The Princess and The Jester - A.D. McCammon Page 0,26

of shoes.

“Cole,” she coos, getting up from her desk as she waves me in. “Come in and close the door.”

Discomfort settles over me as I do what she’s asked.

She’s on me like a fly on fruit once we’re hidden away, her hands pawing at the breast of my vest. “You are so damn handsome. I bet the girls just throw themselves at you.”

I smirk, pretending not to be repulsed by her. She’s in her late twenties or early thirties. Way too old to be hitting on a seventeen-year-old. One that also happens to be her employee. “Thanks. I do all right.”

She sits on the edge of her desk, her short pencil skirt hiking up to her thighs as she crosses her legs. Her attempt to be seductive only makes her seem incredibly desperate. There’s no telling what kind of fantasies she’s playing out in her head right now.

Never going to happen, lady.

“What can I do for you, darling?” she drawls. Her southern accent tends to come out more whenever she tries to flirt.

“It’s dead out there. I was hoping to hang out in the kitchen with Chef Lucas. Just until you need me, of course. He said he’d teach me some new tricks.”

It’s my dream to go to culinary school after I graduate high school, but I’m not sure how we’d afford it—despite my mother’s promises. Lucas has been teaching me as much as he can, when he can. And Patrick says there’ll be a chef job waiting for me at any of his hotels whenever I’m ready.

“He’s not the only person willing to teach you a thing or two,” she murmurs.

It’s obvious Camille isn’t expecting me to respond to her comment. She’s so preoccupied staring at my crotch I’m not sure she even realizes she voiced her inappropriate thought aloud.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” I muse.

Her eyes snap back to mine, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “You’re free to go hang out in the kitchen.” She coughs, straightening her skirt as she stands again. “Just make sure you’re back out front before the early dinner rush starts.”

“Thank you.”

She gives me a weak smile before scurrying back behind her desk, and I hurry out the door.

On my way to the kitchen, my phone buzzes with a text from Arwen.

Arwen: Wtf? Violet said you guys hung out at Gwen’s house yesterday!

Me: Yeah, so what?

Arwen: Don’t use Saint as a pawn in whatever game you’re playing with Gwen.

Me: Screw you. You know I wouldn’t do that. Princess wasn’t even home.

If I knew then that Gwen was jealous of Violet, I never would’ve invited her over. The entire school knows Thatcher is crazy about Saint. It never occurred to me that Gwen would think I was messing around with my best friend’s girl. She must think I’m a real piece of shit.

Arwen: Don’t get your panties twisted. I’m just making sure. You’d do the same.

Me: And where the hell were you yesterday, asshole? I can’t believe you ignored my calls.

Arwen: I was tired. Stayed in bed most of the day.

Me: I bet you did. How is the golden boy doing?

Arwen: And GOODBYE!

I chuckle, stopping right outside the kitchen. My thumb hovers over the Instagram icon as I try to convince myself to leave Gwen alone.

It wasn’t easy leaving her bed this morning. If there’s not some serious distance between me and her for a while, I’m sure to crack. But that doesn’t mean I can’t keep messaging PG. It might be the only way to break her.

Grinning, I pull up our conversation from this morning. My last message was left on read. She’s been playing coy since my arrival at the Rhodes estate. It makes me wonder if she suspects I know who she is. Which only makes the game more entertaining.

I’ve got to get to work.

Have a good day.

Think of me.

Seen

1:00 PM

Just tell me one real thing

about yourself.

She sees my message almost immediately, and I anxiously await her response as she types. It’ll be hard for her to list even one thing I don’t already know about her, and she knows it. We may have spent the last couple of years apart, but I still know her better than anyone else ever has or will. Any honest answer she gives me could expose her.

I thought you were working.

Don’t deflect. Just give me one

thing. What harm could it do?

I’m secretly obsessed with Harry Styles.

I scoff. Pretty sure most girls between the age of fifteen and thirty are in love with that dude. Hell,