How to Date a Prince, page 6
He may have direction written all over him, but I can fake that too.
I enter the bright breakfast room with my head held high in a façade of confidence for the cameras. Duty calls. Everything breakfast has been cleared away, except for the tea and coffee station. The buffet has been replaced with a few light snacks. I make a cup of tea to fortify myself, walk past the snacks and the beautifully baked muffins taunting me, and then at last turn to face the table with the baking cookbooks with the enthusiasm of a man heading to his own execution.
Standing fixed in place with my tea, I wait for inspiration to come, as if I can manifest my own muffins out of wishes. The steam rises, and the smell of the Earl Grey tea is comforting. Colin wants the recipe to be personal, something to remind me of home, but we’ve had chefs and staff for nearly as long as I can remember. Although my father only became King when I was four years old. Before that, we lived at Frogmore Cottage. My parents still conducted royal duties, but life was a little closer to normal.
I remember when I was small, being sat on my mum’s knee with her arm around me, watching her drink tea with her friends, and the smell of fresh baked biscuits filling the room and the surprising taste of the gingersnaps dipped in chocolate. Had she made them herself? Or did someone bake them for us? I swallow, something caught in my throat. No, she made them herself, I recall with relief. After all, Mum hadn’t been born royal and had a shot at legitimate life skills before she married my father. As for him, I’ve never seen him so much as boil a kettle.
“Well? What do you think, Your Royal Highness?”
I start. My tea sloshes. I hadn’t heard anyone approach. That’s twice today I’ve been caught off guard.
I glance over. It’s one of the cast members, the oldest, with brown hair mostly gone silver. “Please, call me Auggie. What’s your name?”
He chuckles. “I’m David.”
“Good to meet you.” I scan the cookbooks. Salvation must lie in one of them. “I’m at a loss, I suppose. Though I have an idea. And it absolutely doesn’t involve smuggling in baked goods under the cover of darkness for tomorrow.”
“I’m a little bit at a loss too, don’t worry. I’m thinking of the bread department. Although I’m not sure if I’ll have enough time for the bread to rise, so the bread-smuggling idea has some appeal. Otherwise, I’m going to have to try and hope for the best.”
“Bread’s advanced.” There’s no universe in which bread making isn’t considered advanced. I wouldn’t know a leavening agent unless I tripped over one and it fought back.
To my relief, he smiles back. “I’m not sure I’m an advanced baker, but I can usually get the job done. I’ve been practicing.”
“Advanced,” I confirm. “Absolutely.” Of course he practiced his baking. Very sensible approach, being prepared and all that.
“Do you bake?”
“No.” I shake my head, grim-faced. The room’s already too warm, the sun streaming in through the tall windows. I should have snuck down to the palace kitchens my last night at home when I couldn’t sleep and practiced baking. Oh, regrets. “Actually, not ever.”
“Oh?”
I shift my weight from foot to foot. “This is my first time baking.”
And quite possibly my last. But if I’m going to try, I’m going to go for it. I’m all in now.
“Right.” His eyebrows climb. “I can see, then, why you look daunted.”
“Well. No time like the present to learn,” I say gamely into the too-still air of the breakfast room. Someone should open a window for a breeze. Meanwhile, I wonder if anyone’s ever spontaneously learned to bake at an expert level out of pure force of will. I’m about to find out. Who knew baking would come into my royal duties? And, super-fun twist, being judged by the kingdom, too, as well as my father, once whatever happens airs on television.
Meanwhile, David’s smile is too kind, which tells me everything I need to know about my prospects in the patisserie department. And that I need to keep better control of my face.
With reluctance, I set the tea down on the table and pick up a cookery book promisingly entitled Biscuits: A Festival of Taste. David sets to work rifling through the books, flipping through a couple of bread books till he finds something suitable.
I search till I find a gingersnaps recipe. They must have chocolate around here that I can melt and dip them in. Right. There’s a first time for everything. And if I can avoid Thomas Golden during the challenge, even better.
