She turned the torn envelope inside out. Nothing.
She peered again at the neat, grammatically perfect script. Could a five-year-old write this? Penelope was exceptional for her age. Maybe her father had helped her? Maybe he had written it? But wouldn’t he have signed it too?
But he hadn’t. She was back at square one. Literally. She’d walked the two blocks from the school to the pie shop and now stood on the street where she and Leo had first met.
She waited for the walk sign, looking up and down at the cars stopped at the light. There were no dragon cleaning trucks in sight. No royal town cars, either. It was safe to cross.
Esme pushed through the pie shop doors. She needed a savory treat and fast. But she came up short once inside.
A familiar dark head leaned his body against the counter. His dark hair lay in haphazard waves on his regal head. His hazel eyes sparkled with delight, but also a hint of mischief. He turned and gave Esme a brilliant smile that would’ve dazzled the common woman. Esme was unfazed.
“Your majesty.” Esme stopped before the royal figure and executed an awkward bow.
“No,” said Prince Alexander. “I’m not majestic. Just highness. But please, don’t call me that out in public here in America. It’s just Alex amongst friends.”
Friends? When had that happened? He’d barely spoken a few sentences to her.
“What are you doing here, Alex?” Esme looked around. But there was no dark haired king tucked away in any of the pie shop’s booths.
“I’m trying to convince our other friend here to enter a pie making contest.”
“Pie making contest?” Esme looked to Jan and couldn’t help but smile.
The two women stood before a real live prince, a charming one at that. But neither of them were swooning. Not Esme, because she had other interests. Not Jan, because she had no interest.
With Jan’s history, Esme seriously doubted the pie maker would ever find herself in another relationship that didn’t involve blended butter and dough. If Prince Alex was looking to get Jan’s help by using something other than his magnetic personality, it wouldn’t hold, because Jan was not attracted.
“As you know, bisteeva is the national dish of Cordoba,” he laid out the facts. “There’s an annual pie making contest happening this weekend. It comes with major bragging rights for the winner.”
“You want me to give you my recipe?” asked Jan.
“No, no,” Alex laughed. “I can’t cook in the competition.”
“Why not?” asked Jan. Her right eyebrow tilted up in suspicion as though she smelled something foul. Since being left at the altar a couple years ago, Jan had developed a truly infallible bologna meter.
“I …” The Prince of Cordoba faltered, looking unsure of himself probably for the first time in his life.
“From the five-minute conversation we just had,” said Jan, “you seem to certainly know your way around food.”
“I do.” He smiled, almost sheepishly. And in the same instant, the sheep went home, and the roguish wolf came back out to play. “But I can’t enter the contest. I’m a prince. So each year, I scour the globe to find the best pastry chef to enter this competition. I had Joseph Hayden lined up but—”
“Joseph Hayden?” Jan’s skeptical facade slipped, and her eyes went as wide as a pie tin. “James Beard award-winning chef Joseph Hayden?”
Like a fisherman who knew he had hooked something on his line, Alex leaned closer and tugged. “After tasting your pie the other day, I called and told him I’d found my ringer.”
“Me?” Jan pressed her hand to her chest. “I’m your ringer?”
“But of course, if you don’t feel up to it …” Alex leaned back and shoved his hands in his pockets. His eyes fell to Esme. “And of course, your friend can come too.”
Oh, he was good. He was very good. So good that Esme danced on his string and pulled Jan aside.
“You know we’re going,” she said.
“I
can’t leave the country,” said Jan. “I have a business to run. Besides, neither of us can afford it.”
“Did I mention it’s at no expense to either of you,” said Alex. “I’ll fly you out for the weekend. You can stay in the castle as my guest.”