La Petite Jetée cafe
Bellacorde, Ondarion
The waitress came to the table in a frilly dress with a cutesy apron, the kind with lace trim and tiny embroidered lavender and grapes. Somehow it still looked legit — maybe because everything in Bellacorde smelled faintly of espresso, sea breeze, and warm stone. She smiled politely at my dad, who sat directly across from her, reached for her small notepad and pen, then smiled at everyone while talking. My mom. My sisters Charlotte and Caroline. Luc. Briony. And… me.
“Bonjour, bienvenue à La Petite Jetée en la belle Bellacorde. Are you ready to…” She paused. Just a fraction too long. “…order.”
The café was small — terracotta tiles and soft yellow walls visible through the open archway behind us, a chalkboard menu written in looping cursive hanging just inside. The hum of an old ceiling fan mixed with the clatter of cups behind the counter, drifting out to the terrace. Outside, where we sat, the summer sun warmed the stone patio, softened by the shade of a pale canvas canopy. Flowering shrubs and neatly trimmed hedges framed the seating area, and the faint scent of rosemary drifted from nearby planters. And right now she probably couldn’t work out what shocked her more: the Sovereign Prince and his wife at one of her outdoor tables, or seeing me sitting next to them after not having heard from me in several months.
She stared at me. Then at Luc. Then back at me.
Luc cleared his throat politely, breaking whatever spell she and I were under.
She instantly dropped into something that was probably meant to be a curtsy — more like a startled squat.
“Votre Altesse Sérénissime.”
“Oh please, none of that is necessary. Mademoiselle, please…” Luc reached gently for her elbow.
She jerked like he’d electrocuted her, letting out a tiny yelp that made the couple at the next table look over.
Luc rose quickly, which made the security stationed discreetly around us twitch — a ripple of movement, hands shifting toward earpieces. One small hand gesture from him relaxed them. Then he bowed down to Élodie, lowering himself with the kind of grace that made half the café gasp.
“Mademoiselle Marceau, je suis désolé de vous avoir effrayée. My deepest apologies.”
“You… know… mon nom?” Élodie was so confused she mixed languages without noticing, her accent thickening with panic.
“Mais oui. My brother‑in‑law Nathaniel speaks of nothing but you, Mademoiselle.”
Élodie stared at him, trembling. “Brozzer‑in‑law? Nathaniel you… you… are… non. NON! C’est impossible! Tu te moques de moi!”
Luc lifted his hands slightly, his voice warm and steady.
“Non, Mademoiselle… je comprends. Cela ressemble à une mauvaise plaisanterie du destin, vraiment. Mais je vous assure que ce n’est pas une moquerie. Ce n’est pas un jeu. C’est simplement la vérité.”
[No, Miss… I understand. It feels like a cruel joke of fate, really. But I assure you, it’s not mockery. It’s not a game. It’s simply the truth.]
He offered her a gentle, reassuring smile before continuing with perfect composure:
“Mais oui, Mademoiselle Marceau, my beautiful wife is indeed Monsieur Nathaniel’s sister. As are these two lovely ladies, Charlotte and Caroline. And of course, this is my stunning mother‑in‑law and Nathaniel’s mother, Briar Rose, and my wonderful and incredibly brilliant father‑in‑law in our hearts, who may not be my bride’s father by blood, but by choice and love, from both of us and our beautiful daughter.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “I am sorry. I thought this would explain it all quicker and better than I could. Plus, you probably wouldn’t have believed me.”
“Briar Rose… Cameron? The singer?” Her voice cracked. “Oh mon Dieu, my brozzer and I are your biggest fans. YOU are Nathaniel’s maman?”
Mom smiled warmly, her bracelets chiming softly as she leaned forward. “I am. And he didn’t exaggerate. You are such a beautiful young lady. No wonder he is obsessed with you.”
“I don’t know what to say… or do…” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Dad, all practical, lifted his menu. “How about you take our order?”
“Oui… c’est bon.” She nodded, pulling up her pad and pen with hands that were definitely shaking.
She took our order and ran off, nearly colliding with a waiter carrying a tray of croissants.
I turned to Dad. “Seriously? You make her serve us?”
