If you will not take my advice as your assistant, then please take it as a woman. This is a bad idea. Very bad.”
Likotsi shifted and the overstuffed couch she was perched on squeaked in protest beneath her tailored pants.
“Why is this couch wrapped in plastic?” she asked, nose wrinkling as she poked at the uncomfortable clear covering. “There is absolutely no reason to preserve this floral print monstrosity. And this wallpaper!”
Fading evening rays of sunlight from the window in the small kitchen highlighted the overstuffed couch and its outdated print, the mix of plastic flowers and real plants that occupied shelves and corners. The place was nothing like the penthouse suite in the hotel they’d reserved for the trip. That room commanded a view overlooking the city. This apartment looked out onto cracked sidewalks and a combination beauty salon and barber shop across the street.
“The place has a vintage look I thought would appeal to you,” Thabiso said from the bedroom down the hall. “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t already staged a photo shoot for InstaPhoto.”
Likotsi carefully crossed her leg over her knee, so as not to wrinkle her pants. “I was waiting for you to play photographer, Your Highness. My arms are long, but a selfie would not capture the majesty of this unorthodox rental you’ve chosen.”
Thabiso smiled as he hung his clothing in the closet Naledi’s neighbor, Mrs. Garcia, had cleared out for him. Likotsi had insisted she unpack for him, but Thabiso was trying the method acting approach: a common man would hang up his own clothing, no?
Mrs. Garcia had been reluctant to accept the all-expense paid trip to visit her family in Puerto Rico, and to rent him her place while she was gone, but once Thabiso learned her hometown had been severely damaged in recent storms, he’d offered a substantial donation to a local rebuilding fund. Thesolo already had people on the ground helping with the rebuilding efforts, so a bit more money for a good cause wouldn’t hurt. She’d accepted, her people would benefit, and he’d gotten what he wanted. All good, right?
He did feel a pang of conscience. There was something at least a little untoward about bribing the old woman who lived across the hall from the woman you were trying to get to know better . . .
“. . . stalking,” Likotsi said. The couch squeaked in agreement. “Like, just a hairbreadth away from it really. This behavior is unbecoming, and to a woman of Naledi’s cultural background, you could be seen as a threat.”
“I am no threat,” Thabiso said. “I just need a way to continue observing her without her knowledge or revealing that I lied about my identity when we first met.”
The only response was the mmchew of Likotsi sucking her teeth. He should have chided her for forgetting her place, but he was in Jamal mode, so he let it slide.
“I certainly wouldn’t like it if a strange man pursued me in such a way,” she said tersely.
“I’m not a strange man,” he bit out as he hung up the linen shirt. He was Naledi’s betrothed. But still . . . Likotsi’s words had some truth to them. He wouldn’t like a strange man pursuing Likotsi, who didn’t desire the attentions of any man.
Wait . . .
He strode into the living room. “Do you think perhaps Naledi has the same predilections as you?”
“Predilections?” She tilted her head to regard him like he was a jumping spider she was tracking before she stomped on it. “How should I know if she enjoys her popcorn with salt instead of sugar?”
Thabiso’s face scrunched into an expression of contrition. “My apologies. I meant, in your research, was there any evidence that she might be attracted to women? Well, exclusively women?”
He’d felt sparks of heat from Ledi several times during his ill-fated attempt at serving. That is, before he’d put off sparks of his own and nearly set her workplace on fire. But perhaps he’d read too much into her reaction to him?
Likotsi burst into laughter, her hands slapping her knees as she doubled over from it. “Your Highness. While I admit that you are a fine specimen of a man, being a lesbian is not the only possible reason a woman wouldn’t respond to your attentions.”
That bit stung. Mostly because it was the truth—for a normal man. For all of his life, people liking him or desiring him had been a predetermined thing, inextricably tied to his royal status. He’d thought himself so clever when he’d decided to go along with Naledi’s misunderstanding and pretend to be Jamal, but maybe being a prince was the only thing about him that would interest a woman.
“I am determined to get to know her, Likotsi. That is my right.”
He just needed a second chance; he couldn’t let things end as they had. Just thinking of his petulant behavior brought heat to his face.
Another mmchew. “Seriously, sire. I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t have loaned you that book everyone was passing around the palace. I know you have never had to work for female attention, so let me be clear. In reality, women don’t like when strangers show up at their jobs and track their every move under the auspices of ‘getting to know them.’ Please keep in mind that just because you have the money to do things doesn’t mean they should be done.”
“Enough.” Thabiso waved her and her common sense away. He had a plan. Or the beginnings of one. Or the seed of the beginning of a plan, which would have to suffice for now. “I thought you said you were going to go grocery shopping? I might like to visit one of these American markets.”
Likotsi pulled out her tablet, eyes glued to the screen as she spoke. “Actually, there is a delivery service I thought would be perfect for you. It’s quite intriguing. They send you recipes along with the correct proportion of gourmet ingredients so there is no food waste. Apparently, even a simpleton can use it.”
“Really?” Thabiso thought about the last meeting he’d attended before leaving Thesolo. He thought of Naledi holding her cupcake.
I hate seeing food go to waste.
“I wonder if the agricultural minister would be interested in such a program. I’ve heard that the lower-income citizens who receive assistance from the kingdom sometimes eat little more than mealie pap—a program like this could be converted to something that gives them more choice. Production and delivery would create jobs, and we could contract the local farmers to provide ingredients. Oh, and perhaps the Minister of Culture would like to get involved, providing recipes that have started to fade from memory. Mark that down in my agenda for the next ministerial session.”
