A Princess in Theory

by Alyssa Cole

  She held her fist up to him expectantly.

  “Black power?” he guessed. He had just watched a documentary about the Civil Rights movement but wasn’t aware that Americans used it as a form of salutation. He had kept abreast of the latest social justice movement in the states, and supposed it was related to that. He lifted his fist high into the air.

  She laughed that tinkling laugh again, but this time it didn’t anger him. It made him want to know what he’d done to cause it so he could create the sound again and again.

  “Um, that’s not what I was going for, but yes, that too. Chef is in his office.”

  Thabiso marched off toward the chef’s office, invigorated by Ledi’s belief in him.

  This is ridiculous. You’ve climbed Kilimanjaro. You’ve told the Prime Minister of Belgium to get stuffed. You will not be defeated by a chocolate fondue!

  When he arrived at the chef’s office, it was empty. He waited, but as the minutes ticked by, he grew more agitated, knowing Naledi must be thinking he’d not been up to the task.

  I can figure this out.

  Of course he hadn’t been quite sure what Naledi had meant by “burner,” but he marched up to the dessert table with purpose. He possessed deductive reasoning skills, didn’t he?

  He noticed a decorative candle holder on the buffet table. Instead of a wax candle inside, there was a wick with a small plastic reservoir filled with kerosene. He’d seen those used for all manner of things back home.

  It didn’t match the small metal can under the fondue, but it should work just as well. Thabiso placed it under the fondue dish and smiled. He would get the hang of things. He wouldn’t be a disappointment, to Naledi or his people.

  He turned to search her out in the crowd, to see what else he could accomplish that would ease her burden. It was after three steps that he felt the burst of heat at his back.

  “Oh, looks like they’re going with flambé,” one of the guests said. “Maybe there will be Bananas Foster!”

  Thabiso turned to discover flames dancing around the metal fondue pot, racing across the tablecloth and devouring the napkins and decorations strewn across its surface. Dread and a crushing sense of failure froze him for a moment, but then he grabbed the closest thing to hand—a suit jacket hung over the back of a chair—and began batting at the fire.

  Ah, Goddess, what a catastrophe. The flames were undeterred by his attempts to smother them. They climbed up the jacket and nipped at his hands but he was focused on stopping it before—

  “Out of the way, Jamal!”

  Naledi charged past him with a fire extinguisher, fierce as Mujaji the rain goddess. It was over in a few seconds. She blasted the flames, and him in the process, the party attendees clapped, and everything went back to normal, minus the chemical-covered dessert table.

  Thabiso was still on his ass coughing up flame retardant when Naledi held the melted gas reservoir in front of his face.

  “This . . . isn’t a burner.” Her eyes were wide and her chest heaved with quick breaths. She had looked at him with disappointment before, but now she looked at him like he was a fool. Like she had been wrong to believe he could ever handle a seemingly simple task.

  Shame raced through Thabiso’s blood, quickly followed by indignation. “Well, how was I supposed to know what a burner is? Aren’t you supposed to be training me?”

  “I have been training you. I’ve also been cleaning up your messes. And Dan’s messes. And the guests’ messes. I shouldn’t have to worry about you starting a fire while I’m busy with that.” Her words came through gritted teeth, as if he were the one at fault.

  “You really shouldn’t talk about cleaning up after others as if it’s something to be proud of.” His indignation flared, higher perhaps than the flames that had nearly singed his beard. “Only a dog seeks reward for performing lowly tasks for others. Fetch! Pour! Serve! You’re no better than a—than a Saint Bernard!”

  He leaned forward into the charged space between them, ready to continue their battle, but Naledi’s expression had gone completely blank, even those expressive eyes.

  Regret washed through Thabiso as his anger sapped away—yet another unfamiliar emotion. Maybe there was something in the water in the US causing these fluctuations. Fluoride? He’d read about that, too.

  He had started this subterfuge in the name of getting to know his betrothed, but he’d made a mess of it, like the buffoon in a fairy tale before the prince comes sweeping in. Except he was the prince.