“Son, that is why she is here. Makes her feel normal.”
“I don’t think normal is in her vocabulary right now, Dad. I’ll be right back.”
I jumped up and ran after her. The hallway behind the café was narrow and smelled like coffee grounds, dish soap, and the faint citrus cleaner they used on the tiles. A fan buzzed overhead, rattling slightly. I found her halfway between the guest bathrooms and the kitchen, right next to a storage room with a crooked sign.
She tried to dart into the kitchen, but I caught her elbow and turned her toward me. She looked like she was somewhere between crying and kneeing me in the balls.
“Elodie, I am sorry.”
“You should be! Who does zis!? No warning, and zen you are related to all zese famous people? To our Sovereign Prince!? Who are you, Nathaniel!?”
“That’s who. Nathaniel. That’s all.”
“If it isn’t Cameron instead, n’est‑ce pas?!”
“Okay, yes, another mistake. I explained that, I was nervous, and I apologized for that. I know this doesn’t look good, which is why I thought it would be better to show you rather than try and explain. Luc and Briony don’t normally just pop up in public like that, but they agreed this might be best. Would you have believed me without proof?”
She glared at me, eyes shining, still looking close to crying. The hallway light flickered above us, making her look even more furious and fragile at the same time.
“Where ’ave you been? I zhought you were tired of me or found a better girlfriend in université. I cry so much, and zhought I was so dumb to fall for a boy like you, a foreigner. All zose big words and big promises. And the lies. And zen you are just gone. I called and called, zinking you were ’urt. I was so worried about you. But no, NON, you are just fine, only forgot about me. And zen you just come ’ere with Votre Altesse Sérénissime Luc Beaumont and his wife and with Briar Rose like it’s nozing? You are insane. Or maybe it is me. Maybe we boz are insane!”
“I did NOT forget about you, obviously! And look how you reacted. Now you know why I didn’t say anything.”
“No, you said nozing because you do not trust me, you zhought I wanted to… uh … ummm … dig on your gold!” she huffed.
I tried so hard not to laugh, but it broke out anyway — a stupid stress‑laugh that echoed embarrassingly in the hallway.
She got angrier at first, then fought off a smile watching me lose it.
“How is zat funny?! It is NOT funny!”
“It’s golddigger, not digging on my gold,” I wheezed.
“What’s the difference?”
I laughed harder, and she couldn’t help giggling, watching me snort and wheeze like an idiot, while clearly still upset.
Suddenly, an authority‑figure voice boomed from the kitchen, sharp enough to make both of us jump.
«Élodie, ce n’est pas ta pause et je ne te paie pas pour flirter. Tu as des commandes en attente. Allez, allez, dépêche‑toi!»
She turned to me, cheeks flushed. “I ’ave to work.” With those words she pushed past me into the kitchen, the swinging door slapping shut behind her.
I returned to the terrace and ignored the looks I was getting. The warm summer air carried the smell of butter and espresso and embarrassment. Just as Mom opened her mouth to ask something, Élodie reappeared with a tray. She placed Their Serene Highnesses’ orders with another shaky curtsy, then Mom and Dad’s, then had to return for my sisters’ and mine.
She placed theirs, then my cake, and my café au lait. She lowered her tray and asked the table if everything was to satisfaction.
I answered too. She glared at me.
“Elodie… are we… good?”
Her eyes narrowed. She picked up my cup and poured it into my lap.
“Non, we are not good. But I feel better now!”
I didn’t. The coffee wasn’t very hot — too much milk — but it didn’t feel great having a mildly tepid wet crotch in public.
My sisters’ mouths fell open.
And that was when her boss saw it.
He had just stepped out onto the terrace carrying a tray of clean glasses. The moment he saw Élodie dump coffee into my lap — me, sitting right beside His Serene Highness Luc Beaumont — his face went sheet‑white.
“Élodie!” he shrieked, nearly dropping the tray. “What—what are you doing?! Mon Dieu—Votre Altesse Sérénissime, je suis terriblement désolé—”
Luc lifted a hand calmly, but the boss was already stumbling toward us, bowing so fast he nearly head‑butted the table.
