Page 91 of That Prince is Mine
“Um… I…” Emma shook off her melancholy and nodded with some enthusiasm. “That actually sounds like a great idea. I could invite my friends here for a cooking party and give all the stations a workout. That is… if you’re okay with that, Mr. Goo.”
“I see no problem with it as long as you clean up after yourselves,” Mr. Goo said magnanimously, but he had the expression of a man who had hooked his prize fish. “This kitchen will perform like a dream. I’ll just go and prepare the leasing papers now.”
“Cocky bastard.” Her dad chuckled and slapped his friend on the back.
“I’ll let you know the date and time as soon as I put the party together.” Emma bowed from her waist. “Thank you, Mr. Goo.”
“No need for that.” He waved aside her gratitude. “I told you this was purely for selfish reasons.”
Emma didn’t believe that. Mr. Goo was a generous man and a good friend to her dad. She was very fortunate. She felt guilty that she wasn’t giddy with excitement. Maybe she was just worried about Michel after Sophie’s texts earlier. Yes, that must be it.
She said goodbye to her dad and Mr. Goo, who needed to hurry to make their tee time, and walked to her car. Instead of driving home, she took out her cell phone. It wasn’t like Michel to get plastered in the middle of the day. She hoped he was okay.
Emma:
How are you feeling?
No dots scrolled along the screen. She pulled into the afternoon traffic and headed home, unease gnawing at her insides. She didn’t have any lessons this evening, so she was on her own for the first time in a long while. The prospect of being alone with her thoughts made her brittle with nerves.
Emma dropped her purse on the entryway console and automatically headed toward the kitchen on slippered feet. It was past five o’clock, so she should start prepping for dinner, but the thought of cooking didn’t tempt her tonight. Her stomach lurched with a sense of wrongness. She waved aside her panic. She didn’t have to want to cook every night—even though she always wanted to cook, especially when something was bothering her.
Refusing to overthink her odd mood, she retrieved her purse and trudged up the stairs to her room. She checked her phone—no reply from Michel—and dropped it on top of her dresser. Her lack of sleep from the night before must be catching up with her.
She got a bath started, sprinkling in a generous amount of her favorite jasmine bubble bath, and went back to her room to change into a robe. The water was almost ready when she returned to the bathroom. She lit the votive candles around the tub, then blew out the long match, watching the smoke curl around the blackened tip.
Emma soaked in her bath until all the bubbles disappeared and the water turned lukewarm. She dried off listlessly and found herself rushing back to her bedroom. She’d left her cell phone in her room on purpose so she wouldn’t spend her entire bath staring at the screen, willing a text to arrive from Michel. But she lunged for her phone as soon as she walked into her bedroom, hands scrambling. Nothing.
Why would Michel get drunk in the middle of the day? Something had to be wrong, right? Was it her? Was it them? Suddenly, she was ticked off. What the hell was wrong with him? Forget it. She wasn’t doing this. Tonight, she decided, was going to be all about self-care.
First, she needed comfort food, but she didn’t feel like making anything elaborate, so ramyeon it was. Using the spiciest gochugaru she had stored in the freezer, she rendered the chili powder in some avocado oil. Next, she cut two cloves of garlic into paper-thin slices and chopped a stalk of green onion. Preparation complete, she boiled a packet of Shin Ramyeon with a poached egg, adding the sliced garlic to the broth. When the noodles were cooked to al dente perfection and the egg was just hard enough to still be runny in the middle, she turned off the stove and finished the ramyeon with a drizzle of chili oil and a handful of chopped green onions.
She ate her ramyeon with her eyes watering from the heat, slurping the noodles fast and loud. She didn’t even think she was hungry, but she picked up her bowl and drank the last drop of the soup within ten minutes.
“Ahh.” She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Eating spicy food was the best stress buster.
Her mouth still tingled from the heat even after she finished washing the dishes, so Emma scooped herself a giant bowl of vanilla ice cream before heading to the living room. She sank down on the couch and clicked on the TV. She planned to top off the evening by rewatching Coco. She was going to cry like a baby when Miguel sang “Remember Me” to Mama Coco. There was no better self-care than a nice, long cry.
Emma was lost in Mama Imelda’s soulful rendition of “La Llorona” when her cell phone dinged from the coffee table. She almost didn’t check her phone, but she paused the movie with an aggrieved groan.
Michel:
I’m feeling mortified but otherwise fine.
All her forgotten worries rushed back to her.
Emma:
Is everything okay?
Michel:
Yes, of course.
His response was suspiciously fast.
Emma:
I thought something was wrong…
