Mr. Dalton’s usual was a regular old shepherd’s pie. Made traditionally with potatoes instead of the daikon Jan had introduced two years ago. Infused with yellow onions and never again the sweet cipollinis she’d tried to sneak in last year. And always with the beef and not the bison she’d tried to spruce it up with last month.
“I’ll just have a regular shepherd’s pie.” Mr. Dalton smiled up at her after he’d scrubbed the already clean silverware.
Jan tried and failed to hide her annoyance. She would never win a poker game. Her emotions were always clear as day on her face, just like the ingredients were always on her sleeve. It was another way she didn’t quite fit into the culinary world. Her workspaces often looked as though a hurricane touched down.
“Sure thing, Mr. Dalton.”
Jan sliced another piece of the shepherd’s pie. It was nearly gone. It was a favorite of her customers.
Though the majority of her menu was an explosion of fusion pies, her bread and butter were the mainstays. Apple pie. Shepherd’s pie. Pecan pie.
Most of her customers rarely tried her specials. They were mainly a tourist draw. But tourists came and went every day, taking their sense of adventure with them and leaving Jan stuck with the everyday common folk.
It wasn’t that anyone said her creations tasted bad. They all just wanted the familiar. The tried and true. But Jan wanted to try new things.
She placed today’s special, a chocolate pie spiced with cayenne, on its plate for the dinner crowd. She hoped it would get some love at the bottom of a few tourists’ bellies. The pie would only keep for a couple of days, and she knew her regulars were unlikely to take on the dessert with its kick.
Jan sliced a healthy heaping of the potato pie for Mr. Dalton and brought it over to his table. The man rubbed his hands together and licked his lips before digging in. Watching him devour her food, Jan warmed.
It did matter to her that her customers were reluctant to take a risk. But at the end of the day, all that mattered was that her food sold. She just wished she could sell more of it.
“You’ll be headed back over to the king’s land soon with Ms. Pickett, won’t you?” Mr. Fitz asked as she came back around the counter.
Jan nodded that she was. And she was looking forward to it. The people of Cordoba were much more open to fusion foods. She knew a certain prince who would certainly appreciate a Hot peppered chocolate pie.
“You’ll be coming back though, right, Jan?” piped up Mr. Dalton. “You won’t leave us for that fancy place?”
There was a part of her that wished she could. Jan was far from a restless soul. She craved stability and consistency, but only in her routines, not in her recipes. She’d long dreamed of traveling the world but had only left the country that one time a month ago.
She wasn’t the type of girl that went on the adventure. She was the type of girl who read about it but not in a storybook or the newspaper. Jan read about other cultures and other worlds in cookbooks. She experienced those places in the fruits, sweet meats, and exotic spices from the safety and serenity of her kitchen.
She might be a tall, thin, plain girl. Such a plain Jane that even the E wouldn’t stick to her name. But inside the kitchen with a mixing spoon in her hands, she could be anyone and anywhere she wanted to be.
There had been that one time that she’d been presented with a golden ticket to be that girl outside of her kitchen. Prince Alex had asked her to partner with him in a restaurant venture. He hadn’t been serious. Alex had the attention span of a gnat and the commitment of a rabbit.
Even if he had been serious, Jan couldn’t up and leave her responsibilities here. Unlike the Prince who was beholden to no one, Jan was trapped. At least she’d lucked out and gotten trapped in business instead of in marriage with her partner.
She’d purchased this pie shop with her former fiancé a few months before their ill-fated wedding. In lieu of a honeymoon, they’d put a down payment on the business. Unfortunately, on the day of the wedding, he’d jilted her for his high school sweetheart.
Not only had her ex gotten married on their wedding day, at the ceremony their families had planned, and her father had paid for, but they’d also gone on an extravagant honeymoon in the Caribbean while Jan had been left to open up the pie shop the following Monday morning.
No, Jan just couldn’t form another partnership with a man who didn’t have both feet in the venture. Alex had likely forgotten about the rash proposal he’d whispered to her in an airport terminal as she watched her best friend get engaged.
