The Prince and the Pie Maker

  The Prince and the Pie Maker

  The Rebel Royals Book 2

  Shanae Johnson

  Copyright © 2019, Ines Johnson. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the author.

  * * *

  Edited by Alyssa Breck

  * * *

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition March 2019

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Shanae Johnson

  Chapter One

  The duck was overcooked, though no one mentioned it. Instead, every dinner guest continually raised their forks to their mouths with polite grimaces of appreciation. The potatoes were seasoned well-enough with pimentón. Although at the center, a few spuds were raw. The greens had been braised in a sauce peppered with azafrán and comino. But many stalks were soggy.

  The Spanish spices hadn’t hidden the flaws. Especially not for a palate that had savored the paprika fruit straight from the vine in its native land of Mexico. Furthermore, the strong metallic notes of the saffron hinted that the flowers had been harvested far from its Mediterranean roots. And the cumin seeds, which had a distinct warming flavor when plucked from its native soil in Iran, were decidedly lukewarm.

  The visiting Catalonian chef puffed up his chest as though he’d made a meal fit for a king. In truth, the King of Cordoba wore a smile that said he quite enjoyed the meal. But for the second son of Cordoba, the meal lacked a certain innovation and fusion that the worldly prince had grown accustomed to.

  Prince Alexander had traveled the world over in search of the perfect bite of food. There wasn’t a plant he hadn’t tried, a spice he couldn’t stomach, nor a part of an animal he wouldn’t take a bite out of. Alex’s years of culinary adventure and exploration had been the envy of, and later the model of, the likes of a certain travel chef that also had no reservations.

  The fare at the palace state dinner was fine, which was great for fine dining. But Alex knew that food could be an adventure. Too bad he wasn’t let into the castle’s main kitchen. From an early age, his parents had frowned at his culinary skill and later outright banned him from the scullery. Sitting at the dining table as the doors to the kitchen opened and closed Alex felt like a duck. On the surface, he was calm, cool, and collected; the perfect prince charming for the guests seated around him. But, if anyone poked their head beneath the surface, they’d see his foot tapping out an anxious rhythm.

  Alex wanted to return to the small kitchenette in his wing of the castle and grab a few ingredients. With his spices in tow, he wanted to go into the main kitchen and add a dash of cane sugar to the potatoes. He wanted to replace the water in the pot of greens with grapeseed oil to compliment the warm notes of the saffron and cumin. He wished he could’ve taken the meat out just a few minutes early.

  But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Just like the tough skin on the duck, Alex had learned to toughen up and hide behind a brawny exterior that sheltered a complex interior.

  The clinking of glasses brought Alex’s attention around. He watched as his brother, King Leonidas stood to address his gathered guests.

  Like Alex, Leo was dressed in partial regalia. A suit and his sash and medals, but not his crown. The royals only brought that out for formal events, and this was just one of many state dinners.

  Alex’s presence wasn’t mandatory. He’d come because he wanted to try the fare of the Spanish chef. So far, he was underwhelmed and wished he’d stayed upstairs and prepared his own meal.

  “It has been a momentous couple of months for our great nation,” said Leo. “We have forged a new partnership that has already put many Cordovians back to work.”

  Leo nodded to the Spanish Duchess who had almost been Alex’s new sister-in-law. Lady Teresa smiled back at her almost-been fiancé. Though she hadn’t gained a crown, Lady Teresa had no hard feelings. Her partnership with the country would net her millions, and that was far more of a dream come true than marrying royalty for a modern woman such as her.

  Leo turned to his right and gazed down at the love of his life. “And soon, I will solidify my greatest partnership, and Cordoba will have a new queen.”

  Esme gazed back up at her fiancé, the same look of love in her eyes. The two looked at each other as though they were a three course dessert meal.

  Far from what was believed of him, the sight of true love didn’t turn Alex’s stomach. His heart was overjoyed to see his brother in such a state of bliss. It just wasn’t something Alex ever cared to experience for himself.

  He could never understand having the same meal twice in a row. So why would he ever have the same woman more than once? There were so many new dishes to try, new food combinations to mix, new spices to add to the side dishes. It would take a lifetime to try them all, and that’s exactly what Alex wanted to do with his life. Spice it up every day.

  “And here’s to my future husband,” said Esme, “the love of my life, the slayer of dragons, the king of my dreams brought into reality.”

  There was an uncomfortable clearing of throats around the room. Royals and dignitaries weren’t accustomed to showing emotion in public. But Esme was neither royal nor Cordovian. One of the many reasons Alex liked her so much. That and her flairs for the colorful, fairytale dramatics she brought into the once starch-white palace.

  “Hear, hear.” Alex raised his glass and spoke into the wary silence.

