Page 74 of That Prince is Mine
It only took some light conversation to reveal that Steven was as softspoken and gentle-mannered as Jeremy was… not. Jeremy wasn’t as irritating as he’d been that night at the Korean barbecue restaurant, but Michel wouldn’t go so far as to say he was undeniably charming, as Emma claimed.
“He grows on you,” Steven said as though he’d read his mind. He and Michel stood off to the side watching Emma and Jeremy bicker.
Michel smiled sheepishly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“I couldn’t stand him at first,” the other man confided with perfect serenity, taking a sip from his sweating bottle of beer. “But now I can’t imagine life without him.”
“Congratulations.” He felt an unexpected stab of envy at Steven’s certainty—certainty that he wouldn’t have to imagine a life without Jeremy. But for Michel, there were still so many what-ifs. Maybe it was time he changed that. “Your fiancé is a lucky man.”
“Yes, he is.” Steven grinned. “Thank you.”
They watched in amicable silence as Jeremy and Emma snarled insults at each other with ruthless affection. The two pseudo-siblings reminded Michel of himself and his cousin—but without any modicum of civility. God, he even loved this alarmingly vicious side to Emma. She was—His breath got lodged between his throat and lungs. When he couldn’t inhale, he tried exhaling, but that didn’t work either.
I love her.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but the realization slammed into him with the force of a wrecking ball. He was in love with Emma—the kind of earth-shattering, life-altering love that he’d always dreamed about. The kind of love he’d hoped to find—a love more important than duty. But it also terrified him. What if Emma didn’t love him the way he loved her? What if she wouldn’t have him? He was in love with her, and it rendered him utterly helpless.
“If you don’t behave, Steven’s going to find out all about your emo phase.” Emma walked away from her godbrother, wagging a warning finger at him. “Come on, Michel. Let’s go get some food.”
She grabbed his hand and sprinted toward the taco cart before Steven finished saying, “What emo phase?”
“Aren’t you afraid of reprisal?” Michel teased, tucking away his epiphany to a corner of his mind. It was too new, too bright, too overwhelming to face right now.
“Not at all.” Panic flashed across her pretty face, and she gulped audibly. “My life’s an open book.”
“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,” Michel said dubiously, which earned him a pinch on the arm. He laughed. “You were right, by the way.”
“Of course I was.” Her shoulders relaxed at the change of subject. “About what?”
“We’re having tacos, right?” He brushed his thumb across the dimple by her mouth. “It’ll be a first for me.”
“You’ll love it. Just follow my lead.” She winked at him before going up to the grill. She greeted the busy chef with easy familiarity. “Hey, Jorge. How are the kids?”
“Getting big. Too big,” the young man said with a wide grin. His hands didn’t stop moving as he manned the grill with two metal spatulas. “The usual for you?”
“You know it.” Emma held out her plate as the chef filled palm-size tortillas with mounds of chopped meat. The aroma of grilled meat and spices made Michel’s mouth water. “And how’s your sister doing?”
“Busy with the restaurant.” Jorge lined her plate with three tacos. “We don’t do too many parties these days, but anything for Soo, you know?”
“You guys are absolute gems,” Emma said with an earnest smile, her eyebrows drawing together. “We’re lucky to have you.”
Following her lead, Michel asked Jorge for one of each—which turned out to be three street tacos with carne asada, al pastor, and chicken. Emma translated that carne asada was skirt steak, al pastor was pork, and chicken was well… chicken, all marinated and grilled to perfection.
“How are you with heat?” At a side table lined with condiments, Emma paused with her spoon poised over an ominous-looking red sauce with flecks of black inside.
“Define heat.” He let his eyes drop suggestively to her lips.
“If you don’t behave, I’m not helping you anymore.” She stuck her nose in the air even as she blushed.
Michel chuckled. “I don’t eat spicy food often, but I think I can tolerate quite a bit of heat.”
“Hmm.” She pulled her mouth to the side as she thought. “Well, okay. The red salsa is the spiciest, and I like it with my carne asada. The green sauce is spicy, but not nuclear level, and it’s good with both the al pastor and the chicken.”
After drizzling her tacos with salsa, she sprinkled some chopped onion and cilantro on top and piled some sliced radishes and marinated jalapeños on the side of the plate. She was a born teacher, guiding him every step of the way. Glancing at her plate from time to time, he dressed his tacos, if not with confidence, with curiosity and excitement.
“Last but not least, the beverages.” Emma flourished her hands toward two coolers. It looked as though one held iced tea and the other milk but with ice. “We have tamarindo and horchata.”
When Michel stared blankly at her, she laughed and said, “Tamarindo is a sweet and tart drink—it tastes a little bit like plum to me—and horchata is basically rice milk with sugar and cinnamon.”
