I’d flown clear across the continent, and now I was about to climb into a limousine that would take us to… well, I wasn’t quite sure where exactly we were going, but wherever it was, there would be TV cameras, and Darrin Tate, their celebrity host.
This was actually happening.
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Excerpt: The French Prince of Bel Air
By Sandra Damien
Chapter One
Rafe
“He’s back.”
“Yep.”
“How long has he been standing there?”
“Thirty minutes or so?”
“Long time to make up your mind.”
“In his defense, there’s a lot on the menu.”
The stranger stood to the back of the diminishing crowd, arms behind his back, quietly pondering over our selection of organic grilled cheese sandwiches. The trick was to go with your first choice, the selection that made your stomach wake up and take notice. It was almost always right. I was a fan of the Mac Daddy myself—a scoop of homemade mac and cheese snuggled between a slice of cheddar and American? Talk about a warm hug in sandwich form. Add pulled pork, and that sandwich was marriage material.
But the guy didn’t seem in any rush to make a selection, if he was even thinking of ordering anything anyway. I wiped down the countertop, every so often looking up and trying to catch his eye. He never made any attempt to come forward, instead hanging out about fifteen feet away, eyes scrolling the menu before flicking away to gaze over the small crowd of people in front of the food truck.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been here this week, nor the first time he’d done the whole ogling the menu without ordering thing. I didn’t really mind. I’d done my fair share ogling the man who stuck out like a well-manicured sore thumb on Manhattan Beach.
He had a Euro vibe about him, with a thick head of hair neatly trimmed around his ears, and an immaculate, crisp shirt and suit jacket that must have been stifling in the LA heat. He wasn’t my usual type, but I couldn’t stop my gaze from drifting back to the angles of his face, cheekbones and jaw so sharp you could cut diamonds on them.
In a sea of manmade noses and lip fillers, this fine specimen of a man was pure, natural, heartbreaking beauty.
The corners of his mouth were downturned with disapproval, and somehow that just added to his mystery. Dark and broody was not my thing, but if that’s what this guy was selling, I’d buy all that and the set of steak knives he came with.
“Are you gonna say anything?”
“Huh?” I peeled my gaze away from Sexy and Sullen with some effort. Shawn stared at me from behind thick-framed glasses and grinned.
“To dude guy over there. Come on, it’s been what, three days he’s been there now? He must be a reporter or something. Ooh, maybe he wants to buy you out and franchise. That could be neat. You could actually get some time off.”
“Nah, not interested.” It wouldn’t be the first time some suit had approached me to expand the business. It wasn’t my thing, though. Never mind that I wasn’t that business-minded to begin with, but this whole thing had sort of escalated when all I’d wanted to do was surf and make sandwiches.
“So? Go see what he wants.” Shawn popped his gum and nudged me when I didn’t make any effort to move.
I shook my head. “Nah. If he had anything to say, he’d come up and say it. How are we doing for bread?”
He lifted the towel draped over the bread crate and checked. “There’s one sourdough left, but we’re pretty low on everything else. Want me to start packing up?”
“Yeah, might as well.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, contemplating. Would it be so bad to see what he wanted? No one just loitered around a food truck simply because they loved the smell of it. Maybe he was on a diet and this was how he got his fix.
Yeah, sure. Because that’s how vices worked. Besides, I’m not sure I could trust anyone who could say no to grilled cheese.
“Toss me that sourdough, Shawny?”
“Sure thing,” he said. The loaf went sailing through the air, and I caught it, then tossed it on the breadboard before pulling out a few ingredients from the mini fridge.
“Hungry?” Shawn said as I cut two thick slices of bread and slathered them with organic grass-fed butter.
“Something like that.” I finished assembling the sandwich and stuck it in the panini press to toast.
When it was done, I wrapped it up and popped it in a paper bag with some napkins and a container of dipping sauce.
“Wanna take inventory before you head out? I’ll stop at the store on my way home.” I jogged down the steps of the truck, baggie in hand.
“You betcha.” Shawn stuck his head out the window, snapping his gum again. “Hey, where you going?”
“To see a man about a sandwich.”
I smiled and nodded at the lingering customers who were noshing on their grilled cheeses right in front of the truck, fueling their bodies quickly to catch one last wave before the tide came in. I knew all about that—it was the reason I’d started the food truck in the first place. People would follow the scent of grilled cheese in the air to find a lone surfer dude making sandwiches in the back of his station wagon between waves. I’d make a few extra, they’d slip me a couple of bucks. Eventually word got out, and when demand exceeded supply, I thought maybe I could actually make a bit of a living from it. It’s not like I was doing much else at the time.