Chapter Eight
It’s official: my previously impending doom has arrived.
By 1:00 p.m., we’ve all gathered in the expansive basement kitchens of the estate for the first challenge. Sunbeams fall through the windows. Long stainless-steel counters stretch the length of the room, with ten stations clearly set out and cameras, filming kit, and crew at one end of the kitchen.
“This is Gisele, our producer,” Colin introduces with a flourish.
“Gentlemen,” Gisele acknowledges us with an enviable air of authority. Her dark hair is piled on her head. “Welcome to the first season of Renaissance Man. I hope you’ve all been settling in well and starting to know each other. We thought to break the ice with gathering your ingredients for your recipes, which is the focus of filming today, along with breakout interviews. Tomorrow morning, we will actually bake. Please remember this is a family show, and mind your language and behavior.”
It can’t be that hard to gather ingredients without making a disaster. I look down at the book in my hands. There’s a list of what I need and their weight and quantity. Everything I need to know is right there. The chocolate I can eyeball. Technically, I know about weights and measures. And there’s no time like the present to put theory into practice.
The crew puts microphones on all of us. “Always assume they’re on and recording when you wear them,” Gisele says casually.
The camera focuses on Colin.
“The bake off,” Colin says theatrically, “is everyone’s favorite challenge. I hope you all rise to the occasion.” He laughs. “Unfortunately, the person with the lowest score from the judges will be sent home.”
Oh, to be so lucky. One week of this show to tell Father I tried and put in a good effort. It’s a reasonable compromise in an unreasonable situation. But then, I don’t want to disappoint him either. Or embarrass myself.
We’re assigned stations in short order, shown the walk-in refrigerators and freezers, the bank of gleaming ovens, and given instructions on how to proceed with measuring out ingredients one at a time—always with a camera watching. There are large containers with flour, sugar, and other ingredients along one counter with scoops. We’re given sets of small bowls and pitchers for the task and brand-new blue denim aprons. Each station also has a stand for books or tablets, which sorts out one problem. Picking up a hand-glazed ceramic mixing bowl from an artful display meant for the cameras, I long to make pottery myself.
“Remember to take care and watch out for each other in the kitchen.” Colin beams at us, his charges. “Oh, and one last health and safety note: there’s always a medic on site.”
Not a promising sign. I suppose we have open flame on the ranges and knives and who knows what else can go wrong in a kitchen with ten men baking at the same time.
Thomas Golden’s station is opposite mine. Because of course it is. So much for the avoidance strategy. He glances up at me from browsing his tablet, somehow feeling my gaze on him, and frowns. Quickly, I look away, but not before noticing his pristine apron and worktop. Or the fine muscles of his forearms with his rolled-up sleeves. I quickly look away.
Right. Tonight, I’ll research him a little more. And I’ll see if I can give myself a crash course in baking via the internet. There must be online videos in cookery for complete beginners.
It’s not so bad after all. My latent competitive streak has finally come to life from deep storage.
There’s a lot of waiting around while certain scenes are shot and reshot. Eventually, I’m filmed exploding a cloud of flour all over my apron and almost sneezing, which would have been a serious faux pas in a kitchen. By the end of the afternoon, I have a collection of bowls, jars, and pitchers with my carefully measured-out ingredients and flour smeared across my clothes.
“Did you sift the flour before you measured?” Thomas Golden asks archly from behind me.
I spin like I’ve unleashed my inner ballerino.
He folds his arms over his chest as he considers my display of ingredients with not quite disdain but not approval either. Not that I need—or want—Thomas Golden’s approval.
I instinctively mirror his pose, frowning. “I’m supposed to do that? Sift how? Why?”
“You don’t want to make a mistake.” He smirks and walks away.
“Shit.” I look down at my bowls. I poke at the flour with a tentative finger. Which is very floury, and I’m not sure what sifting has to do with anything. He’s probably trying to set me up.
Or maybe he’s trying to help.
Impossible.