  Leo chuckled and followed suit. He clinked glasses with the queen of his heart and sipped, never taking his eyes off her. Soon, the others around the table raised their glass to the unconventional toast.

  Esme was growing on the country. She’d visited a school and publicly gave advice. But instead of being affronted, the teachers actually listened to her ideas. Penelope was entirely in love with her soon to be stepmother, and the two were often gallivanting about the castle looking for fairies or other nonsensical creatures in the corners. Alex joined them a time or two and had great fun. But what he loved most about his new family member was the smile Esme put on his brother’s often serious face.

  Yes, Esme was good for the country. She was changing things for the better. Forcing people to update their views on how things should be done and what could be. Unfortunately, Esme’s perceptions hadn’t colored every part of the kingdom.

  “I’m surprised you’ve been here so long, your highness,” said the Duke of Ebra. “You’re typically off at some party or concert with a super model or two.”

  That wasn’t entirely false. Alex did party but typically when said party was at a restaurant with a dish he wanted to try. Concerts were less his thing. It was more and more the food trucks parked outside the concerts that were Alex’s jam. He’d stopped dating supermodels years ago when they demurred from w
anting to go out to restaurants and try fat-filled, full cream, carb-loaded dishes without substitutions. Alex loathed any diner with the gall to ask a chef to change his or her vision for the food put on the plate.

  The duke continued without waiting for Alex’s reply. Few people were actually interested in his replies. Most had a prescribed opinion of the Prince of Cordoba, and they had no interest in substitutions where Alex was concerned.

  “You must be glad your brother has found a bride,” said the duke. “Otherwise, the duties of state would’ve fallen to you if he had no male heir.”

  “That is a rule my brother is looking to change,” said Alex. “Gender will no longer be a requirement of succession. So, the country is quite safe from my rule.”

  The duke jerked back with distaste at the announcement. He looked down the table to where Leo leaned over and spoke into Esme’s ear. “Still, I suppose you will be marrying soon, regardless. Your brother can change the laws of succession, but he can’t change the terms of your inheritance.”

  “Who shall the lucky girl be?” The Viscount of Jucar joined in on the conversation.

  “I had believed Lady Brie of Baetica was your intended,” said the duke.

  Alex carved a piece of the duck and placed it into his mouth. Still as chewy as dry steak. He reached past his wine glass for his mug and sipped his tea. He knew he wasn’t needed for the conversation.

  People talked about him. People talked over him. People talked behind his back all his life.

  No one bothered to find out what he really thought, what he actually did, or who he truly was. It was far more interesting to categorize him as the playboy prince or the restless spare. It was a role thrust upon him by the media. He’d been content to play it so long as it afforded him a place at the various tables around the world where he could try new and exciting dishes. The attention from the women hovering about his chair was nice, so long as they didn’t interrupt until the last bite.

  The talk about him continued around the table. As always, Alex wasn’t interested. His attention was on the chocolate dessert being placed on the table. Just one whiff of the sweet concoction and he was disappointed. He knew before he bit into it that the moist block of cake that it would be a saccharin soiree.

  Sugar needed a partner to temper it. He wished the cook had added cayenne to the dessert. It would’ve given it a mighty and unexpected kick. Alex had learned that trick from an unassuming baker. Her food had packed a punch; a punch he could still taste on the tip of his tongue.

  Jan had been the only chef whose dish he’d wanted to try again and again. It was because she added another spice to her leftovers before the second helping. She’d be back in a few weeks for the wedding festivities. Esme had insisted that her best friend bake the pies for the wedding. Alex’s mouth watered in anticipation.

  Alex pushed the dessert to the side. “Would you gentlemen excuse me?”

  Everyone around him nodded but made no plea for him to stay. No one expected him to sit still. They expected him to go off and make a ruckus that they would read about in tomorrow’s papers and then say they were with him before it happened.

  “Where are you off to?” asked Leo as Alex made his way toward the exit.

  “Devilry and debauchery are calling, so I must heed it.”

  Leo shook his head but said nothing. Alex knew that Leo was the one soul he could count on in this world. But he also knew that even Leo couldn’t see, or simply wasn’t interested in, Alex’s true nature.

  Esme reached out and opened her arms to Alex. Alex went willingly, uncaring of the unfashionable display of emotion that royals were not supposed to engage in. Hugging his soon to be sister-in-law in front of a room of dignitaries would be frowned on. Which should have been reason enough for Alex to do it. But he simply liked the affection Esme showed openly.

  “Don’t burn anything down.” She winked at him.

  He’d only known Esme for a month. But he was certain the former teacher knew exactly what he was up to.

  “I make no promises,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

  He didn’t head out. He headed to his apartments in the castle. Nestled in his private quarters, Alex had had a state-of-the-art kitchen installed for his eighteenth birthday.

