A Princess in Theory

by Alyssa Cole

  The concern in her voice was unmistakable. He could hide there like a coward and let her think her neighbor had suffered a heart attack, or he could open the door and face her. That was the point of the whole ridiculous plan, wasn’t it?

  He took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “One moment!” he called out. He’d meant the words to be a warning—not Mrs. Garcia!—but when he opened the door fear rippled across her face. She shuffled away from him until her backpack bumped into her own apartment door.

  Thabiso remembered that this was supposed to be a surprise to him, too. He gasped.

  “Naledi? What are you doing here?”

  “What am I? What are you? Where is Mrs. Garcia?” He didn’t miss the way she readjusted the fingers of her hand holding her keys into a fist, with one pointy key sticking out from between the knuckles.

  Stalker.

  “She went to Puerto Rico to visit family,” he said. “I’m renting her place while she’s away. About yesterday—”

  Naledi didn’t relax the grip on her key. “She didn’t mention any trip. And she hates having strangers in her apartment.”

  “It came up quite suddenly, and apparently my renting helped her afford her hotel accommodations,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. That was true, somewhat, but he still felt like a creep.

  She betrayed you, the priestesses, and your people. A lie or two won’t harm her compared to what she’s done.

  “I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I didn’t mean to,” he said. That part was completely true.

  “Freaked me out? Last night you flew off the handle like you have anger control issues when you were at fault, left me with fire damage to clean up, ruined my mood for the entire day, and you called me a dog. I’m more than freaked out—I’m pissed. I can’t even escape asshole co-workers at home now.”

  Thabiso had spent the entire day recriminating himself over the fire and his behavior, but he hadn’t given much thought to cleaning up either situation.

  “My behavior yesterday was unacceptable,” he said. “I’m not used to failure, and I took my frustration at myself out on you.”

  “Well, what’s done is done.” She shook her head, then pinned him a sharp look. “Though I’m not sure Mrs. Garcia would have let you stay if she knew about your pyromaniac tendencies.”

  “My flirtation with pyromania was a one-night event,” he said calmly.

  “Well, aren’t I the luckiest Saint Bernard in the world to have witnessed it?”

  Apparently he’d struck a nerve with that insult. He cursed his big mouth and wondered how one handled such things. His relationships with women never generally reached the point where there was arguing and making up. He tired of them, bade them adieu, and then Likotsi handled anything that came up after that. He wasn’t quite sure how to apologize to her. He supposed it couldn’t be much different than dealing with a head of state who felt slighted.

  Thabiso caught her gaze and held it. This was the moment on which the rest of his week rested.

  And perhaps more.

  “I called you a Saint Bernard as if it was something bad, but they’re a breed known for their intelligence, loyalty, and keeping their wits about them in touchy situations. I should be so lucky to have anyone think me so useful.”

  Naledi stared at him, those large eyes wide with indignation, but something else, too. Something startled but pleased. He imagined she’d look that way when the man she loved pulled her close against him with no warning.

  Expectation. That’s what it was, and she wasn’t the only one feeling it. A path was forming between them, brick by brick, spanning the width of the hallway and the length of the time that had separated them. Something drew him to her, a force that made his body go taut and his breathing slow down. Her lips parted and the tug between them grew stronger.

  She cut her gaze away from him, and when it met his again, there was a distance there, like the bridge connecting them had fallen away—or she had demolished it with a controlled explosion. There was no coldness; she was warm as ever when her mouth pulled into a smile. But that distance left him feeling miles away instead of across the hall.

  “Was that supposed to be an apology?” she asked. “Because if it was, I’m assuming you’ve never spoken to a human woman in your life.”

  Thabiso let out a brief laugh of relief. She hadn’t told him to fuck off. There was a chance he hadn’t blown this entirely. He stepped forward tentatively, leaning forward at the waist to reach for the box she clutched in her arms so that he didn’t crowd her in front of her door.

  “That wasn’t my apology.” He plucked the box from her hands. “But this could be. Or the start of one at least.”

  “What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Dinner,” he replied, and then scanned the receipt taped to the box. “Specifically, lemon sage chicken thighs with a cucumber quinoa side.”

  She stood still for a long time. “I’m trying to calculate the probability of this encounter we’re having right now but I don’t even know where to begin,” she finally said, shaking her head. “This is a really weird coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said. He hated that something so true was wrapped in a lie, but loved the way her lips parted at the words.

  “I was completely out of line yesterday,” he rushed on. “You should have let me burn to a crisp, but you didn’t. I’d like to thank you for that, and nothing more.”

  Her gaze skittered away from him.

  “If you can put up with me for the amount of time it takes to cook and eat this, of course,” he added.

  The sound of her stomach growling echoed in the hallway’s strange acoustics.

  She sighed, but released her grip on her key and pulled out her phone.

  “I’m telling my friend I’m having dinner with some asshole named Jamal who is definitely an arsonist and may or may not be a serial killer. So if you try to make lemon sage Ledi instead, the police will be here before you have time to book it to LaGuardia.”