This is a competition, after all, not a cooperative challenge. We’re on baking Survivor, and I don’t want to get voted off the island.
“Language, Your Royal Highness.” Gisele appears out of nowhere with her incredible hearing and ability to manifest.
My eyes widen. Oh, hell. At least this time, I keep the swearing under wraps. “I’m sorry. And,” I say for what must be the fifth time, “please call me Auggie.”
“Auggie, it’s very important we don’t waste time doing retakes because of cursing while the cameras roll on a hot mic. Time, after all, is money.” She gives me a stern look. “I don’t care who you are, with all due respect.”
“That’s a refreshing perspective I can get behind.”
She stares at me.
“It won’t happen again.”
She gives a curt nod and walks away.
It doesn’t feel like a good time to ask about sifting and how that relates to flour, so instead, I read my recipe again. I’ve been told to leave the egg yolk till tomorrow. We have everything labeled at the end of the afternoon, and ingredients that need to be kept cool are refrigerated again. Go, me. I wipe my brow with my wrist.
There’s something about self-raising flour, but I only found flour that didn’t identify itself as self-raising or communal-raising or however people classify their flour. And bread flour. Since the biscuit recipe wasn’t in the bread book, I went for the regular flour. Maybe I can search tonight about sifting.
I look around the room. Everyone’s relaxed now that the cameras are away, and most people have formed into small conversation groups while we wait for the official all clear to leave. In the group closest to me, I catch someone’s gaze burning into me.
“Hi.” I offer a smile, which isn’t returned. “What’s your name?”
He ignores the question. Instead, the man lifts his jaw in challenge. “Good thing you’re making this easy for the rest of us, Your Royal Highness.”
I bristle, despite knowing better than to respond to barbs. Except I’ve already fallen victim to barbs on this show. I have pride and duty on the line too, after all. “We’ll see about that. I’m here to win. Like you are.”
“Whatever.” He scoffs and walks away. “Prince privilege only gets you so far, just saying.”
It’s a gut punch, and I frown at his retreating back. I must win the challenge to prove him wrong.
At 10:00 a.m. the next morning, the long room buzzes and echoes with the noise of both cast and crew until Gisele brings us to order.
“Ignore the cameras, keep focused on your work or when addressed by Colin and the judges,” Gisele reminds us sternly, her intent gaze on us like she’s waiting for us to slip up. “And no swearing.” She stares directly at me.
Somewhere behind me, I’m very much aware of Thomas. He’s stuck to himself this morning, focused on what he’s doing. A furtive glance over my shoulder shows him head down, reviewing his tablet. A strange warmth rises in my face. Traitorous body. He’s got all the calm and easy charisma of a champion. Outclassed, absolutely. It’s that old feeling from many years in my riding competitions when I was starting out—I could see the top contenders quietly confident in the ring even before the first jump. Years later, I had that confidence, but when it comes to baking, it’s evaporated.
Meanwhile, I look down at all of my ingredients, which have been artfully arranged in front of me, more for the camera’s benefit than mine. One advantage I have is my discipline. And determination, even if the challenge is gingersnaps and not, say, surviving boarding school.
A single brown egg sits contained in a ramekin bowl.
Which reminds me of my flour-sifting mission YouTube educated me about last night. Along with the finer points of how to separate a yolk from the white of an egg. I totally have the theory down like I’m ready to give a TED talk.
Colin appears at my elbow. “Strategy, old boy?”
I sigh at the callout. Even from the host.
Stay focused. Colin’s harmless, at least. Or neutral enough.
“Sifting, I think, is the way forward.” I nod at the bowl, a quiet menace.
He looks intrigued.
“For an accurate measurement.” As if I know what I’m talking about. Thomas Golden at least knew. No one needed to prompt him.
“Of course.” He stands back as I make my way to the table set up with various tools.
Out of the corner of my eye, as I pass Thomas Golden, I can’t help but notice his forearms are tanned and toned, his sleeves rolled up. Unfair working conditions, frankly. Thankfully, he’s engaged with whatever he’s doing, and he doesn’t notice me.