“Pardon! Mille pardons! I—I assure you, Your Serene Highness, she will be disciplined immediately—”
“Hey!” I snapped, half rising. “It’s fine. I deserved it.”
The boss froze, horrified. He didn’t know who I was — but I was sitting with the Sovereign Prince and Princess Consort, which meant I had to be someone important. Someone he absolutely could not afford to offend.
“Monsieur—please—she cannot behave like this!” he sputtered. “This is unacceptable! You are seated with— with—” He gestured helplessly at Luc and Briony, who both looked politely bewildered.
“I said it’s fine,” I repeated. “Really. I am the one with the wet pants and I am telling you, it’s out of context and fine.”
But the boss was too panicked to hear anything.
“Élodie,” he barked, voice cracking, “Tu es renvoyée, là, tout de suite! You are fired. Effective immediately!”
The terrace went silent.
Élodie stared at him, stunned. Then her face flushed a furious red.
“You fire me? You fire me? For zis? For pouring lukewarm milk coffee on a boy who deserved it?!”
“Élodie—”
“No! Non! You do not fire me!” she shouted, voice rising. “I quit! Je démissionne, voilà !”
She tore off her apron, balled it up, and hurled it at his chest with such force he stumbled backward.
Gasps rippled across the terrace.
She turned to storm off, but the boss called after her, voice shrill with indignation:
“Et la robe ! L’uniforme appartient à La Petite Jetée !”
[And the dress! The uniform is property of La Petite Jetée!]
She stopped dead.
Slowly, she turned around, eyes blazing.
“Alors… take it back.”
And right there, a few feet from our table, she yanked the frilly café dress over her head in one furious motion. The visor — that stiff little hairband‑visor thing she hated — went next. She tore it off so hard the elastic snapped, and her bun collapsed instantly, dark hair tumbling down her back in a messy, furious wave.
She shook her head once, sharp and defiant, sending strands flying like she was shedding the entire job in one gesture.
Then she hurled the dress at him — full force — followed by the visor, which fluttered away awkwardly. When it didn’t land with the dramatic punch she wanted, she spat in the boss’s general direction, standing there in her underwear and her shoes, furious, humiliated, incandescent with rage.
For a heartbeat, the entire terrace froze.
A couple at the next table gasped so loudly their forks clattered.
A tourist walking past on the promenade stopped mid‑stride, sunglasses halfway off his face.
An older woman clutching a shopping bag muttered, « Mon Dieu… les jeunes… »
A teenage boy on a bike nearly crashed into a planter.
Someone dropped a spoon.
Someone else whispered, « C’est la serveuse…? »
The hum of conversation died like someone had turned off the sound.
Luc didn’t rise — he didn’t need to. Even seated, his presence carried enough weight to make the café owner flinch.
“Monsieur,” Luc began, voice calm and impeccably polite, “I am not a man who presumes to correct how another man conducts his business.”
He let the words settle, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
“But that,” he continued, tone softening into something far colder, “was hardly necessary.”
The café owner’s face went chalk‑white, then blotchy red, then something in between. He bowed so fast he nearly hit the edge of the table.
“Oh—Your Highness, Your Highness—non, non, it is nothing!” he babbled. “That is just a little dance we do. She will be angry today and back to work tomorrow.”
Charlotte mouthed Is he serious.
Caroline snorted.
Dad muttered, “If that is called a dance, then my teenagers and I should be Olympic‑level dancers by now.”
Elodie had bolted toward the docks, hair flying, cheeks flushed, shoes slapping against the warm pavement.
I jumped up and ran after her. What a visual that had to be — me with a coffee‑stained crotch in my light blue wash jeans chasing an angry girl in her underwear toward the harbor.
Everyone at the table saw it — the Sovereign Prince, Briony, my parents, my sisters.
Dad coughed on his coffee so hard he nearly inhaled it.
Mom’s eyes went huge, one hand flying to her chest.
Charlotte and Caroline froze mid‑bite, mouths open, forks suspended.
Luc politely averted his gaze.
Briony’s eyebrows climbed so high they practically touched her hairline.
