Hank reached across the soft cotton sheets in search of something softer. But instead of finding warm curves, his hand found nothing but empty space.

What the . . .

He bolted upright, a sense of dread filling his gut. Surely she hadn’t vanished again? He blinked as he took in his surroundings. The door to the loo stood open, with no sounds of running water coming from inside. In fact, the room was completely silent except for the distant chirping of a few birds. Clothing was strewn across the room just as they’d left it the night before, but as the sleep cleared from his eyes Hank realized that the only items he saw belonged to him. Everything Cassie had been wearing was gone.

Fucking hell.

He flung the duvet back, sending a piece of paper fluttering into the air. He waited for it to float to the ground, then bent to pick it up.

“COULDN’T SLEEP. WENT TO THE BAKERY TO FINISH UP.”

So she hadn’t run off, at least not yet. Hank sat back down on the bed, exhaling on a heavy breath as a sense of relief washed over him. Deep down he knew it was only temporary. All bets would be off once Cassie knew the truth, something that would likely result in a resounding slap to the face; and, if Matthew was right, potential damage to the family jewels—and not the ones locked away in the palace. Then again, perhaps if she got to know him a bit better she’d understand why he’d been so keen to have a weekend away from his daily life. Perhaps she’d forgive his deception and allow him to reintroduce himself with no pretense. Of course there was always the chance that his real identity would be a negative. While it was true that most women would sell their soul for a chance to wear a diamond tiara, there were the rare exceptions who were not only unimpressed, but uninterested. The more he got to know Cassie, the more she seemed like the latter. Was it possible she’d see past the gilded baggage to the man beneath the crown? Was it too much to hope that she’d realize he was more Hank than Henry?

He didn’t have long to convince her. With each passing hour his day of reckoning grew closer. Hank glanced at the antique alarm clock on the bedside table. Six fifteen. Christ, that was early. For the life of him he couldn’t remember the last time he was up at that hour. Unless of course you counted nights he’d yet to be to bed, but that was a different story.

He pushed his hands through his hair. Time might have been running out, but for today at least, he was still Hank Green. And he intended to make the most of it.

Hank grabbed a pair of jeans and a plaid button-down shirt out of his bag. A shower would have to wait until he’d sorted things out with Cassie, which meant the University of Georgia baseball cap would be making another appearance. Once dressed, he hurried down the wooden stairs that hugged the back of the bed and breakfast, stopping short when he spotted Cassie in the kitchen of the bakery. The sight of her, leaning over the counter with her hair twisted into a cascade of curls and a smudge of flour on the tip of her nose, calmed and centered him, like her very presence meant all was right with the world. It was ridiculous really. She’d hardly been gone any time at all. And she’d left a note telling him exactly where she was. So why was he so damn relieved to find her?

As anxious as he was to go to her, he paused, taking a moment to let his mind catalog every detail of a scene he knew he would recall countless times in the days and weeks to come. She was wearing blue jeans again—this time paired with a white tank beneath the red eyelet-trimmed apron—and the same ridiculous shoes with the tiny hearts. But without a doubt, she looked even more beautiful than she had the first time he’d watched her through the shop’s windows. Because now he knew the woman behind the quick smile and sparkling eyes, intimately as a matter of fact. But instead of lessening the desire he’d felt that first night, his time with Cassie had only caused his need to grow, which was why he couldn’t spend even one more second on the opposite side of the door.

“Good morning,” he said as he stepped into the kitchen.

She looked up and smiled, and just like that he was gone.

“Good morning,” she said. “I take it you found my note?”

“Yes, although I’m beginning to wonder what it will take to properly wear you out. I’d have thought three orgasms would have ensured the sleep of the dead, but apparently nothing stands between a beautiful pastry chef and her rolling pin.” Hank glanced around the room where literally every inch of available counter space was covered with confections. “I thought you were just going to ‘finish up’?” he asked, quoting her note back to her.

“I did.” She smiled a sheepish grin. “But then I started a bit more.”

“You are the master of understatement, luv.”

“Nervous energy I guess. I get anxious before events.”

“Kitchen stage fright?”

“Something like that.”

“Hmm, that would explain the inventory,” he said.

“I’m afraid I got a bit carried away.

“Well there is a definite upside to waking to an empty bed.”

“There is?

“Thanks to your manic moonlight baking, you’re free to explore Georgia with me today.”

“I am?”