  He opened his fridge. There were no leftovers inside the chilled box. Alex didn’t believe in leftovers. He made just enough food for himself. He never cooked for anyone. Aside from Jan. But he had assisted her in her vision, not his own

  He pulled out the ingredients for a chocolate cake. He made sure to put in a pinch of cayenne. While he waited for the cake to bake, he pulled out a notebook.

  It was the plans for a restaurant. There were schematics for the kitchen and seating area along with a menu of fusion foods from his travels far and away. It was just a dream, but one he liked to indulge in from time to time.

  He’d spoken the dream aloud exactly once. But the girl he’d told his vision to had frowned at him, and Alex had dropped the subject immediately. He planned never to speak of it again. But there he was looking at the plans and thinking of her.

  The oven timer went off, and Alex pulled out the tray. Ever impatient, he sliced into the dish before letting it cool. He did take heed to blow on the morsel on his fork before plopping it into his mouth.

  And, it was perfect. Sweet and spicy with a kick. The kick landed in his gut and urged him into motion. It asked what if?

  What if he did put this plan into motion? What if he did open up this restaurant? What if he did live out his dream?

  It was the sight of this morning’s paper that cooled the fervor and left a bitter taste in his mouth. The morning headlines read N’heir Do Well: The Cost of Prince Alex’s Wayward Ways.

  It was an exposé detailing what the cost of his travels and gallivanting were costing the citizens of Cordoba. It was all lies. People wrote what they wanted to believe about him. There were times Alex believed it himself. Most of Alex’s trips were comped by the ones who invited him. They earned more from him showing his face than the cost of his lodgings and food, and Alex was only ever there for the food.

  Aside from his travels, Alex spent little to no money of the allowance allotted him. He didn’t have expensive tastes unless it came to food. The restaurant was the biggest expense he would ever incur, and he was not about to put that bill on taxpayers.

  He took another bite of the cake. The sweetness stuck to the roof of his mouth, but the spice hit him again in the gut. What if?

  He looked down at his plans again. What if he did open his restaurant? He’d be the restless heir no more. The tabloids would have to find another story to write about him, and they likely would. But he wouldn’t care because he’d spend the day in a real kitchen. He’d craft menus to take his diners’ taste buds on the journeys he’d traveled. He’d open up a world of culinary adventure all while seated at a table.

  What if?

  Chapter Two

  As easy as pie was a misnomer. Jan Peppers knew that from a young age. Pie making was an exact and precise art.

  She kept all ingredients, including the flour, in the freezer. Keeping the different ingredients as cold as possible was her number one rule. The colder, the better.

  The fruit was cold. The water she leveled off in the measuring cup was ice cold. The butter was cold. Fat worked best in cold.

  Jan shivered in the walk-in freezer at the back of her kitchen. Her slim body had hardly any ounces of fat beneath her pale skin. No matter how much she ate, she couldn’t seem to keep any of the calories on her trim frame. The fat just never stuck by her. Probably because she treated it so well in the kitchen and preferred to bake with as much of it being present as possible instead of substituting it out for insane imitations like coconut, or avocado, or applesauce.

  The thought of the fruit substitute made her shiver. Jan balanced the ingredients in two arms. She kicked the door closed behind her and began her assembly.

  That fact that fat liked to hang
around her but not on her had won her few female friends in high school and college. Her fellow bakers often cast her a side eye. No one trusted skinny cooks, especially a dough-slinging pastry chef. Even her customers were wary. Until they sat at a table with her and had their first forkful of what she pulled out of the oven.

  The vents over the range filled the oven with the honeyed smell of heated fruits, the earthy smell of savory spices, and the warm, lusty smell of freshly baked dough. Jan pulled the golden brown concoction out of the oven just as the bell over her shop door dinged. The shop was already filled with her regular lunch hour customers. They’d all paused the moment the fresh pie came out of the oven, and its lush scent filled the small shop.

  The pie shop opened at seven for breakfast pies. There was only one slice of Jan’s famous maple bacon breakfast pie left, and Mr. Fitz was eying that from the far end of the counter as he finished his second slice. Today’s special was a Tourte Milanese with layers of ham, Swiss cheese, and bell pepper. Only Jan had put a spin on the Italian dish and added a nod to Japan with yuzu citrus. The lemony fruit made a few of her customers pucker and then grin with surprised delight.

  “Good afternoon, Chef Peppers,” said Mr. Dalton, a regular who’d been coming to the shop since it opened three years ago.

  “Hey, Mr. Dalton. Your usual?”

  “You know me.” He grinned, taking his usual seat, at his usual table, and going through his usual machinations of unfolding his napkin and wiping off the fork and knife she sat before him.