So, I turn to my flour situation, take a cup of flour, and sift. I feel terribly pleased with myself as a cloud of flour rises. My nose tickles. I take a second scoop and sift it too.
I should probably check the weight, but I have no idea where the scale has gotten to. Never mind.
Putting that bowl aside with something approaching confidence, I hold my head high as I face down the egg and the empty small bowl beside it. The woman on YouTube made it look easy.
Right. If she can do this, so can I.
I crack the egg on the side of the bowl. Success.
Until the egg slides down the outside of the speckled ceramic bowl and pools in an eggy puddle on my wooden worktop, with the lurid promise of salmonella and other popular afflictions. Then, what follows is a series of regrettable egg-related mishaps, splattering eggs like fallen soldiers.
I open my mouth to swear. Luckily, I remember Gisele’s warning, and my mouth snaps shut in a huff of air.
Maybe fifth time lucky.
This time, I crack the egg, with plenty of crushed shell fragments falling alongside the egg over the counter and bowl.
I close my eyes. Apparently, visualization practice has let me down.
“I really, really can’t take another minute of this,” says a familiar voice behind me.
To my credit, I don’t jump, whirl, or panic.
Instead, I look over my shoulder as casually as I can. Thomas Golden comes to stand beside me, neatly sidestepping the egg on the floor in an elegant motion. Wordlessly, he passes me a dish towel, and I wipe my hands clean enough for now.
A muscle works in his jaw.
Glancing around, I see people putting things on baking sheets and into baking tins. A couple of men have already gone over to the wall of preheating ovens to put their baking in.
I haven’t even started combining ingredients. It’s going swimmingly in the deep end.
“What,” Thomas Golden asks slowly, surveying the rather disastrous scene before us, “are you doing?”
“Baking,” I say a little more defensively than I need to, with a broad gesture at the floury egg-enhanced mess before us. “Obviously.”
He purses his lips, glancing at me. “No, seriously. What’s with all of the eggs everywhere?”
“I’m… separating a yolk. Apparently,” I say as casually as I can muster with a shrug, “it’s more difficult than it looks. Who knew?”
Thomas Golden’s gaze is on me fully now. I resist the urge to shift from foot to foot, and I stand tall at my scene of floury egg carnage like I’m a page from Debrett’s book of etiquette on comportment, as if that will compensate for my sweeping ineptitude in the kitchen.
“I see.” His expression shifts from one unreadable mood to another. “Hold that thought.”
At least he’s not openly laughing at me. Which makes this experience a notch less miserable than school.
But there’s no Gav to save me here either.
Thomas Golden goes back to his station and returns with a damp cloth and a small empty bowl. He passes me the cloth. Before I have a chance to start cleaning up, he reaches for an egg, efficiently cracks it one-handedly, and separates the egg using the egg shell to let the whites fall neatly into a bowl. He drops the yolk into the small ramekin bowl in front of me.
Unlike me, he does it without making a spectacle. In fact, he does it with great finesse. It makes me feel a little murdery.
“Only one?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. His dark hair falls over his brow as he leans ever so slightly.
Don’t think about how close he is. Or that I can feel his body heat radiating beside me.
“Yes.” I try not to do a double take. He did that like he does it every day. Maybe he does. But I don’t know why he would want to help me. “Thanks.”
“No need to thank me. It’s totally for my benefit.” Thomas Golden’s voice is cool. “I couldn’t take it any longer.”
“Fair.” I try not to let the sting bother me. He remains close beside me, a little longer than entirely necessary. Or it could be my imagination in the too-warm kitchen. Whatever the reason, I’m very aware of his nearness.
And then, he steps away.
I’m left alone at my workstation. I look down at the worktop for a moment and get to work wiping and cleaning, making a couple of trips back and forth to the sink.
Why would Thomas Golden want to help me? I guess it’s not much of a challenge for him when I’m failing so badly.