Even the guards stationed discreetly around us stiffened, unsure whether to intervene or pretend they saw nothing.
The boss stood rooted to the spot, clutching the dress she’d thrown at him like it was radioactive.
And I kept running — because she was already halfway down the promenade, and I wasn’t about to lose her again.
Briony, dry as ever, murmured, “Well, at least she’s got fire in her. Nate’s not gonna complain of boredom with her.”
Mom nodded, sipping her coffee. “True. And she has a very nice figure. Ah, to be eighteen again.”
I caught up to Élodie near her boat, both of us out of breath, the harbor smelling like salt, diesel, and sun‑warmed ropes. I tried to wrap my jacket around her shoulders. She shoved me off so hard I stumbled.
“Leave me alone!”
“Elodie, please—”
“No! You embarrass me! You make me look like a fool in front of everyone! I ’ate zis! I ’ate YOU!”
She tore off her shoes, tossed them in the boat, then jumped into her boat, bare feet slapping against the fiberglass, and started yanking at the knot on the mooring line like she wanted to strangle it. I climbed in after her, but she shoved me back so hard I nearly went overboard.
“Elodie, stop—”
“No! You stop! You stop lying! You stop ’iding! You stop bringing princes into my café! Who does zat!? Tell me, WHO!?”
She pushed me again. I slipped. My foot hit the edge of the boat.
And I fell straight into the water.
The shock of cold hit me like a punch. The harbor wasn’t deep, but it was freezing. I went under, came up sputtering, hair plastered to my forehead.
She froze. Her anger cracked. Her face changed. She let out a strangled sound.
“Mon Dieu—Nathaniel!”
She dropped to her knees at the edge of the boat, reaching for me. I tried to grab the side, but my hand slipped again. She panicked.
“Hold on! Hold on!”
“I’m trying!”
“Pull yourself up, I can’t pull you in wizout your ’elp! You are terrible at zis!”
She leaned farther over the edge, grabbed the waistband of my jeans, and pulled with all her strength. I kicked, trying to help, but the boat rocked dangerously.
“Stop moving!” she yelled.
“You’re the one moving!”
“You fell in!”
“You pushed me!”
“I did not push you into ze water!”
“You pushed me toward it!”
“Zat is not ze same!”
The boat rocked again. She lost her balance and toppled halfway over the side, landing against me. Her forehead smacked mine.
“Ow!”
“Ow!”
We clung to each other, soaked, shivering, ridiculous.
Then she realized how close our faces were. Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened.
“Nathaniel… you are freezing.”
“Yeah, not the best time to go swimming. Do not recommend,” I managed, teeth chattering so hard I sounded like a broken typewriter.
Getting me back into the boat was… not elegant. Nothing like the slow‑motion romantic rescue scenes in movies. We both grabbed at each other, slipped, cursed, grabbed again, and when I finally made it past the edge, it happened fast — like someone had launched a slippery fish straight at her.
She fell backwards into the boat with a yelp, and I landed right on top of her, arms flailing, trying desperately not to crush her.
“Sorry! Sorry! I’m trying not to squish you!”
“You are squishing me!”
“I’m trying not to!”
“You are ‘eavier zan you look, and very bad at not squishing! Get off me!”
I braced my arms on either side of her head, shaking, dripping, freezing, and absolutely mortified. She cupped my face with trembling hands, eyes wide, lips parted, panic and instinct fighting inside her.
“Do I—do I need to—do mouz‑to‑mouz?” she whispered.
“I’m literally talking,” I said. “And on top of you.”
“I do not know what to do! What do I do?”
“I don’t know either, but I do know you don’t give mouth‑to‑mouth to someone who’s talking!”
She made a strangled noise that was half‑laugh, half‑sob.
Then she leaned in and kissed me anyway.
It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t movie‑perfect.
It was wet, cold, chaotic, and absolutely the best thing that had happened to me all day.
Her hands slid to my cheeks, still shaking. My elbows wobbled. The boat rocked dangerously. She broke the kiss with a gasp.
“Stop moving!”
“I’m trying!”
“You are terrible at zis! You and boats do not mix!”
“I am a member of a yacht club, I am excellent at boating! You pushed me!”