A small business loan and a beat-up trailer later, and the Gouda Vibes food truck was born. I counted my blessings every day that life had brought me to this point.
It could have gone down a whole other path.
I continued to count my blessings as I approached the stranger in his out-of-place designer suit. I’d run naked through downtown LA if this guy wasn’t a celebrity. Maybe he was a TV exec from one of those food truck shows on the Culinary Fare Network. Now, that’d be something.
“You strike me as a Caprese man,” I said, smiling.
“Excuse me?” Jesus Christ on a surfboard. Up close he was even more beautiful, not a single enlarged pore to speak of.
I held out the paper bag to him. “Mozzarella, fresh tomato and basil, on artisan sourdough with a pesto dipping sauce. I think you’ll like it.”
He eyed the paper bag and took it from me slowly, wariness pinching his features.
“What makes it artisan?” Goddamn. He had an accent. Which wasn’t unusual for LA, but coupled with his ridiculous good looks, he just shot to the top of my fantasy fap list.
“They say bread is artisan when it’s made with utmost care in the fermenting of the starter, the specific ingredients used, the formation of the loaf, and the baking process.” I shook my head and smiled. “I say it’s artisan because it’s handcrafted with love. Actually, it sort of happened by accident when I forgot I’d made a starter and left it on my counter for a few days. It looked and smelled okay, so I baked it off anyway, thinking if there was any way to go, it might as well be because of bread. The flavor was unreal, unlike anything I’d ever had or made before. Been making loaves using that same starter for over two years now.”
“You made this bread?” The way he said it, like zis, made my toes curl. He peeked into the bag and inhaled deeply.
“Yep. Every night, churning loaves out of my little home oven. They taste better after sitting overnight, when they go a bit stale. Perfect for grilling.”
A few beats passed where he just stared at me and I stared back. Man, this guy was hard to read. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed, his face remaining neutral and composed.
“So, uh. I noticed you’ve been coming here the past few days. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But I haven’t decided if it’s a good idea yet.”
“When will you kn
ow?”
He paused, regarding me. “When I know.”
“Man of mystery. I like that.” I walked backward, a smile hiking up the corner of my mouth. “Enjoy your sandwich.”
I turned and exhaled a long, deep breath, heading for the truck. Talk about butterflies. I felt like I’d worked up the courage to ask the cute guy to prom and he’d said he’d think about it.
Shawn assaulted me as soon as I was back inside. “Well? What did he say?”
“Not much of anything, really. He’s a quiet one.”
“So not trying to buy the truck?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said, gazing out at him as he settled on a bench farther along the boardwalk but still within eyeshot. He opened the paper bag and pulled out half the sandwich, sniffed it, then took a hearty bite. His eyebrows raised, the first time I’d seen any indication of emotion on his careful mask.
I watched him demolish the sandwich in another three bites, then as he wiped his mouth with the napkin. Watching him eat was positively pornographic.
I tore my gaze from him reluctantly, just as Shawn put away the last of the condiments.
I gestured at him with my chin as I picked up the broom to sweep out the crumbs. “Leave your apron by the door. I’ll throw them in the washer tonight.”
“No plans for you, then?”
“Just me and my dough, basking in the soft light of SNL.” He laughed. “What about you? You seeing Adele tonight?”
His eyes went dreamy. I could practically see the love hearts shooting out of them. “Yeah. Keeping it low-key with dinner and a movie.” He suddenly looked worried. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“You’re at what, date number three now? Perfectly respectable.” I waggled my eyebrows, then lowered my voice. “Is it time?”
Shawn seemed to turn a little green. “No—yes—wait. I don’t know. Is she going to expect… I didn’t… oh balls.”
“Relax, Shawny.” I put the broom away and squeezed his shoulder as I retrieved the cloth to wipe down the countertop. “She’s not expecting anything. Take it slow. She wouldn’t have stuck around for date three if she wasn’t interested in you.”
“What if she’s just using me for my body?”
I laughed out loud, then tried to smother it with a cough when I saw he wasn’t laughing too. “I can one hundred percent guarantee she’s not using you for your body. Here, let me count out your tips, and then you get on out of here to make yourself pretty for your date. Take the morning, too. You deserve it.”
I put the rag down and then counted out the money from the tip jar. I put his share into an envelope, then added a little more.
“No, that’s too much,” he protested.
“You deserve it, buddy. Take Adele somewhere nice. Buy her flowers, or hell, a box of condoms. Have fun.”