  “Did you burn yourself?” she asked quietly.

  “Only a little. I’m fine.”

  “That’s great,” she said. “Because now I won’t feel bad about firing you. Get out.”

  She turned and walked away, and then stopped. Hope flared. Maybe he could fix this . . .

  “The tux shirt costs twenty dollars. Make sure you leave it on the counter because I’m not covering anything else for you tonight.”

  Thabiso stood there, hands throbbing, ego badly bruised. His ruse had failed in every way. He’d wanted to learn more about Naledi, and he’d wanted to learn one thing specifically: that his life had been better off without her. That her leaving hadn’t mattered. But as he watched her walk away, he didn’t feel relief, or like his curiosity had been sated.

  He’d need a new strategy.

  Chapter 7

  If you will not take my advice as your assistant, then please take it as a woman. This is a bad idea. Very bad.”

  Likotsi shifted and the overstuffed couch she was perched on squeaked in protest beneath her tailored pants.

  “Why is this couch wrapped in plastic?” she asked, nose wrinkling as she poked at the uncomfortable clear covering. “There is absolutely no reason to preserve this floral print monstrosity. And this wallpaper!”

  Fading evening rays of sunlight from the window in the small kitchen highlighted the overstuffed couch and its outdated print, the mix of plastic flowers and real plants that occupied shelves and corners. The place was nothing like the penthouse suite in the hotel they’d reserved for the trip. That room commanded a view overlooking the city. This apartment looked out onto cracked sidewalks and a combination beauty salon and barber shop across the street.

  “The place has a vintage look I thought would appeal to you,” Thabiso said from the bedroom down the hall. “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t already staged a photo shoot for InstaPhoto.”

  Likotsi carefully crossed her leg over her knee, so as not to wrinkle her pants. “I was waiting for you to play photographer, Your Highness. My arms are long, but a selfie would not capture the majesty of this unorthodox rental you’ve chosen.”

  Thabiso smiled as he hung his clothing in the closet Naledi’s neighbor, Mrs. Garcia, had cleared out for him. Likotsi had insisted she unpack for him, but Thabiso was trying the method acting approach: a common man would hang up his own clothing, no?

  Mrs. Garcia had been reluctant to accept the all-expense paid trip to visit her family in Puerto Rico, and to rent him her place while she was gone, but once Thabiso learned her hometown had been severely damaged in recent storms, he’d offered a substantial donation to a local rebuilding fund. Thesolo already had people on the ground helping with the rebuilding efforts, so a bit more money for a good cause wouldn’t hurt. She’d accepted, her people would benefit, and he’d gotten what he wanted. All good, right?

  He did feel a pang of conscience. There was something at least a little untoward about bribing the old woman who lived across the hall from the woman you were trying to get to know better . . .

  “. . . stalking,” Likotsi said. The couch squeaked in agreement. “Like, just a hairbreadth away from it really. This behavior is unbecoming, and to a woman of Naledi’s cultural background, you could be seen as a threat.”

  “I am no threat,” Thabiso said. “I just need a way to continue observing her without her knowledge or revealing that I lied about my identity when we first met.”

  The only response was the mmc
hew of Likotsi sucking her teeth. He should have chided her for forgetting her place, but he was in Jamal mode, so he let it slide.

  “I certainly wouldn’t like it if a strange man pursued me in such a way,” she said tersely.

  “I’m not a strange man,” he bit out as he hung up the linen shirt. He was Naledi’s betrothed. But still . . . Likotsi’s words had some truth to them. He wouldn’t like a strange man pursuing Likotsi, who didn’t desire the attentions of any man.

  Wait . . .

  He strode into the living room. “Do you think perhaps Naledi has the same predilections as you?”

  “Predilections?” She tilted her head to regard him like he was a jumping spider she was tracking before she stomped on it. “How should I know if she enjoys her popcorn with salt instead of sugar?”

  Thabiso’s face scrunched into an expression of contrition. “My apologies. I meant, in your research, was there any evidence that she might be attracted to women? Well, exclusively women?”