  The shift from hope to fruition was a tangible thing that Thabiso felt in the pounding of his heart and the surge of joy that forced the corners of his lips into a smile. That she called him by another man’s name wasn’t ideal, but the fact that she was talking to him at all was some kind of miracle.

  He bit back the diplomatic immunity joke on the tip of his tongue and turned back toward the small flat that suddenly seemed to contain a world of opportunity.

  “I’m not a serial killer,” he said. “And I’m no chef either.”

  When he turned back to look at her, her gaze lifted from his butt. She had been caught in the act. For a moment their gazes held, and there was that same flash of heat that had simmered beneath her rambling talk of kale when they’d first met.

  “Don’t expect any help from me in the kitchen. I can’t cook,” she said suddenly. “And don’t expect anything else either. I’m extremely frugal and tired of eating ramen, which is the only reason I’m accepting this invitation.”

  Thabiso was definitely not used to this type of talk from a woman. He very often had to ask them to stop helping him, and those who shared a meal with him were generally expecting more themselves. But he liked her laying out what she wanted from him. Food, and nothing more. It was a start.

  “I’ll take care of this,” he said, mustering his confidence as they entered the apartment. There was a recipe that must be simple enough to follow and no candle wicks were going to be involved. Still, his gaze scanned the room and settled on the small fire extinguisher in the corner of the kitchen with relief. Confidence was good, but he was learning that knowing one’s limitations could be useful as well.

  Chapter 8

  Ledi glanced at her phone just as Portia’s reply came through:

  Whooooa. You’re having dinner with a strange dude? *checks horoscopes to see what planet is wilding out right now*

  Ledi rolled her eyes. It wasn’t that weird,
was it?

  This is totally weird, but I’m intrigued. Fill me in tomorrow (check in when you can though).

  Okay, it was totally weird. But Jamal didn’t really feel like a strange dude; the sense of familiarity had hit her as soon as he’d walked into the kitchen at the Institute. And though she was used to dealing with assholes, she’d spent the day angry and uneasy over what happened because the way their night had ended had felt wrong. She certainly hadn’t felt the same about Dan.

  Worse, when Jamal had opened Mrs. Garcia’s door, some part of her had been glad to see him. It must have been her soft, stupid nucleus; the reason she needed a social cell membrane for protection to begin with.

  Now she was closing the door behind herself and getting ready to share a meal with him.

  You’d probably share more than some quinoa if he asked nicely.

  Her gaze slid over the flex of Jamal’s muscular back beneath his shirt as he placed the box onto Mrs. Garcia’s dining table. She imagined feeling those muscles bunch beneath her palms as he pressed into her, and then clutched her hands into fists at the explicit image that flashed in her mind. Her body warmed as she watched his lithe movements and understood that though she had only agreed to dinner, she was hungry for Jamal, too.

  No. He’s an asshole. Focus on the free food.

  “So how did you rent this apartment of all places in New York?” she asked as she examined Mrs. Garcia’s family photos lining the walls. She looked away, hating that her first reaction to the photos was envy.

  “A friend made the introduction and the situation worked in both my and Mrs. Garcia’s best interests,” Jamal said as he scanned through the printout that he’d found inside the box. As he pulled each ingredient out, he cross-referenced it with the list, then brought it into the small kitchen. It wasn’t the most efficient method of transport, but she got to watch him walk so she couldn’t complain. He moved with a grace she wasn’t used to; many of the guys in her neighborhood had swagger, but Jamal walked as if he expected everything to fall away before him, and like he was justified in thinking it.

  He had the bearings of a rich boy—she knew that well enough from years of dealing with Portia and clients at the various catering gigs she took on in addition to serving at the Institute—but he’d seemed unsure of himself as he stood before her in the hallway. Chagrined. She’d told him what an ass he’d been, and he hadn’t even tried to turn it around and explain to her how she had made him behave like an ass. And now he was trying to make it up to her.

  She wondered if this was some new species of fuckboy, an evolved version that was more effective at luring women into its trap before showing its true nature. If that was the case, it was working.

  She was still wary, but some part of her was already lowering the drawbridge and inviting him in. He’d make quite the efficient virus if he weren’t approximately a gazillion times too large.

  As she watched him try to figure out how to light the gas stove without letting her know he had no idea what he was doing, the figurative drawbridge shuddered to a stop and reversed course.

  “Seriously?” She trudged over to the stove and nudged him out of the way. “Have you never used a gas stove before?”

  “I’ve seen one used,” he said stubbornly.

  “Let me rephrase that—have you ever used any kind of stove before?”

  “The ones back home are electric. Honestly, it can’t be that difficult,” he said, holding the match to the wrong burner again.

  Ledi rolled her eyes. Of course a hot man offering to make her dinner would turn into more drudge work for her.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You said you couldn’t cook,” his deep voice rumbled next to her as she grabbed the box of matches, struck one, and held it near the burner. The correct burner.

  “I meant ‘I can’t cook for you.’ Once someone knows you can do something for them, they’ll want you to do it all the time.” She turned the knob on the stove and pulled her hand back just as the gas ignited with a whoosh of blue and orange. She’d learned to cook early; not because she’d been a mistreated Cinderella, but because it had made her useful to her foster parents. People didn’t get rid of things they found useful. In theory, that is.

