A Princess in Theory

by Alyssa Cole

  Yves peeked out from his office. “If I have to reheat that fish one more time,” he growled, and made a slitting motion across his neck. Ledi wondered how people had ever mistaken the Swiss for a peace-loving people. They had invented those knives and they knew how to use them.

  She took a deep breath and remembered that this was a job that paid her well and provided insurance to part-time workers. Dan wasn’t worth losing her access to low co-pays.

  “Just give me a minute and we can talk this through, okay?”

  He nodded but his gaze was past her, as if he was still mulling his napkin-folding-induced crisis.

  She hurried the food to the mathematicians, making it to the table just as her arms were ready to give out, with a gentle reminder that they needed to actually eat it this time. They nodded and dug in without looking up at her, but as she headed back to the kitchen one of the astrophysicists flagged her down, asking her to bring him some more of the kale that had been used as garnish on his plate so he could demonstrate a wormhole theory.

  “It’s in the curl of the leaf, you see,” Dr. Zietara began, and launched into a complex explanation of matter folding in on itself. Ledi couldn’t grasp everything he was saying, but it was still fascinating. It was moments like this that reminded her why she loved working at the Institute—great minds had to eat, and sometimes they shared some of their greatness within earshot. She appreciated that he made eye contact with her, including her in the conversation—researchers in her own field sometimes gazed past her when explaining things, as if assuming she wouldn’t understand—but then she remembered all the work looming ahead.

  “The dining room is actually closing soon, sir,” she said when he finally took a breath.

  “Excellent!” he replied, taking more paperwork out of his backpack and dropping it decisively on the table. “We can work in peace once those ridiculous mathematicians leave.”

  He and his colleagues glared across the dining room.

  Ledi groaned and hurried back to the kitchen. The kitchen that was much too quiet. There should have been the clang of metal as Dan moved tables out from the back storage room or at least the sound of the expensive Italian espresso machine as he freeloaded yet another cappuccino.

  “Dan?”

  The end of her question ended in a yelp as she stepped on something slippery and almost lost her footing. She looked down to see an abandoned tuxedo shirt beneath her sensible work shoe. Of course he couldn’t just quit like a normal human being, or wait until after his shift. He had to make an artistic statement. He was probably walking shirtless to freedom and planning to use that as the final triumphant scene of his novel.

  Fuck.

  Just like that, the calm she had been struggling to maintain began to crack. An unusual pressure beat at her sinuses as each individual task on her to-do list seemed to multiply before her eyes like a norovirus.

  Dan had left her to set up and wait on a party of forty people–alone. She had hours of studying ahead of her when she got home or she’d fail her bench exams and her first year of grad school would be an expensive bust. Her thesis was floundering and her advisor was MIA and her awesome summer practicum was uncertain. And she just knew that the mathematicians were going to ask her to reheat their fish again.

  “Fuuuuck,” she exhaled.

  The doors leading from the dining room opened and Ledi tried to pull her features into a smile. It was probably Dr. Zietara coming to check in on his kale.

  But instead of a peeved researcher standing in the doorway, there was the finest man Ledi had ever seen outside of a social media thirst trap pic. For a split second she was hit with the sensation of greeting an old friend after a long absence, but she was mistaken: she didn’t know this guy.

  He was tall, with the broad-shouldered, well-defined V of a body that announced swimming was part of his workout regimen. He wore a forest green T-shirt and straight-legged black jeans that fit snugly, but not enough to advertise his eggplant emoji. She would have thought the pants were tailored, but who would waste money on tailored jeans?

  His skin was a rich, dark brown, slightly darker than her own, with hair that was shaved on the sides and twisted into short, perfect dreads on the top. A well-maintained beard framed his lush lips and highlighted the sharp angles of his wide jaw instead of hiding them.

  That beard made her fingers itch to stroke it, or to grab her smartphone and photograph it for posterity. She wasn’t as good at social media as Portia, but she’d rack up a million likes within the day, for sure, if not some kind of award for heroism on behalf of male-attracted humanity.

  “Um,” she said. Her general reaction to men she met in her daily life was indifference or tolerance, at best, but something about this man sent her thoughts spinning far, far away from lab work or serving or studying. The only data she was currently interested in collecting was the exact tensile pressure of his beard against her inner thigh, and the shift in mass of his body on top of hers.

  He cleared his throat and she realized she’d been crouching and staring up at him with an intensity that might have made him fear for his well-being. She doubted it was a new experience for him, but it was for her, and her face heated in embarrassment.

  She kicked Dan’s discarded shirt under the metal table and pulled herself up straight. “Can I help you, sir?”

  It felt strange to address someone near her age so formally, but at the Institute you never knew who was a VIP. The most important researcher often came to the dining room in his bathrobe and nothing else. Besides, he had an air of authority about him.

  “There’s a man outside who says he’s in need of kale? He’s quite insistent.”

  Oh—he had an accent, too. Kind of British, but with something else just as charming layered over it.

  “Kale?” Somewhere in the back of Ledi’s mind, a connection was sparking, but all pathways were currently occupied trying to process whatever was going on with the hot guy in front of her.