“I did not push you into ze water! You fell on your own! Maladroit!”
“You pushed me toward it!”
“Zat is not the same!”
We stared at each other, soaked, shivering, ridiculous.
She blinked. “Nathaniel… you scared me.”
“I’m sorry!”
“You chased me.”
“You were running around the docks in your underwear! You threw your dress at your boss. Who does that? You are insane, girl.”
“He said it was his. You got me fired. Or maybe I quit. I don’t even know. You brought a prince to my café!”
“Okay, that one is fair.”
She let out a tiny, broken laugh — the kind that sounded like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss me again or throw me back into the harbor.
I didn’t move. She didn’t move.
We were still tangled together, her underwear and hair soaked, my shirt plastered to me, my wet hair dripping onto her face, both of us breathing like we’d run a marathon.
She swallowed hard. “Nathaniel… I do not know ’ow to do zis.”
“Neither do I,” I said softly. “Just give me one more chance and help me figure it out.”
Her fingers curled into my shirt.
“You are freezing,” she whispered.
“I am freezing, and whose fault it that? You pushed me overboard. The good news it, I am sure it helped with the stain from you pouring coffee on me.”
“You fell in ze water on your own. Quel empoté, Nathaniel. And we agreed, you deserved the coffee on your pant.”
“You kissed me. And because of that I can’t think of any arguments anymore.”
She made another strangled noise — this one definitely leaning toward laughter.
I finally rolled off her, landing beside her in the boat with a wet thud. She sat up, grabbed my jacket, and wrapped it around both of us like she was trying to keep me from evaporating.
“D’accord… fine. We go home,” she said, voice small but firm. “We talk. Properly. No princes. No famous singers. No fancy people. Just us.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I like that.”
She sat up. I followed, wrapping my jacket around her. She smiled and slid her arms into the sleeves, then rose and started the engine, still shaking.
I grabbed her again, kissed her.
Unbeknownst to me, my concerned family had started making their way to the docks to potentially rescue me from drowning — including royal guards — but when they saw us kissing, they all stopped. Luc lifted a hand and called the guards off.
The kiss ended, and we pulled away from the dock — leaving the café, the chaos, and my entire family behind.
Marceau Residence
Her house sat on the edge of the harbor, a narrow little place with blue shutters and a balcony full of potted herbs — basil, thyme, mint, all releasing their scent in the warm air. She tied the boat with quick, practiced movements, then grabbed my wrist and pulled me along like she was afraid I’d vanish if she let go. I’d have rather walked hand in hand than this but didn’t want to upset her by pulling out of her death grip. I’d still preferred it over her not wanting anything to do with me anymore.
We were quite an attraction. People stared openly — the girl wearing a man’s white linen blazer and decidedly girly‑girl cream Mary Janes with nothing but underwear beneath, and the guy next to her dripping wet with a mysterious dark stain around his crotch. A fisherman dropped his cigarette. A tourist froze mid‑gelato. A passerby whispering “Meu Deus… ”A kid pointed and shouted something in Portuguese I didn’t understand.
I was so glad when we got to her place.
It was late afternoon, the sun beginning to sink behind the harbor. The TV murmured in the living room, and as we stepped inside, Pascal and Anaïs’ faces popped around the corner.
More stares.
Then Anaïs: “Elodie… où tu l’as trouvé?”
Pascal pointed straight at my crotch. “Et pourquoi il est tout mouillé… et… c’est quoi cette tache?”
Elodie huffed. “Ne soyez pas si curieux.” Then to me, in English: “Give me your phone.”
“My phone?”
“Yes, give.”
I pulled it out, dripping slightly, and she snatched it from my hand. She handed it to Pascal.
« Mets‑le dans du riz, vite, vite ! Et fais chauffer de la soupe pour Nathaniel. »
Anaïs puffed up proudly. « Je fais la soupe ! »
They disappeared into the kitchen immediately, arguing like only a sixteen‑year‑old and a nine‑year‑old can.
Elodie took me upstairs. Down a short hall. Into the bathroom — clearly shared. Rubber duckies lined the tub, wind‑up toys sat on the counter, a razor and shaving cream beside a bottle of Axe body spray that made me smirk.