Maybe in a couple of years, she’d have earned enough to buy her ex out of the business? Maybe when his ties were no longer around her, she could travel and taste the world’s foods? Maybe she could open up another restaurant in a place where people were open to trying new things?
But that was a dream for another day.
The doorbell dinged, and the lunch rush began in earnest. With one last look at her fusion special, Jan pulled another shepherd’s pie out of the warmer and began slicing into it.
Chapter Three
Alex gripped the sharp object in his hands. He was surprised the shears weren’t blunt. It was a wonder the powers that be trusted him, someone they constantly tried to manage and script, with the weapon. Didn’t they all expect him to run?
Alex may run off to the corners of the world for days, weeks, and maybe one whole month, at a time. He might often find himself in compromising positions with some of the world’s most beautiful and desirable women. But when he was needed, he didn’t shirk his duties.
Luckily, he was entrusted with very few duties. Ribbon cutting was one of the few. It was a hard job to mess up.
He aimed the shears, tugged the two holds apart, and snipped.
The red ribbons fell away, and applause rose up as though he were a child who’d just performed an elementary feat.
Alex looked up and put on his best, charming grin as cameras flashed and applause rose around him. Inside, he wished he could curse each of the people politely applauding him for a job well done. He wished he could show them what he could actually do with a sharp edge. He wanted to open his mouth and prove that he had something to say.
But he knew it was futile. They’d all already written the story of him. No one was interested in the truth.
“Over here, Prince Alex.”
Alex grimaced at the sound of that familiar voice. He turned to find Lila Drake of the Royal Times newspaper. Esme called her the nemesis with the reports Lila had put out about Esme harvesting dragon eggs in the dungeons.
The story was preposterous, but tabloids didn’t care about fact checking. Even though there was a kernel of truth after Esme took young noble youths on a dragon hunt a few weeks ago. It had all been fun until a stone dragon’s head had rolled. The public ate the articles that followed up and had begun calling Esme the Dragon Slayer, and Alex’s favorite, the Mother of Dragons.
“Prince Alex, what of the rumors of you and a certain French model spending time at a spa in Nairobi?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” said Alex.
“But there are pictures.” Lila smiled as though she had him cornered. “Ms. Bissett was seen leaving the same hotel you were staying at very early in the morning.”
Alex had been in Nairobi. So had Chantal Bissett. The model had followed him there, but she only went so far as the luxury hotel in the capital city. When Alex had ventured off the beaten path of the Kenyan roads, Chantal had not followed. She’d flown back to Paris.
“I think something in the food disagreed with her,” said Alex.
He’d been in the country to help install hydroponics in underprivileged areas of the capital and surrounding areas. The Kenyan population was urbanizing at an alarming rate. The vertical farms which required no soil or light were a solution to feeding the increasing population.
When Chantal had seen the fish in the water and learned that the aquatic life fertilized the salad on her plate, she’d raced to t
he bathroom and then out of the country. Suited Alex just fine. She hadn’t been keen to eat anything but salad and turned her nose up at the national dishes.
“So you don’t deny the relationship?” said Lila.
“You know I don’t do relationships. I have no interest in being tied down.” To emphasize his point, he rapidly opened and closed the shears he still held to make a slicing sound.
The men chuckled, likely memorizing the line to use later. The women tittered, likely setting their sights on being the one to change his mind. The cameras flashed, and the pencils scribbled, likely twisting his words into some new spin. He could just see tomorrow’s headlines; Prince of Shears: Alex the Great Leaves Model’s Heart in Tatters.
That was actually pretty good. He should give it to Lila for free. Instead, he handed the shears over and went into the restaurant whose opening he’d just lorded over. Eating there would be the perk of this particular day’s duty.
“I am so pleased that you are here to share this moment with me.”
Alex shook hands with the new restauranteur. He’d known the man for a few months having dined with him aboard a mutual friend’s ship. The food had been good out at sea. Alex was excited to see what the man would bring to the shores of Cordoba.