  He’d felt sparks of heat from Ledi several times during his ill-fated attempt at serving. That is, before he’d put off sparks of his own and nearly set her workplace on fire. But perhaps he’d read too much into her reaction to him?

  Likotsi burst into laughter, her hands slapping her knees as she doubled over from it. “Your Highness. While I admit that you are a fine specimen of a man, being a lesbian is not the only possible reason a woman wouldn’t respond to your attentions.”

  That bit stung. Mostly because it was the truth—for a normal man. For all of his life, people liking him or desiring him had been a predetermined thing, inextricably tied to his royal status. He’d thought himself so clever when he’d decided to go along with Naledi’s misunderstanding and pretend to be Jamal, but maybe being a prince was the only thing about him that would interest a woman.

  “I am determined to get to know her, Likotsi. That is my right.”

  He just needed a second chance; he couldn’t let things end as they had. Just thinking of his petulant behavior brought heat to his face.

  Another mmchew. “Seriously, sire. I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t have loaned you that book everyone was passing around the palace. I know you have never had to work for female attention, so let me be clear. In reality, women don’t like when strangers show up at their jobs and track their every move under the auspices of ‘getting to know them.’ Please keep in mind that just because you have the money to do things doesn’t mean they should be done.”

  “Enough.” Thabiso waved her and her common sense away. He had a plan. Or the beginnings of one. Or the seed of the beginning of a plan, which would have to suffice for now. “I thought you said you were going to go grocery shopping? I might like to visit one of these American markets.”

  Likotsi pulled out her tablet, eyes glued to the screen as she spoke. “Actually, there is a delivery service I thought would be perfect for you. It’s quite intriguing. They send you recipes along with the correct proportion of gourmet ingredients so there is no food waste. Apparently, even a simpleton can use it.”

  “Really?” Thabiso thought about the last meeting he’d attended before leaving Thesolo. He thought of Naledi holding her cupcake.

  I hate seeing food go to waste.

  “I wonder if the agricultural minister would be interested in such a program. I’ve heard that the lower-income citizens who receive assistance from the kingdom sometimes eat little more than mealie pap—a program like this could be converted to something that gives them more choice. Production and delivery would create jobs, and we could contract the local farmers to provide ingredients. Oh, and perhaps the Minister of Culture would like to get involved, providing recipes that have started to fade from memory. Mark that down in my agenda for the next ministerial session.”

  Likotsi glanced at him with pride.

  “This is an excellent idea,” she said as she tapped away. “I’m sure the ministers will be happy to see you more involved than you have been of late. I added it to the notes for next week’s meeting.”

  Next week. His UN summit and meetings with PharmaMundial, Omega Corp, and various dignitaries wouldn’t take longer than a few days; he hadn’t scheduled in additional time for getting to know his betrothed. After the incredible display of ego he’d put on after she’d saved him from a fiery demise, he had only a week with Naledi. A week to . . . What?

  Make her fall in love with you.

  No. That had never been the plan. He was curious, that was all; he’d spent most of his life feeling the loss of a person he’d never truly known. He wanted to know her.

  And after that?

  “Highness?” Likotsi pulled him away from his thoughts. “I am here as your assistant first and foremost, but I am insubordinate enough to consider myself your friend as well. I cannot make you stop this madness, but I can ask you to be careful, yes?”

  Thabiso paused for a moment. He’d been told to be careful all his life, but he sensed Likotsi wasn’t talking about tarnishing the image of the Kingdom of Thesolo. She was talking about him, Thabiso with no royal title attached.

  He cleared his throat. “I will be, Kotsi. Now feel free to take your leave. You may have this evening for yourself.”

  “Thanks, sire.” She put away the tablet and pulled out her phone. “One of the women I swiped right on, located zero point three miles away, has requested that I meet her for a drink. Perhaps you shan’t be the only one with an American conquest?”

  She executed a little shoulder shimmy.

  “Naledi is not a conquest,” he said gruffly.

