Courting Royal

Chapter Sixteen

The next day, Liam and I spend a lazy morning in bed, ignoring our phones, until hunger gets the best of both of us.

"Did you happen to get provisions for breakfast?" I ask, and he only smiles.

"Do you think I'm really that much of an amateur?"

"No," I say. "I definitely do not."

Once we've both thrown on scraps of clothing – briefs and a white T-shirt for Liam, while I find a pair of soft grey pajama shorts and a black tank – we head into the kitchen.

"What kind of breakfast shall we have?" Liam asks, heading to the coffee maker. "A fry-up is always my vote."

"I just can't get behind beans for breakfast," I say and he looks affronted.

"Oh, please," I say. "You have to admit that's weird."

"For you," he says shrugging. "I suppose you'd prefer doughnuts and sugary cereal?"

"I definitely would not turn down a doughnut," I say. "But I was thinking more along the lines of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. If we have those things here."

"If we don't, we can very easily get it."

I roll my eyes at that, but I have no doubt that if I said I wanted doughnuts, I'd have them in less than ten minutes, courtesy of Murray or my doorman. Or some other minion of Liam's.

I start going through the pantry, pulling out all the ingredients to make pancakes from scratch. Once I have everything, I begin measuring out the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and my father's "secret" ingredient, cinnamon, then add in melted butter, vanilla extract, and milk, followed by the eggs.

"You look like you know what you're doing," Liam says from where he's pouring us cups of coffee.

"When I was growing up, my dad and I used to make pancakes together every Sunday morning."

"That's lovely," Liam says. "Our Sundays were always church with Gran, a long, boring family lunch, and then when the weather would allow, me and Ben and our cousins would run around on the lawn outside."

"That doesn't sound terrible," I say, turning the oven on a low heat, just hot enough to keep the cooked pancakes warm while the others are being made, and find a baking sheet and put it in the oven.

"It wasn't when we were out of the city. Then we'd get to ride or set up games of rugby or football. There's a bit more freedom when we're not in town. Especially at Sandringham or Balmoral."

"I'm sure," I say, thinking of the remote areas where the British royal family has residences – read: castles – as I look for the skillet. Then I find a cast iron griddle. Even better.

I start making the pancakes, and Liam takes it upon himself to fry the bacon – the American kind of bacon, Thank God, not the weird ham-looking bacon that Brits so often eat – and then makes fried eggs in the bacon grease.

When we sit down for breakfast, it hits me how easy it's been to be around Liam since I got here. I know it's not even been a full 24 hours, but thus far everything with us has felt comfortable and, well, right.

It's a good feeling. Though it does make all the worrying I did seem completely ridiculous in hindsight.

"These," Liam says, after making a sizeable dent in his stack of pancakes, "are incredible."

"I'll have to let my dad know you think so," I say. "It's his recipe."

"Ah, but you made them," he says. "It's good to know we can both cook and won't end up starving to death if the apocalypse comes."