  He smiled, the kind of smile that made little crinkles around the corner of his eyes, and Ledi felt it all throughout her body.

  “Yes,” he said, in that deep, accented voice. “Kale. A leafy green, quite good in a moroko mash, but I imagine you don’t serve that here. Maybe you do, though? I haven’t had a chance to familiarize myself with the menu.”

  Familiarize? Menu? Ledi’s scattered deductive reasoning skills slowly pulled the pieces together.

  This was the new hire. She felt a brief pang of regret as her beard vs thighs fantasies collapsed like one of Yves’s soufflés. Now that she knew she’d be training him, he was firmly in the coworker zone.

  “Oh, you’re already helping customers? That’s great, showing initiative,” she said. Her brain had registered that he fell into a group labeled “Nope,” but all of her cylinders still weren’t firing. She was trying to sound bright and in charge, but her vocabulary center was stuck on “Damn, he fine,” making forming sentences a bit difficult. “Um. Here.”

  Ledi grabbed a fistful of kale from the chopping board on the counter and shoved it toward him. He looked from the greens to her face and back again, his brow furrowed in obvious judgment.

  “You’re right, I should be wearing gloves,” she said. “I of all people should be enforcing that. Public Health! Germs are the enemy!”

  She was fairly certain that the look he gave her as she dropped the kale onto the cutting board and snapped a latex glove onto her right hand was the same one she doled out to subway preachers with questionable knowledge of Biblical texts ranting about the apocalypse.

  “No, that’s not it at all,” he said, shaking his head, and everything clicked into place for her. How had she made such a silly mistake?

  “Oh, right!”

  She turned and grabbed a small, round bread plate, slapped a thin paper doily on it, and then placed the kale on top, giving it a few gentle spruces before it went off to be used as an educational aid.

  “Nice catch. Presentation is always imp
ortant,” she said as she handed it over to him. “I’m usually more on the ball, but it’s been a long day. A long week. Month!” She reined herself in. “You seem to have some experience already, so you can take this over to the table, okay? Remind them that the dining room will be closed to members in twenty minutes and they have to leave. I’ll go get you a tuxedo shirt to change into, then we can start training.”

  She made finger guns and a little tongue-clicking noise at him before she could stop herself.

  What the hell. Where did that come from?

  She turned and speed-walked away, seeking refuge in the walk-in fridge. She was sure steam was rising from her face—and that wasn’t the only thing that needed cooling.

  You’re an adult, Ledi chided herself. Just because the finest, most lickable man you’ve ever seen in real life is going to be working next to you all night is no reason to start acting like some classic ’90s movie character.

  The problem wasn’t just that he was attractive; hot guys were a dime a dozen in New York City. It was that she was attracted to him. And it wasn’t just physical; for a moment she’d had the ridiculous feeling that she knew him. Had felt a connection that was as improbable as it was impossible . . . It would be hard to forget a man like that.

  She felt a brief surge of panic; it was just her luck that the new guy had some kind of viral effect on her—her social cell membrane had collapsed. Her defenses were down, and she still had the whole rest of the evening to get through.

  She was in deep shit.

  She dropped her chin to her chest and let out a loud groan of mortification.

  The door to the walk-in opened and Yves stuck his head in, his silver eyebrows raised in curiosity.

  “Everything all right?” His gaze darted suspiciously around the small space.

  “Don’t ask,” she muttered, sliding out past him.

  “I keep count of the zucchini!” he called after her.

  Chapter 5

  Thabiso stood in the middle of the orderly stainless steel kitchen holding the plate of kale, staring at the space Naledi had occupied before giving him an order and rushing off.

  This was the woman who should have been his bride, whose destiny had been entwined with his by religious divination and royal decree. The woman whose family had broken their promise and brought dishonor on themselves and on the priestesses who had fasted and sweated and prayed for days before choosing Naledi as the future queen. She should have been bowing down and begging forgiveness; instead she had thrown greens at him and ordered him about as if he were a peasant and not a prince.

  His people would be incensed, his parents aghast. Thabiso was intrigued.

  Naledi.

  Her eyes were large, the deep brown irises fringed with long, long lashes. Her skin was a smooth, radiant brown that gave her an aura of innocence, as if she’d yet to encounter anything in this life trying enough to crease her brow in worry. Her mouth was another tale entirely. Wide, lush lips that left any thoughts of innocence far behind even though they were bare of makeup. Her accent was not quite like the New York accent from films he’d seen, but captivating all the same.

  She was more beautiful than the photos Likotsi had poached from her barely used social media accounts. She’d been reserved in the photos—the pictures hadn’t captured her energy. There was a solid air about her; she seemed like someone you could trust to get a job done.

  Then why was she here, and not in Thesolo as her betrothal demanded?

  He could have just asked her that, point-blank, but something had stopped him. It was the way she had looked at him. There had been heat in those lovely eyes of hers as her tongue swiped over her luscious bottom lip, but more importantly, there had been no sign of recognition. He had been slightly annoyed as he’d watched and waited for a reaction from her and realized none was forthcoming. He had imagined dozens of variations on their reunion—her apologizing, at the very least, had been a recurring theme. There had been no kale in any of them. But the way she had looked at him as if he were just another man was like a magic door opening up beside the one he’d thought was his only way forward.