She didn’t say anything. She just turned on the shower, tested the water with her wrist, then pushed me gently under the spray. Fully clothed.
The hot water hit my skin like a shock, then a relief. I closed my eyes, letting it run over my face, my hair, my shoulders. My clothes clung to me like heavy seaweed.
She stood outside the shower, arms crossed, watching me with a mixture of fury and worry.
“Take off ze clozes,” she said quietly. “I won’t look.”
I peeled off the soaked shirt, then the pants, dropping them in a wet heap. I was testing her boundaries, and she didn’t leave. It was a strange, charged moment — not romantic, just intensely close. She didn’t look away. She just stayed there, breathing fast, cheeks flushed, still trying to process everything that had happened.
Eventually she slipped out. With my clothes.
I guessed I’d get a very good read on how mad she really was at me.
After the shower I stepped into the hallway, towel around my waist, water still dripping from my hair. One door was cracked open. I pushed it wider and saw her placing clothes on the bed — neatly folded, carefully chosen.
My wallet and its contents were spread out on towels on her dresser, recovering from the unscheduled swim in the ocean. I had to grin at the stuffed animals and decorative knick‑knacks she’d used to weigh my cards down so they wouldn’t curl. I knew the next time I pulled out my student ID or parking card at uni, I’d see the mental imprint of a parade of knick‑knacks across them.
I knocked lightly and stepped inside. She looked up and waved me closer. It felt incredibly intimate to be in her personal space. The room smelled like body spray, something distinctly girly, lavender and sea salt. A small salt lamp glowed on her nightstand. Her shoes were lined up under the window next to mine on a towel, stuffed with old newspaper. A sketch of the harbor hung crookedly on the wall. The closet door was ajar, revealing frilly dresses.
She looked nervous, blushing slightly, staring at my naked upper body, then at the towel wrapped around me. Somehow the towel made me feel more exposed than being fully unclothed. Her eyes darted away, then back again, like she couldn’t help it.
“I put some clozes for you,” she said softly, pointing at the wrong side of the bed while staring at my chest — then realizing it, staring at my towel, blushing hard, then finally meeting my eyes, cheeks glowing. “Were mon Papa’s.”
“Thanks. Hey, can we talk?” I stepped closer and reached for her, but she quickly stepped out of reach.
“Not when you are like zis,” she muttered, flustered, blushing deeper. “I cannot zink when you are like zat.”
I couldn’t help smiling. She liked what she saw. And she hated that she liked it. Which guy wouldn’t like hearing that?
I grabbed the shirt and slipped it over my head, then the jogging pants, pulling them on under the towel. They were a little loose, a little old, but warm. Wearing another man’s clothes felt strange, but somehow comforting too — like her father was silently approving from somewhere.
After another moment of awkwardness, we went downstairs to make coffee. The machine sputtered, gargled, and groaned like it was waking up from a nap. She leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching it, then watching me.
On the table, a bowl of steaming soup waited — clearly Anaïs’ enthusiastic contribution. Pascal had placed my phone in a giant mixing bowl full of rice, the device half‑buried like a fossil.
“I am very mad at you,” she said finally. “You ’urt me. You cannot just disappear. If you need time away, tell me. If you no longer want me, tell me. Just never do zat again.”
“I know,” I said. “I won’t. Look… I kinda lost it. All the pressure at med school and missing you on top of that, never knowing when I could see you next.” I exhaled. “So I ended up failing out of med school, switching majors, then universities. My best friend — my roommate — just got engaged, and I was missing you so hard. You said no to me helping you pay for your phone so you could call me more, which I really needed. I got upset and did some stuff that got me sidelined for a semester, so my dad was angry and put me to work at his company. Took my phone with your number so I couldn’t tell you. I did well, so he let me come here, saying if I do this I get the phone back. You saw his stipulation. My parents decided I had to tell you the whole truth. They didn’t trust that I wouldn’t chicken out once I saw you, so everyone thought this was the quickest way.”
She stared at me, eyes softening but still guarded.
