The Crown Prince's Bride (Royal Duology 2)

Then he smiled gently. “I mean, we can’t have you run-down. We can’t manage this office without you.”

And poof. Flicker extinguished. Replaced by a huge weight of guilt that she was thinking of doing just that—leaving the office and palace business to someone else. God, she was going to have an ulcer if she kept this up.

She dutifully took a triangle of sandwich from the plate and nibbled on it. “I’ll be fine, really.”

“Maybe you should take tomorrow off.”

She was in the middle of chewing and started to laugh, and lifted her fingers to her mouth to both cover the awkward moment and to avoid spitting out any sandwich. How mortifying. “Two days before the wedding? Not likely.”

“After the wedding, then. Some rest and relaxation. You haven’t taken a vacation in months.”

Of course not. Because Ceci had died and everything had been in an uproar. Raoul had needed everyone to be behind him. And then there was the whole Diego and Rose fiasco, and firing Diego’s assistant, and training someone new. It had been nearly a year and the only time she’d taken off was three days over the Christmas holidays.

A vacation sounded heavenly. And also impossible. It also distracted her from the fact that she was currently actively looking for other employment.

“We’ll see, shall we?” She sat back and took a bite of lemon tart. She was just brushing the crumbs off her blouse when a footman appeared with the tourism minister just behind him.

And she had crumbs on her fingers and a mouth full of pastry.

Raoul stepped into the gap and greeted Señora Munoz personally. “Julia. How lovely to see you again. I’ve ordered tea. Please come in.” He actually took the cart and wheeled it himself. But then, the Navarro men weren’t always sticklers for protocol. In fact, other than the very proper and appropriate Cecilia, the Navarro men had a habit of loving in surprising places. Except Raoul. He was the rule follower. The “what’s best for Marazur” member of the family. It had been good—for Marazur. Not so good for Raoul’s personal life.

When they were gone, she

leaned back in her chair and finished the lemon tart. No one did pastry like Señora Ortiz. Between that and the sandwich, she was starting to feel remotely human again. Which was good because she still had several hours of work left before she could go home for the night.

The tourism minister left at six. Raoul went back into his office and then came back out again, frowning at her. “You should go home,” he advised, his eyes dark with concern.

“I will. I don’t have much more,” she lied. “See? I have everything on a schedule. Just a few more items to cross off.” She turned her computer monitor toward him, then back again. What she had showed him was only one page of her task list.

“I’m off to have dinner with the family. Why don’t you join us?”

Her horrified reaction must have shown on her face because Raoul’s frown eased and he laughed a little. “We don’t bite, you know.”

A staff member—no matter how “friendly”—simply did not have dinner with the family.

“No, thank you, sir,” she said quietly, turning back to her screen. “I’m fine.” She was tired and yes, a little cranky. The idea of sitting in the massive dining room with Raoul and the king and Diego and Rose and Raoul’s children . . . it was too much.

“Lucy arrives tomorrow. Maybe she’ll be able to convince you to take it easy.”

Stephani looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. She loved Raoul’s half sister, but Lucy’s energy wasn’t always of the relaxing variety. “I doubt it.”

Raoul laughed then, and put a hand in his pocket. “Suit yourself. Please leave at a reasonable time, though. Burnout is a real thing, Steph.”

She nodded quickly, wishing he’d leave already. She didn’t want him to see that little tears had pricked the corners of her eyes at his concern.

And it was time she admitted that she’d never stay this late or go the extra mile quite this much for anyone other than Raoul. He needed her, and so she stayed. At great cost to herself.

* * *

Raoul carefully carried the tray that Señora Ortiz had prepared for him. He’d known Stephani for many, many years. And he knew when she was lying. Tonight, when she’d said she was almost ready to go home, she’d been lying. The look on her face when he’d asked her to join them for dinner had been as honest as it could get. She’d been startled and intimidated by the very idea.

Since she was perfectly comfortable with the family, he figured there was only one reason for her reaction. She was stressed and tired, and rightfully so. If she wouldn’t come to dinner, he’d take dinner to her.

Sure enough, she was still sitting at her desk, squinting at the computer screen, the soft click of her mouse absurdly loud in the silent office.

“Steph,” he said, and she jumped, her mouse flying onto the floor as she gasped in alarm.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” What he’d said about burnout earlier seemed more and more likely, from the look on her face. “I brought you dinner.”