Likotsi glanced at him with pride.
“This is an excellent idea,” she said as she tapped away. “I’m sure the ministers will be happy to see you more involved than you have been of late. I added it to the notes for next week’s meeting.”
Next week. His UN summit and meetings with PharmaMundial, Omega Corp, and various dignitaries wouldn’t take longer than a few days; he hadn’t scheduled in additional time for getting to know his betrothed. After the incredible display of ego he’d put on after she’d saved him from a fiery demise, he had only a week with Naledi. A week to . . . What?
Make her fall in love with you.
No. That had never been the plan. He was curious, that was all; he’d spent most of his life feeling the loss of a person he’d never truly known. He wanted to know her.
And after that?
“Highness?” Likotsi pulled him away from his thoughts. “I am here as your assistant first and foremost, but I am insubordinate enough to consider myself your friend as well. I cannot make you stop this madness, but I can ask you to be careful, yes?”
Thabiso paused for a moment. He’d been told to be careful all his life, but he sensed Likotsi wasn’t talking about tarnishing the image of the Kingdom of Thesolo. She was talking about him, Thabiso with no royal title attached.
He cleared his throat. “I will be, Kotsi. Now feel free to take your leave. You may have this evening for yourself.”
“Thanks, sire.” She put away the tablet and pulled out her phone. “One of the women I swiped right on, located zero point three miles away, has requested that I meet her for a drink. Perhaps you shan’t be the only one with an American conquest?”
She executed a little shoulder shimmy.
“Naledi is not a conquest,” he said gruffly.
“‘Every woman is a conquest,’ Your Highness. That’s a direct quote, from you, during our visit to the Miss West Africa pageant six months back,” Likotsi said cheerily before grabbing her houndstooth suit jacket and slipping into her brown-and-white spats. “I told you to be careful—pretending this is anything other than an itch to be scratched could be dangerous. For you and for her.”
“You make me out to be some kind of heartless beast.”
“I manage your correspondence, sire, so I get to be the heartless beast when it comes to the women you date.” She gave him a smile that was actually an indictment.
“But—”
“I’ll be sleeping at the hotel, possibly not alone, so don’t wait up and don’t get into too much trouble,” she said with a wink, then glanced mistrustfully at the couch. “And be careful not to get a heat rash from that thing.”
With that she was gone, ready to conquer the NYC dating scene after shivving him with the truth about himself in just a few sentences. He was known as the Playboy PanAfrique in certain tabloids for a reason. He was rich, he was handsome, and he had been known to go through women like a zebra through the fresh grass of the veldt.
He walked over to the couch and sat down slowly so as not to pop the cushion like a balloon. Somewhere down the hall, he could hear the slap of tennis shoes as children raced up the steps.
He looked around the small, clean apartment that would be his home for the next few days. Mrs. Garcia told him she’d lived there for thirty years. Thirty! She’d raised children there. In a place that was barely the size of one of his walk-in closets back home. The walls were crowded with frames of various shapes and colors; some of the faces were familiar to him, as the older counterparts had shown up and shook his hand before climbing into the limo. They’d all radiated a thankfulness that Thabiso wasn’t sure he’d ever felt. No, that wasn’t true. He’d felt it just yesterday, when Naledi had touched his arm and told him he would get the hang of things. It had been a lie, of course, but one made in kindness, to assuage his fears.
Keys jingled in the hallway and Thabiso rose from the couch, slowly, to avoid any untoward sounds from the couch. He crept to the door and looked through the peephole.
Before him was Naledi. At least he was fairly sure that the cloud of thick curly hair and the spectacular bottom that poked out from beneath a heavy backpack belonged to her. She fumbled with her keys, and then dropped them. He could tell by the way she bent to retrieve them that she wasn’t clumsy or drunk; she was exhausted.
The urge to go to her welled up in him, but he found he couldn’t move. Likotsi’s chastisement rang in his ears.
Stalker.
What had he been thinking? Moving in across the hall from Naledi? Peering at her behind without her knowledge? Just a few days before he’d had to reprimand a palace guard for sniffing after one of the maids. Was he any better?
She looked up suddenly, apprehensively, and Thabiso jumped away from the peephole. Sweat broke out on his brow and his stomach tightened. Had she seen him? What was he going to say if she had? That was one of the many parts of this plan he hadn’t thought through. He had recently completed an exhaustive ten-year outlook for Thesolo’s projected growth, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say to Naledi that could ensure their next few hours.
He heard footsteps and a male voice. This one had an accent like he’d heard in films. The approaching man was what had caught her attention, not Thabiso’s peephole creeping.
“D’you order Yellow Spatula Dinner on Demand?”
“No.” There was a thread of apprehension in her voice, as if she wanted the man to leave her alone.
“It says here there’s a delivery for seven p.m. for apartment 7 M.”
Silence, followed by the shuffling of paper. “No, that’s an N. Mrs. Garcia’s apartment.”
The tightening in Thabiso’s stomach transformed into a sick pulse of fear as a heavy knock sounded on the door. Thabiso took a step away from it as another knock fell.
“Look, I can’t hang around. It’s dinnertime and I got a ton of deliveries to make.”
He heard Naledi sigh. “I’ll get it to her. She’s always home at this time. La Mujere Morena is on right now and she never misses her stories . . . Here, hand it over.”
Footsteps echoed in the hall, and then there was another knock at the door. This one was quiet. Tentative.
“Mrs. Garcia?” Another knock, a little more insistent this time. “Mrs. Garcia, are you there?”
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.