Unfortunately, when the first course was laid before him, Alex couldn’t hide his disappointment. It was the same fare he’d had aboard the ship. The exact same menu. The others gathered were delighted with their plates and dug in.
To be fair, the food was good. But Alex had had this experience already. He was itching for something new.
He carved the meat and found it perfectly cooked but under-seasoned. He dipped his perfectly crisp string beans in the glaze, but there was no kick. No fireworks went off in his mouth. There was no song on his tongue. For the second day in a row, Alex found nothing enticing or exciting about what was on his plate.
It was moments like these that made him itch to hop on a plane or boat and cast off in search of a new dish, a delectable morsel, a perfect bite.
Beside him, Alex heard someone sigh. It wasn’t a sigh of pleasure. It was clearly one of disappointment.
Alex looked to his left. The other diner was older with silver hair. He had pale coloring which let Alex know he was not from the Mediterranean kingdom. The man was familiar, but Alex couldn’t place him. The man caught Alex staring.
Instead of taking offense, the man put down his fork and offered his hand. “Good evening, your highness. I’m Gordon Rogers. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Gordon Rogers?” The bells went off in Alex’s head, and he was able to place the man. “You were the restauranteur who discovered James Beard Award-Winning Chef Kyle Grimwalt. You also opened that restaurant in SoHo last year that earned Michelin star status in just nine months.” The record was earning a star eight months after it opened.
“That’s true,” Mr. Rogers said, dabbing his napkin at his mouth and then setting it over his plate. “I’m an investor in this place, too.”
“Congratulations,” said Alex.
Rogers smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, I think it will do well. It will … fit in.”
“Yes,” Alex agreed, looking around at the diners chatting over the food. None of them had their eyes closed as they enjoyed the food. Many of them had set their forks down, the food forgotten in favor of the company. “It will fit in with the other restaurants nicely.”
It was not a good sign. In restaurants that earned stars and dishes earned rave reviews, the only sounds you could hear were the clinking of silverware against fine china. The murmur of conversation drowned out any sound on the dishware.
“The meat is perfectly tender.” Rogers lifted his napkin as though to peek at the dish, perhaps to see if it had taken another moment to get itself together. “I just wish the spice had a kick.”
“And the glaze, instead of sweetness I wish he’d have gone in a more savory direction to complement the beans.”
“Exactly.” Rogers leaned back, covering the dish again. He studied Alex as though he were a menu he was looking to order from. “I had heard you knew your way around a dish.”
“Food is a hobby of mine.” Alex shrugged. He hadn’t put his fork down. Though the food wasn’t a party in his mouth, Alex was hungry. He refused to let such fresh vegetables go to waste. He simply skirted the glaze. “If this royal gig doesn’t work out, I’ll open my own restaurant.”
Rogers’s brows rose as though Alex had told him his favorite dish was amongst the day’s specials. “Why, that’s a capital idea. Where would you open it? Here or in another major city?”
Alex paused in placing the food into his mouth. “I wasn’t serious.”
“Why not? I’ve heard your name mentioned by some of the finest chefs in the world. You clearly know your way around fine dining.”
Now Alex lowered the fork. The crisp beans on the tines landed into the glaze with a plop. Alex was rarely at a loss for words, but Gordon Rogers had his tongue tied at the prospect of his dream restaurant. But there was still the matter of the crown’s funds and the people’s perspective of their philandering, freeloading prince.
“I would invest in it,” Rogers was saying. “Not that you need my funds.”
Alex scrambled to swallow the lump in his throat and seize this opportunity. “Contrary to popular opinion, I believe in partnerships. A blend of ideas.”
“Do you have a chef in mind?”
“I do.” His world was still spinning. The fireworks that had been missing from his mouth were going off in his mind. Was this really happening?
“I’d love to meet him.”
“Her.”
“Even better. Female chefs are the wave of the future.”
