of apple before cooking them up, so it’s like the perfect combination of apple pie and cinnamon bun.
As soon as I pull them out of the oven, I rip one open and stuff the steaming dough into my mouth.
Big mistake.
As soon as the piping-hot bun hits my mouth, I burn the roof of it so badly I lose a layer of skin. I exhale as I chew, cursing myself as I jump around the kitchen.
Typical.
I’m never patient, never smart, never forward-thinking. I always make the same mistakes over and over again. Swallowing my bite, I look at the rest of the cinnamon bun and double down. My mouth is already burned, why not eat the rest of it?
Leaning against the kitchen counter, I mash the dough between my teeth, too angry to taste anything. I’m not even sure why I’m mad. Because I’m too impatient to wait five minutes before eating these? Because my sister is off meeting the prince of her dreams and I’m here on my own? Because as hard as I try, I can’t bring myself to dislike my sister even a little bit?
My phone dings on the counter beside me. It’s my news app flashing on the screen. The only finger that isn’t sticky with cinnamon bun is my pinky finger, so I use that to press the screen. Leaning on the cabinets, I read the headline that appears on my phone:
Bad-Boy Prince leaves with Farcliff Sweetheart: Sparks Fly
Heat rips through my chest like a flaming arrow. I scroll through the news story with my pinky finger, pausing on a photo of Prince Luca and my sister with their heads close, laughing at something only they can hear.
Even in a paparazzi photo, the two of them look like they were crafted for the sole purpose of making the rest of us feel inadequate. My sister glows in her blue dress, her hair and makeup somehow still flawless, even after a full evening of eating.
The Prince—well, he’s the definition of perfect. Darkish hair, dark eyes, a roguish smile. His jaw is strong and square, and his body dwarfs my sister’s in every photo. He has a hand on her lower back, and I can see the hint of a tattoo poking out from his perfectly tailored suit.
I stare at the photos, zooming in on them and leaning forward until my nose is practically against my phone’s screen.
The Prince is a little older than my sister. I think I read that he was in his mid-thirties. He almost has a silver fox look about him, and the way he’s staring at my sister makes my gut clench.
They’re both so damn good-looking. Turning around in disgust, I lean my back against the cabinets and stare up at the ceiling.
I look down at my sticky, cinnamon-bun covered hands and then run my tongue over the raw skin on the roof of my mouth. Is it any wonder that I don’t have any royalty knocking down my door? I spend my evenings in the kitchen, baking for no one except myself. I wear ripped jeans and a white t-shirt every single day. I don’t talk to men, except if they happen to be driving a taxi or working behind a cash register.
The front door opens, dragging me out of my pity party.
“Ivy!” Hunter calls from the hallway.
“In here.” I head to the sink to wash my hands.
His footsteps grow nearer, and he pops his head around the corner just as I untie my apron and hang it on its hook on the wall.
“You have to leave.”
“Excuse me?” I arch an eyebrow. “Did you forget that I live here?”
Hunter runs a hand through his dirty blond hair. His eyes are thin slits on his face, and he jerks his chin toward the door. “The Prince and Margot are on their way. They need the house to themselves.”
My heart thumps. “Why?”
Margot’s agent rolls his eyes. “Come on, Ivy. I know you’re a virgin, but you should understand what we’ve been working toward for the past six months.”
My cheeks burn. Liquid fire runs down my throat as I try to swallow. How did he know I was a virgin? Hunter’s eyes run down my body as he leans against the doorway, arching an eyebrow. A slimy feeling follows his gaze as it passes over me.
I turn away from him, if only to hide my embarrassment. “Where am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t care. You can come to my place if you want.”