  She doesn’t know who I am.

  Thabiso was used to being regarded as HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, was bored of it really, but the thread of lust that had spun taut between them like a strand from Fate’s loom had been inspired by him and him alone. Thabiso had wanted to tug at the thread, pull her closer until she was in his arms. And he wanted to enjoy just a bit more of her time before he became Prince Thabiso and she became another Thesoloian project to be managed. Because that was what any talk of betrothal and marriage would be for him: work.

  There was something else that had held him back: her eyes. The aura of joy and happiness from her childhood photo was gone. She’d been friendly, but there was a wariness to her that gave him pause. He had been trained to read body language, an invaluable skill when negotiational prowess could decide the future of millions of people, and she was as cagey as any diplomat he’d ever encountered. But in the moment when he’d first caught sight of her, she’d been vulnerable. Frustrated. A woman at the end of her rope.

  Thabiso had often wondered how his life had been impacted by her absence—he’d spent a lifetime being told what could have been if his betrothed hadn’t disappeared—but what had her life been like without him? Without Thesolo?

  He’d meant to sweep into her mundane job and dazzle her, a task made easy when you were royalty, but nothing had gone as planned since he’d walked into the building.

  When a riverbed takes a sharp curve, the water follows.

  Thabiso looked down at the kale, then turned and walked out of the double doors toward the table of rude people who had assumed he was a waiter. Naledi had believed this as well. Was there something about him that exuded a sense of servility? He had thought his shirt becoming, but perhaps he would have to tell Likotsi to retire it.

  Thabiso dropped the plate onto the table with a loud ceramic thunk.

  The man who had requested it took it up in his hand without even looking at him, continuing to converse with his compatriots. He had just been waited on by royalty and couldn’t even manage a nod of gratitude?

  Son of a two-legged antelope . . .

  Thabiso waited a moment longer for the recognition owed to him, and then snatched the kale back.

  “I beg your pardon,” the man said, clearly confused as he finally turned his gaze toward Thabiso.

  “Your pardon is denied. I just performed a task for you. The correct thing to say in this situation is ‘Thank you.’” Thabiso imbued each word with the disdain learned from years of etiquette lessons.

  The man sputtered, eyes wide behind his glasses, then stammered out a thanks. Thabiso returned the kale to him.

  “You are welcome.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, you must leave this place, as I’ve been informed that there is work to be done for a later event. I give you permission to take this plate with you, as it’s obviously of inferior quality and will not be missed.”

  The man and his group of friends quickly gathered their things and shuffled out. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched them go.

  Do I ever thank my servants?

  He couldn’t remember explicitly doing so. His servants had always been there, like the photos of ancestors on the walls and the furniture handed down for generations. Surely, they didn’t feel affronted when he waved or beckoned without a word. He was a prince, after all. He had expectations that commoners couldn’t be expected to understand.

  A familiar censuring tap on his shoulder reminded him of Likotsi’s presence. “If I may be so bold, Your Highness—what, exactly, are you doing?”

  “I’m working,” Thabiso said. He was feeling rather pleased with himself. Not only was he an excellent negotiator and a shrewd businessman, but having completed the tasks assigned him, he was well on his way to becoming a master waiter, too. The goddess really did shine on all of his undertakings. “It appears I have acquire
d a job.”

  Likotsi’s mouth gaped in dismay and she shook her head. “No. No, Sire. You have a job. Princeing. And you also have a business dinner with the Omega Corporation in two hours.”

  Thabiso had thought he would show up, make Naledi rue the day her family had slunk out of Thesolo like minks, and then continue with his trip. But she hadn’t known who he was. And he wanted to know more about the intriguing, if somewhat strange, beauty.

  Thabiso shrugged. “Omega can wait.”

  Likotsi’s mouth went tight. “The finance ministers made very clear how important this meeting is.”

  The finance ministers sent me here to sell our country’s well-being to the highest bidder. But he couldn’t tell her that; she knew his most intimate details, but not that he’d agreed to allow the minerals to be extracted from beneath peoples’ ancestral lands. There would be relocation, paid for of course, but it still didn’t sit well with him.

  “The people will understand that the well-being of a nation comes first, Prince Thabiso.”

  Sometimes a prince had to do unsavory things. And sometimes plans changed.

  “The goddess has presented me with the chance to know Naledi, and I cannot pass it up for Omega Corp.”

  “Is that what you wanted, sire? To . . . know her?”

  Thabiso hadn’t thought so. What had he wanted when he tasked Likotsi with finding her? A reckoning? An outlet for his frustrations? Something, anything, other than the thousand worries that beat at his shoulders like the noonday sun? It didn’t matter. Now that he had seen Naledi, he wanted to know her. It may have been a whim, but that was his wont, and it was the very least owed to him.

  “Naledi has mistaken me for a new coworker. Can you think of a better chance for me to learn about her, and why she left, than to observe her from the same lowly level she occupies? If I tell her who I am, as planned, she would immediately change her behavior and we might never learn the truth.”