family make no sense. Clementine in a war with Liz for power. Christian is getting cold feet. Clementine demanding her choice of tiaras from the royal vault and growing hysterical when she didn’t get one with rubies in it. Reading them gives me tired head because they are based in nothing but rumours, if not outright lies.
Well, except for ninety percent of the ones about Prince Alexander. The future king of the United Kingdom has been tabloid fodder for years, but photographic proof often accompanies his famous exploits in posh nightclubs and bars across London. But to be fair, the most recent ones showed him exclusively with some beautiful aristocrat before that relationship seemingly ended before it began.
I smile to myself. Of course, that ended quickly. If there’s one thing I can be sure of, it’s that Xander the Philanderer is not designed for a relationship.
At least not one that lasts more than a week.
And that is one that I’m sure is not a rumour.
It’s a fact.
“Oh, for God’s sake, she has nothing to do with the CIA,” Shane says, interrupting my thoughts. “I was pointing out how ridiculous all these stories are.” He is clearly growing weary from the royal rumour mill that is now running through his bakery. “Now, please, get those in the case, as we’re opening.”
Ian laughs and moves through the door, followed by Sarah and her tray of Chelsea buns.
As soon as the door closes, Shane rakes a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “We need to be careful. Now, once the deal closes, we’ll make them all sign agreements, but until then, coded speaking.”
I grin back at him. “Yes, sir.”
He laughs. “Go.”
“Good luck!” Matilda says, clasping her hands to her chest in excitement.
I head towards the employee exit, pausing for a moment to retrieve my raincoat off the hook near the door. A continual rain has been falling all morning, and for once, my appearance matters today. Usually, I’m in jeans and a T-shirt, apron over the top, hair wound up in a bun, and my sketch pencil tucked behind my ear. That is how I meet most clients that come into the bakery for a custom consultation.
However, when your potential clients are Prince Christian and Ms. Clementine Jones, a flour-dusted apron and smelling like vanilla extract and icing sugar won’t do. So I ran out to Oxford Street, whipped out my credit card, and bought a presentation-worthy outfit. I’m wearing an ivory blouse with sheer organza sleeves, a navy midi-skirt from Whistles with buttons down the side and an asymmetrical hem in front, and navy stiletto heels. Then I hit up Space NK—as I felt compelled to up my makeup game as well—and splurged on a new RMS lipstick called Breathless and a new perfume: Jo Loves White Rose and Lemon Leaves. I now smell feminine and light—and not like a freshly baked biscuit for once.
I slip into my raincoat, grab my umbrella, and walk to the pink minivan in the rear car park, trying to keep both my hair and my precious box of biscuits shielded from the rain. Luckily, I get to use the company van today to take this all-important delivery over to Kensington Palace.
I go straight to the passenger side of the van and tuck my biscuits onto the seat. Then I hurry around to my side of the vehicle. The wind picks up, and I flinch. I swear, I can feel some of my hair strands being whipped out of the chignon at the nape of my neck. Crap. I’ll have to try and tidy that up before I get out of the car at Kensington Palace.
I pop up into the driver’s seat and immediately adjust it. Tad is the one who usually makes deliveries, and as he’s 6’3”, I cannot reach the pedals without moving the seat way forward. Once I have the seat adjusted and the mirrors set, I ease into traffic and draw a breath of air. I can’t explain why I’m not nervous. Maybe it’s because I simply view the royals as people. Of course, they are people who don’t share a flat and juggle bills and do their own laundry, but still. They’re people. If they are rude or demanding … well, having worked in my parents’ chip shop in Cardiff and now in a bakery, I’ve dealt with that. I can handle that.
I’m confident in my biscuits—not only in the artwork, but the flavour of them, too. I made a few of these