Page 29 of Stolen Princess

He grabs a laminated menu that’s wedged between a salt and pepper shaker and looks it over. I snatch it from him and do the same.

“We’ll both have the fish and chips,” he orders in French before I can do it myself. “And…” He eyes me up and down before a grin curls up his lips. “She’ll have a French 75, and I’ll have a Grolsch. And keep the drinks coming.”

“I don’t have champagne,” the man replies.

“Right. Improvise then.”

The guy goes to make us our drinks, and I spin on my stool to Rhys. “What’s a French 75?”

He spins to me, our knees brushing as they slide past each other, but now one of mine is between his legs and one of his is between mine, and we’re face-to-face. “It’s sweet and girlie. Like you. You’ll like it.”

“What if I wanted the grilled chicken sandwich and wine?”

He shakes his head. “In a place like this, you should only have hard alcohol and food that’s fried or way overcooked.”

“You’re having a beer?”

“It comes from an unopened bottle. Safer that way.”

I squint. “Suddenly you’re protective?”

He shrugs. “We’re sharing a bathroom tonight, princess. The last thing I want you to have is food poisoning. Besides, if you die of salmonella, I won’t get my necklace.”

“If this is the real world, I’m not impressed.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“No,” I argue. “You tried to tell me it was all peaches and ice cream and not violent or sketchy.”

He mulls this over for a moment. “It’s honestly somewhere in between. But for now, we’re keeping a low profile.”

I grin cheekily at him. “I don’t have to. I’m not a notorious thief.”

He tugs on the end of my braid that sits just above my waist. “Humor me for tonight.”

“Sure thing, Kevin.”

“For a caged animal, you’re very feisty. And have a lot of mood swings.”

I wink. “I’m not caged anymore.” And depression and loneliness can be a bitch like that, but I’m working it. I’m here. Despite the restaurant and food choice and the bed situation, I’ve never felt more alive.

His lips twitch. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

Our drinks arrive, and mine is in a pretty high glass with a narrow mouth and is as pink as the shirt I’m wearing. I slide it across the bar and peer up at the bartender.

“Thank you.”

He nods. “I added cranberry juice.”

I’m not sure what that means, but maybe it was instead of champagne. “What’s your name?” I ask him.

“Masters.”

“Wow, that’s a seriously fantastic name. Thank you, Masters. This looks great. But curiosity question, on a scale of one to ten, how strong would you say this is?”

He eyes me as if he’s not sure how to respond.

“I need honesty, not bullshit. This is my first time in a bar, and my boyfriend here thinks I’m a wimp and can’t hold my liquor.”