  “You know, that is true,” he said gravely, pausing to strike a contemplative pose as she used her fingertips to push him out of her way. He didn’t resist, simply stepped back. “My parents constantly say that I have to lead by example, but once I do one thing and it succeeds, people expect me to do more and more.”

  “Such is the tragedy of being marginally talented,” she said. “I’m great at doing grant applications it seems, so my lab’s postdoc has decided I should do all of his.”

  “You mentioned this man yesterday. He makes you do his work for him?”

  “It’s fine. It’s how things are. It just seems that he thinks I’m his personal assistant instead of a fellow researcher.”

  “Why don’t you say no?” His tone was serious, as if he was presenting her with an option she’d never considered.

  “Because men make life harder for women who say no, especially women who look like me,” she said. “STEM is already hard to navigate—being marked as someone who doesn’t work well in teams or contribute enough could tank my career.”

  He didn’t respond and Ledi sighed. This was why she was single. She needed a bearded hottie who wouldn’t be flummoxed by the simplest conversation about what she experienced every day. Clarence had told her to stop complaining and work harder when she’d brought up Brian; he’d thought his own success meant that anyone who failed just wasn’t trying hard enough.

  “Ah. This is like the research indicating that a woman who speaks once or twice in a professional or academic setting is seen as monopolizing the conversation. Tell a co-worker no once or twice and that is all he remembers of you, I suppose.”

  Ledi almost dropped the chicken thigh she’d been seasoning. When she looked at him, he was leaning back against the window molding. His fingers stroked his beard, and for a moment he looked like The Thinker, but dipped in a smooth dark chocolate shell and, judging from the folds at the crotch of his pants, packing a bit more heat.

  “Yes,” she said carefully. This was a new thing for her, and she didn’t want to make any sudden movements. But she would push him harder; there was no need to give him the benefit of the doubt. “And there’s also the gaslighting.”

  “Gaslighting?” He looked quizzically at the light switch in the kitchen.

  “It’s when you point out something that upsets you, or you try to set boundaries, and the other person tries to make you feel like you’re overreacting or it’s all in your head. Like when I tell Brian it’s not fair that he’s offloading his work on me, and then he acts like I’m the one being difficult.”

  “I thought that was called being an asshole,” Jamal growled. “This Brian is an asshole.”

  Ledi laughed; somehow she could laugh about it now that Jamal sat looking so angry on her behalf.

  “And yesterday I was just another man making things harder for you,” he said. “I was the asshole. I don’t like that.”

  “It wasn’t great for me either, my guy,” Ledi said. She’d pushed and instead of revealing himself for the fuckboy he was, he’d surprised her. “Just don’t blame other people for your mistakes and stop embellishing your résumé and you’ll be all right.”

  His low laugh seemed to caress her even though he was across the room and even though she was feeling a surge of residual anger at him as she recalled his behavior at the Institute.

  “How apt,” was all he said in reply. “Do you want me to take care of this co-worker? So that he doesn’t bother you again?”

  Ledi’s head whipped around. Had he really just casually dropped that into the conversation? “I thought you said you weren’t a killer.”

  “I said I wasn’t a serial killer. This would be a one-off thing.” The corner of his mouth stretched up into a grin, and she rela
xed.

  “But seriously, he has made you afraid to refuse him because you fear for your career. I have associates who could make him understand that he should also fear for his.”

  Was she supposed to feel slightly giddy that a near stranger was leveling threats at her co-worker? Surely there was something wrong with her.

  “Ummm, I’m gonna have to go with no thank you, though I appreciate the offer.”

  “Hmph. Well, I’m glad that you’re not afraid to say no to me,” he said. “Maybe next time he tries to tell you what to do, you should summon the Naledi who fired me in no uncertain terms.”

  “Maybe I will,” she said. She took the recipe from his hands and scanned it. Rinse chicken thighs. Sear. Melt butter. It was like following experimental procedure, but with more delicious and edible results.

  She glanced over to find Jamal staring at her.

  “Where did you learn to cook?” he asked suddenly. “From your parents?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was being purposely nosy or just making idle conversation.

  “I don’t have parents,” she said bluntly.

  “I invited a divine being over for dinner? Brilliant. We need some wine to go with this, if you want to work your magic on the tap water.” He smiled a little, but it was the weird, tight smile people deployed when something you said had worried them. She realized too late that he wouldn’t be around long; she could’ve just lied and said yes and been done with the conversation. Now she’d have to talk about that.

  “Well, I did. Then I didn’t. I was too young to cook when they were around. I don’t even remember what my favorite food was as a kid.”

  Or much of anything about my childhood.

  “Your parents left when you were very young?” Jamal’s accent made the words seem heavier somehow, like something from a Shakespearean tragedy instead of her everyday life.

  She put on water for the quinoa. Salted it so she wouldn’t forget when the excitement of the boil distracted her.

  “They died.”

  She’d underestimated how tired she was. That was the only thing that could explain why she’d just blurted out her sad orphan story. She hated talking about it, and couldn’t even remember the last time she had.