“Yes, you’ve spent far too much time with mixers and ovens, and from the sounds of it, not just this weekend. Today, Cassandra Miller, you will have a proper adventure courtesy of yours truly.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” It seemed a rather ridiculous question from a woman he’d been intimate with in a variety of locations, not to mention positions, over the last thirty-six hours. But now that she mentioned it, the time they’d spent together had been spontaneous, not planned, and certainly not requested in any sort of formal manner. Come to think of it, Hank couldn’t actually recall the last time he’d asked any woman out on a date. Most of his encounters were either official events prearranged through his social secretary or casual encounters stemming from one too many at a club. But to actually ask a woman out on a date, that he planned and executed on his own? Now there was a novelty. The prospect was thrilling, but more than that, it was exactly the type of thing a normal man—say, someone like Hank Green—would do.

Hank straightened. All at once the reality of a normal man hit him. What if she said no? She seemed to be enjoying their impromptu rolls in the proverbial hay, but maybe that’s all he was to her, a few laughs and an orgasm. Okay several orgasms, but still. Then again, the previous night had been more than just a romp. They’d talked, longer than Hank had ever spoken to a woman who wasn’t employed by him or related to him. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why, but things were different with Cassie. He was different. He wasn’t Prince Henry, the self-centered prick who strolled about as though reality had been put on a permanent hold. He was Hank Green, a man who not only wanted to make this feisty vixen come like a freight train in the middle of a church, but who at the moment wanted nothing more than to spend the day making her smile. But Hank Green was, per his own design, just a normal bloke, and normal blokes were rejected on the regular, or so he’d been told. “It’s not you, it’s me.” “I think we should just be friends.” “I’m not looking for anything more right now.” These were all the excuses his friends heard time and time again. Hell, he’d been known to use a few of them himself. And now, as ordinary Hank, there was a chance one of those overused, insincere expressions would be his fate as well. The realization set off another round of the fizzies that seemed to appear whenever this woman was around. Still, he might not have been wearing a sash laden with medals, let alone a crown, but he still had a few moves. He cleared his throat. “Miss Miller,” he said, locking his gaze with hers and smiling just enough to release the dimple that drove women mad, “would you do me the honor of spending the day with me?”

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, and not in the seductive way that made his cock twitch but in a hesitant way that made him worry. “I don’t know if—”

“If you can?”

She nodded.

He chuckled. “What else could you possibly have left to bake?”

“I think I’m good on the baking.” She gave a small laugh, then winced. “The cleaning is another story.”

Hank began to roll the sleeves of his plaid shirt. “Well it just so happens I am an expert when it comes to dishes.” That wasn’t exactly true. In fact, Hank had never done a single dish in his entire life. But how hard could it be to wash a few pots and pans? His gaze fell on the stack of bowls and baking sheets piled up next to the sink. Okay, perhaps it was more like a few dozen, but still.

“You’re going to help me clean up?” she asked. Surely this wasn’t a foreign concept? An average bloke washed dishes on the regular, didn’t he? Then again Matthew was a bit of a slob when they lived together so perhaps Hank wasn’t the only male who’d never washed a dirty dish. But that was about to change.

“It appears I am.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Although seeing as I wouldn’t know where to begin storing any of these items, perhaps I should wash while you dry?”

A smile stretched across her face. “Sounds like a plan.”

“But first, we need to see about some breakfast.” He reached for one of the sugar cookies piled high on a plate in front of him, taking a moment to admire the blue wedding bell design she’d stenciled on top. “As delicious as these look”—he took a bite and let out a groan—“and taste, you’ll need a bit more sustenance than this for what I have planned.”

She started to speak but he silenced her by pressing one finger to her lips. “And before you bother asking, I have no intention of divulging said plans.” While he liked the air of mystery he was creating, the truth of the matter was Hank had no idea what to do on their last day together. The thought of their time ending brought an unwelcome tightness to his chest, so he did what any man in his position would do. He pushed it out of his mind and focused on the task at hand.

“All you need to know is that I will have you back in plenty of time for the wedding, might even factor some time for a snooze for my little night owl.”

“I thought I was your little vixen?” she said with a fake pout.

A laugh vibrated deep within his chest. “Indeed you are my dear, which is why I doubt our afternoon between the sheets will result in much sleep.”

She gasped. “Sex in an actual bed?”

“Ah, good point.” His brows knit together. “I’ll have to come up with something better lest you tire of me and cast me aside for someone else.” While he knew she was merely taking the piss, she’d unknowingly made an excellent point. If this was in fact their last day together, he needed to make it memorable. And while he might have been wooing her as Hank Green, he still had access to a few of Prince Henry’s resources. Perhaps he could give her a glimpse into his world, without ever leaving Georgia? His frown gave way to a sly smile as an idea began to take shape. “I’ll put my depraved brain to work on that,” he said, already compiling a mental list of what he’d need. “But for now, let’s see about putting some food in that stomach of yours.”