  “‘Every woman is a conquest,’ Your Highness. That’s a direct quote, from you, during our visit to the Miss West Africa pageant six months back,” Likotsi said cheerily before grabbing her houndstooth suit jacket and slipping into her brown-and-white spats. “I told you to be careful—pretending this is anything other than an itch to be scratched could be dangerous. For you and for her.”

  “You make me out to be some kind of heartless beast.”

  “I manage your correspondence, sire, so I get to be the heartless beast when it comes to the women you date.” She gave him a smile that was actually an indictment.

  “But—”

  “I’ll be sleeping at the hotel, possibly not alone, so don’t wait up and don’t get into too much trouble,” she said with a wink, then glanced mistrustfully at the couch. “And be careful not to get a heat rash from that thing.”

  With that she was gone, ready to conquer the NYC dating scene after shivving him with the truth about himself in just a few sentences. He was known as the Playboy PanAfrique in certain tabloids for a reason. He was rich, he was handsome, and he had been known to go through women like a zebra through the fresh grass of the veldt.

  He walked over to the couch and sat down slowly so as not to pop the cushion like a balloon. Somewhere down the hall, he could hear the slap of tennis shoes as children raced up the steps.

  He looked around the small, clean apartment that would be his home for the next few days. Mrs. Garcia told him she’d lived there for thirty years. Thirty! She’d raised children there. In a place that was barely the size of one of his walk-in closets back home. The walls were crowded with frames of various shapes and colors; some of the faces were familiar to him, as the older counterparts had shown up and shook his hand before climbing into the limo. They’d all radiated a thankfulness that Thabiso wasn’t sure he’d ever felt. No, that wasn’t true. He’d felt it just yesterday, when Naledi had touched his arm and told him he would get the hang of things. It had been a lie, of course, but one made in kindness, to assuage his fears.

  Keys jingled in the hallway and Thabiso rose from the couch, slowly, to avoid any untoward sounds from the couch. He crept to the door and looked through the peephole.

  Before him was Naledi. At least he was fairly sure that the cloud of thick curly hair and the spectacular bottom that poked out from beneath a heavy backpack belonged to her. She fumbled with her keys, and then d
ropped them. He could tell by the way she bent to retrieve them that she wasn’t clumsy or drunk; she was exhausted.

  The urge to go to her welled up in him, but he found he couldn’t move. Likotsi’s chastisement rang in his ears.

  Stalker.

  What had he been thinking? Moving in across the hall from Naledi? Peering at her behind without her knowledge? Just a few days before he’d had to reprimand a palace guard for sniffing after one of the maids. Was he any better?

  She looked up suddenly, apprehensively, and Thabiso jumped away from the peephole. Sweat broke out on his brow and his stomach tightened. Had she seen him? What was he going to say if she had? That was one of the many parts of this plan he hadn’t thought through. He had recently completed an exhaustive ten-year outlook for Thesolo’s projected growth, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say to Naledi that could ensure their next few hours.

  He heard footsteps and a male voice. This one had an accent like he’d heard in films. The approaching man was what had caught her attention, not Thabiso’s peephole creeping.

  “D’you order Yellow Spatula Dinner on Demand?”

  “No.” There was a thread of apprehension in her voice, as if she wanted the man to leave her alone.

  “It says here there’s a delivery for seven p.m. for apartment 7 M.”

  Silence, followed by the shuffling of paper. “No, that’s an N. Mrs. Garcia’s apartment.”

  The tightening in Thabiso’s stomach transformed into a sick pulse of fear as a heavy knock sounded on the door. Thabiso took a step away from it as another knock fell.

  “Look, I can’t hang around. It’s dinnertime and I got a ton of deliveries to make.”

  He heard Naledi sigh. “I’ll get it to her. She’s always home at this time. La Mujere Morena is on right now and she never misses her stories . . . Here, hand it over.”

  Footsteps echoed in the hall, and then there was another knock at the door. This one was quiet. Tentative.

  “Mrs. Garcia?” Another knock, a little more insistent this time. “Mrs. Garcia, are you there?”