta and chicken parm.

She brings the plate over to the table that I set while she was cooking. She puts a plate down for me and a smaller one for herself. She sits and looks over at me and laughs. “If it’s not good, we can order something.”

Cutting a piece of chicken, I put it in my mouth, and believe it or not, it’s the best chicken parm I’ve ever eaten. “It’s really good,” I tell her, grabbing another piece.

“It isn’t too bad,” she says, and I look back at her and see sauce has splattered on her shirt, and it will probably be stained by the oil splashes, but I wouldn’t change it. “The pasta could use some salt.”

“Everything is perfect,” I tell her, and I mean it. I eat everything on my plate and even go back in for seconds. “Do you cook for your boyfriend?” I ask her the nagging question that has been looming in the back of my head since Saturday.

She looks at me, grabbing her bottle of water. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she says, blocking her mouth with the bottle. My head tilts at her, and she changes the subject. “How do you stay in shape?” she asks me.

I look at her. “Did you ever have a boyfriend, or were you just fucking with me?” I wait a second for her to answer and then continue. “I work out five times a week,” I tell her, “but honestly, it’s good genes. I guess I can thank my parents for one thing.”

“You assumed I had a boyfriend, so I let you assume,” she tells me, then again changes the subject. “Well, I definitely didn’t inherit my mother’s boobs,” she says, laughing. “Actually, come to think of it, she is the opposite of me. She’s tall and curvy where I’m just tall and tall.”

I laugh and then look at her. “You know what they say when you assume something?” I ask her, and this conversation now has us tiptoeing around everything. “You make an ass out of you and me.” She laughs, and then my voice goes soft. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.” I tell her the truth. “And I’ve met a shit ton. But you, you have this easiness to you that brings you so up there that you’re untouchable.” She doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me. “Whether you’re wearing sweats or fancy ass shit, you just walk in, and everyone stops to look at you.” I put my knife down. “You’re stunning, Erin,” I say softly, and