Page 8 of Lost Prince

But then I see something beyond the anger. A vulnerability. He looks lost.

I force a bright smile. He looks at me like I’m an enigma.

I arch a brow. “Do you need a cookie?”

He surprises me when his lips twitch upward. “Yes.”

I move to plate a cookie and pour a glass of milk. “I saved you some. Do you have a favorite cookie? I could make them for you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. I get the sense he’s watching me. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. Not like other men I’ve had pay too much attention to me.

Finally, he says, “I like your cookies.”

I serve him and go back to my duties, giving him space.

“What are you doing?” he asks, biting his cookie.

I hold up the whisk. "Whipping cream. It's therapeutic, you know. All that whisking. Do you cook?”

He shrugs. “I’ve fed myself well enough. I’ve never made whipped cream, though.”

“Well, you’ve missed out, then. Come on. Have a turn.”

He moves closer and looks into the bowl. "I don't know how."

"That's okay. I'll teach you."

He doesn't respond, just takes a step closer. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, warmer. I'm acutely aware of how he towers over me. I can see why people are afraid of him. And yet, I’m not.

"Is everything alright?" I ask, searching his face for clues as to what is going on inside him.

“I…" he starts, then stops, running a hand through his dark hair. "I don't know why I'm here."

I turn to face him fully. "Well, I'm glad you are. Sometimes, the kitchen is the best place to clear your head."

His eyes narrow, studying me. "You're not afraid of me." He said the same thing the other day.

“Should I be?”

A bitter laugh escapes him. "According to everyone else, yes."

I take a chance, reaching out to touch his arm. His muscles tense under my fingers, but he doesn't pull away.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Lazaro's gaze drops to where my hand rests on his arm, then back to my face. The storm in his eyes shifts, turning into something else entirely. My breath catches in my throat as heleans in slightly, and for a wild moment, I think he might kiss me. And I think I might let him even though I shouldn’t. I mean, I work for his family. He’s got a lot of heavy, deep, and real emotional issues going on right now.

As if he recognizes what’s happening, he jerks back. “I, ah…” Realizing he’s holding a cookie, he takes another bite, finishing the cookie.

My cheeks warm, and I abandon the whipped cream as I move to the try of cookies. “Want another one?”

For a moment, the room is filled with an awkward quiet. Finally, he settles onto a stool with his milk. I get two more cookies and set them on his plate and return to my whipped cream.

“What has brought you to the kitchen?” I wince at how dumb that question is.

“Escaping a family meeting," he grunts, reaching for the cookie.

Silence stretches between us, broken only by the soft scrape of the whisk inside the bowl. I’m about to over-whip my cream but can’t seem to stop. The air feels thick with unspoken tension. What happened in the meeting?