He hesitated when I handed him the envelope. “Are you sure? I can—”
“Get on out of here. And I don’t want to see you before noon, okay?”
“But what about the lunch rush?”
“I got it, Shawn.”
“Okay.” He hesitated again. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Say hi to Adele for me.”
Shawn smiled, and I finished wiping down the countertop as he slung his cap on backward, grabbed his messenger bag, and trotted down the steps.
He paused outside the window. “Dude guy’s still out there. Maybe you should ask for his number.”
I laughed. “Might need you to be my wingman. Not sure he’d be interested.” I glared at Shawn. “Why are you still here?”
“I’m going, I’m going. See you tomorrow.” He waved and headed down the street.
I chuckled to myself. Shawn was a good kid, but sometimes I felt his whole life revolved around the food truck. Mine did, too, but that was different—the food truck was my heart and soul. It’d saved me from a dark place and became a beacon of hope on four wheels.
Shawn, though, he was young and full of potential. There was more for him than making sandwiches on the back of a truck for minimum wage. He’d come to LA, chasing the sun and big dreams.
I’d come to LA running from my demons.
I inhaled deeply, consciously bringing myself back to positivity and good vibes. There wasn’t any sense in dwelling on what could have been. The only way to go was up.
A burst of laughter caught my attention. I peered out the window to see Shawn stopped in front of the stranger. Oh man—had he taken my wingman comment to heart? I’d become pretty accustomed to my life of sun, surf, and sandwiches. I wasn’t sure there was room in my life for anything else, let alone the hottest guy in Hollywood.
Shawn’s hands gesticulated wildly as he talked, and then he pointed at the truck. The man looked in my direction, and I gazed with wide eyes back at them.
Finally, he nodded at Shawn and stood, and Shawn waved to him and continued on his way.
What the heck was that?
And why was he coming over here?
I gripped the countertop, my heart stuttering in my chest. Why was I so nervous? Maybe because it was the first time in a long time that I’d been so immediately attracted to someone. Maybe it was his exotic accent kicking my wanderlust out of dormancy.
Whatever it was, I found myself with sweaty palms and a ridiculous grin quivering on my lips. I took my apron off and dumped it on top of Shawn’s, took a steeling breath, and thanked whatever higher power there was for bringing this Mediterranean god to my doorstep.
I met him outside the truck, where he stood with his hands in his pockets and that impenetrable mask on his face.
“Hey,” I said, smiling. “Back again?”
“I have a message for you,” he said coolly. “From your birth mother.”
Well, that was unexpected.
My smile remained frozen in place, though my eyebrows knitted together as he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved an envelope, which he then handed to me. It was heavy, but not as heavy as the bomb he just dropped.
“My… birth mother?” I frowned at the envelope in my hand, rubbing my thumb over the fancy wax seal. Whoever had addressed this letter had obviously not forgotten the lost art of penmanship. “I think maybe you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
I tried to hand the letter back to him, but he kept his hands firmly behind his back, flicking his gaze to the envelope and then back to my face. “Oh no. I’m quite sure.”
“Wait… Do you mean… she’s looking for me?” The earlier butterflies were long gone; now, a flurry of bats burst forth from whatever cave they’d been hiding in in the pit of my stomach, thrashing about and causing panic and confusion.
“I think it’s best you read the letter and then make up your mind. I will say, though, think very carefully about the ramifications of your decision. This affects more than just you. It will affect an entire nation and the monarchy as we know it.”
Entire nation? That sounded grave, never mind overly dramatic. I wasn’t sure anyone cared about a kid from Podunk, California, who’d been abandoned at birth. I’d been one of thousands in the system. A statistic. I’d made my peace with it now, though it had taken nearly twenty-eight years.
“Monarchy? I don’t think I follow…”
He sighed—another slip that betrayed his frustration. “Just read the letter. My mobile number is on the bottom. Please call me when you have your answer.”
He slipped his sunglasses down on his face, then turned and started up the boardwalk.
I stared at the envelope again and ran my finger over the Raphaël penned in elegant loops and swooshes.
“Wait.”
He turned, lifting his sunglasses and regarding me again with that cool stare. So many questions flitted through my head, and I stared at him dumbly as I tried to wrestle them into coherency.
“What did you think of the sandwich?”
He raised an eyebrow. “It was good.” The sunglasses slipped back down, but not before I caught the way raked his gaze over me
from head to toe. “But I’m more partial to meat.”
Goddamn. He sure knew how to bring a guy to his knees.
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