“I don’t have anything here for breakfast.”

Hank shot her a disbelieving look. “This is a bakery, correct?”

She nodded.

“Then I assume there are eggs and bread and everything else I might need to make you a proper breakfast?”

Her eyes grew wide. “You?”

He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me, but I accept the challenge.” He might have never washed a dish, but Hank had a few culinary tricks up his sleeve. They were limited no doubt, but one in particular was tried and true.

He pulled out a stool. “Sit, and I shall cook for you.”

Cassie took a seat and waited as Hank moved about the kitchen opening and closing nearly every cabinet and refrigerator door at least twice before he’d gathered the necessary ingredients.

“French toast?” she asked as she eyed the supplies.

He raised one brow. “You’re lucky cousin Sue isn’t here or she’d give you an earful about how this recipe has absolutely nothing to do with France. In fact it predates the country itself with a recipe going back as far as the Roman Empire.”

“So what’s the proper name for it then?”

“Well the Romans called it pan dulcis.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“No.” He hesitated for a moment, then fessed up. “I call it French toast.”

They both chuckled as he washed his hands and dried them on a clean towel before slicing two thick pieces of bread off the end of the loaf he’d found in the bread box. Cassie leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter as she watched him with what appeared to be a curious fascination.

“Enjoying the show?”

“I was just thinking how the only thing that could make this better is if you were cooking in an apron.” A glimmer lit her green eyes as she added, “And nothing else.”

Hank laughed out loud. “Using my own lines against me?” He shot her a look as he cracked the first egg on the edge of a shallow mixing bowl. “Guess I should be grateful your version of the fantasy didn’t include heels.”

He added three more eggs and a dash of milk before whisking them into a froth. “Now,” he said, “I’m going to have to ask you to close your eyes for the next part. Trade secrets and all that.”

Cassie let out a sound that was half snort and half laugh. It was the most unladylike noise, but for some reason from her it seemed almost charming. “Are you serious?” she asked, when it became clear he was waiting for her to comply.

“Deadly. This recipe has been in my family for hundreds of years. If I divulge the secret ingredients I fear a team of highly trained assassins will descend upon us like a plague of locusts.”

“You’re taking the piss again, aren’t you?”

He smiled. “Yes, but the family recipe part is true.” So was the part about the team of assassins, although they weren’t in the habit of protecting family recipes, at least not that he was aware. “So if you don’t mind?”

Cassie spun herself around on the stool so that her back was to the counter. “You know,” she said, “I’m definitely going to have to add this to the list.”

Hank added a pinch of three different spices to the mixture along with a splash of vanilla, then lay the first slice of bread in the bowl. When he was satisfied with its condition he swapped it with the second one. “Which list is that?” he asked, moving to the stove where he proceeded to melt several tablespoons of butter in an iron skillet. “You can turn back around now.”

“The list of reasons I’d get down on my knees.”

Hank startled, dropping the first slice of bread into the hot butter a little harder than he’d intended and splattering his hand in the process. “In prayer?” he asked, wiping the butter off the back of his hand.

“If you mean the type of prayer you said last night in the confessional, then yes.”

Hank stilled, then his gaze lifted to meet hers. “Really?”

She slowly nodded her head. “Oh yes.”

Interesting , he thought. Seemed there were all sorts of menial tasks that resulted in sexual favor. Who knew? He flipped the slice of bread, taking pride in its perfectly golden brown color. “So does cooking a meal rank above or below hoovering?” he asked.

“Well that depends. Are we talking just straight-up hoovering or maybe a bit of light dusting too?”

He placed the toast on a plate and set it in front of her along with a fork and knife. “Just the hoovering.”

“Hmm that’s a tough one.” A crease formed between her brows as she began to cut the fried bread. “I mean, for me personally, it would probably be below since I like to cook but hate housework.” She took a bite and her eyes drifted closed in an expression he’d seen her make before, but always wearing fewer clothes. “Scratch that. No contest. This definitely ranks above a vacuum.”

Hank laughed. His agenda had been only to woo her with his charm and his great grandmum’s French toast, but far be it from him to stand in the way of a woman and her list. He’d no sooner had the thought when the clock on the wall chimed.

“What time do I need to have you back here to get ready for the wedding?”

She cocked her head ever so slightly to one side. “We have pictures beforehand so no later than three.”

Hank groaned. “Then I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you’ll have to hold that thought. If we’re going to fit in everything I have in mind, we need to put a move on.”

She paused with a forkful of French toast in midair. “Did you just take a pass on a blow job?”

“Absolutely not. I’m merely taking a rain check for later this afternoon.” He flashed her a devilish grin. “Now eat up, we have a full day ahead.”