“She is very special.”
Rogers tilted his head and regarded Alex. “She must be very special indeed for you to want to partner with her in business. Business partnerships are harder to get out of than divorce. I have time tomorrow before I head back to the states.”
“She’s actually in the states.”
“Perhaps we could set up a meeting sometime in the future?”
“I’m sure I can arrange something in the next few days.”
Alex had proposed to Jan, likely the only time in his life he’d ever proposed to a woman. But she hadn’t taken him seriously. He had a widely publicized reputation for non-commitment and impermanence. Hardly anyone in the world took him seriously.
But he was tired of roaming the world searching for the perfect bite. He’d had a perfect plate of food with her. And then she’d surprised him by spicing up the leftovers into something entirely new the next day. If this were truly going to happen, there was no one he wanted by his side but Jan.
He just needed to pack a bag, hop on his private jet, and convince a certain, precise, no-nonsense pie maker to take a leap of faith. Easy.
Chapter Four
Jan pulled the last of the apple pies from the back of her car. She wobbled in her red pumps as though the heels were the stem of the fruit. She spent most of her time in a kitchen full of hot pans and sharp knives. So heels were not a typical accessory to her wardrobe.
Except today.
Today she was out of the kitchen. Even if only for a brief few moments. Dear God, please let it only be for a brief few moments.
Her hair was done up in an artfully messy top knot that she hoped looked like it had taken her one thoughtless minute and not the hour it had actually taken her to arrange it. She prayed it looked as though her skin was naturally blemish free and glowing. She had on a pound of concealer on her cheeks to cover the blotches from being in a kitchen all day.
She took in a deep breath, but the body shaper she wore beneath her dress didn’t allow her to get far. Jan was fairly flat chested with few curves. The shaper tried to push up what she didn’t have and push in where her lines were straight. It was a great effect. The problem was that it came at the cost of her breath.
Jan looked
good. She knew the food she’d made tasted good. She was determined to keep a good attitude through this ordeal. So, of course, when she exhaled, the heel of her shoe struck the curb wrong, and she went down on one knee.
“Whoa, I’ve got you.”
The pie was liberated from her hands a second after her knee struck the pavement. Mud caked her shins and dirt filled her hands.
“Don’t worry,” said the man looking down at her, “the pie is fine.”
“Oh. Great.” Jan looked up at Chris, her ex. Of course, he’d saved the pie and not her. Typical.
She wished she could say that her ex was short and balding with a beer belly. Unfortunately, that was not the case. Chris was tall, tanned, and had a full head of hair. He was more of a cognac drinker than a beer drinker. The brandy was much kinder to the waist line. To be sure, Chris had to take into account that consideration.
Jan rose and brushed off her skirt, forgetting she had dirt on her hands which transferred to her skirt. She brushed the artfully crafted hair out of her face and then realized she’d left a smudge. She shouldn’t have been worried. Chris paid her no heed. His focus was on the food.
“Oh, Jan,” said a feminine voice. “You poor thing.”
Inwardly, Jan groaned. Outwardly, she smiled up at Chris’s wife. Marisol was the Barbie to Chris’s Ken doll. The two were a picture. Both tall, tan, and gorgeous.
They’d been a pair in high school until Marisol went out of state, leaving Chris behind. Chris had turned to his old pal, Jan, and taken solace in her. Jan, the fool that she was, had mistaken solace for love. The moment Marisol came back to town Jan was left to console herself. Too bad the day Marisol came back was the same day as Jan and Chris’s wedding.
“Chris, my hero, you saved the cake.” Marisol looked to her husband with adoration in her eyes. Chris looked back with the same stars in his eyes. Jan rolled her gaze skyward.
“Oh, I’m fine,” Jan said.
Chris blinked and looked over at Jan as though he’d forgotten she was there. Déjà vu. It was the same as their wedding day when Chris turned away from Jan in white and only had eyes for Marisol standing in the doorway of the church.
The Prince and the Pie Maker Page 2