“Yesterday you were Cameron,” she said. “Today you are Nathaniel and related to our royal. And son of my favorite singer since I was younger than Anaïs. I know where you come from you have no sovereigns, but we do, we grow up with zem and zey are very special here. You can’t just bring one to my place of work wizout warning.”
“That’s why I brought two. Sorry — bad joke. I joke when I’m nervous. Look, I promise, that was it. That’s all I’ve got. Promise. I am an entitled rich kid whose family has connections to a few royal houses, I will one day inherit an empire, my name really is Nathaniel Cameron Cunningham and — just to say it again — I am really sorry.”
She pulled the coffee decanter out and poured two cups. When she handed one to me, she hesitated.
“I am sorry I poured coffee on you,” she said quietly. “Did I ’urt your… your… uh… legs?”
I had to stop myself from bursting out laughing at what she clearly meant.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Luckily the café au lait wasn’t hot enough to cook my wiener if that’s what you’re asking. We both appreciate your concern.”
A moment of silence. Then we both burst into laughter.
We sat at the table with the coffee, milk, sugar, cookies — and the soup — which warmed me from the inside in a way I hadn’t expected. It tasted great, too, simple and comforting, the kind of thing that makes you feel human again after a day that tried to break you.
And we started talking. Really talking.
I told her everything. Details.
She told me everything. The fear. The confusion. The hurt. The hope. The realization she might have fallen for someone who looked, from the outside, like a loser mistaking her for a summer fling.
At some point we went upstairs to check if my clothing and belongings were dry, but somehow we ended up doing other things. We kissed. Kissing led to more. And before we knew it, we crossed a new bridge for both of us — one we’d both been standing at the edge of for a long time. Unscripted, unplanned. Just the natural development.
It wasn’t until early the next day that I woke up in her bed, the morning sunlight slipping through the shutters, warm and soft. She was curled against me, her hair on my chest, her breath slow and even. I felt something inside me open, like a door I didn’t know existed.
I smiled so big I had to bite my lip to keep from shouting out my joy and happiness. I felt elated like never before. Almost… high.
I got up and snuck into her bathroom, feeling like I was flying. I did something I’d never done before — opened cabinets and snooped. Found her perfume and smelled it, picked up cutesy hair ties and such and just felt… great.
When I was done and dressed, my clothes freshly washed and air‑dried overnight, smelling like fresh air and genuine, I reassembled my wallet and went downstairs.
I found Elodie, Pascal, and Anaïs at the breakfast table. It was awkward for a moment — Pascal was definitely old enough to know what happened last night — while Anaïs jumped up and excitedly handed me my phone.
I pressed the button and it turned on.
Élodie brought me a cup of coffee. Steaming hot and black, milk and sugar were on the table. As she set it down, she tilted the cup just slightly — the exact angle she’d used yesterday before baptizing my lap. Her eyes flicked up, mischievous, testing me.
I startled hard, jerking back in my chair.
She burst out laughing, slamming the cup on the table so forcefully it rattled the spoons. A snort escaped her, loud and unrestrained.
Pascal frowned. « Qu’est‑ce qui se passe ? »
So Élodie told him about my lap bath.
Now all the Marceaus were laughing — and I laughed too.
Back to the Palace
When I returned to the palace late morning, carrying a cake box with lavender blueberry tarte, everyone took one look at me and knew.
They didn’t say anything at first. They didn’t have to. It was written all over their faces — the barely contained smiles, the raised brows, the exchanged glances. Even the guards at the door looked like they were trying not to grin.
Mom was the first to speak, her voice warm and amused.
“Well,” she said, “someone looks… refreshed.”
Dad added, half‑reprimanding, half‑teasing, “Even though someone never texted us to let us know he was fine, after us having to watch you fall in the ocean.”
Charlotte didn’t miss a beat.
“Oh please,” she said, stirring her coffee, “he’s got his own personal French Baywatch babe now. She dives in after him like it’s her job.”
Caroline snorted. “Seriously, what was that show we watched yesterday? That crap couldn’t have been unscripted. My brother gets coffee‑crotched by the waitress, who then takes her clothes off to throw them at her boss in the world’s best ‘take this job and shove it’ moment, and then my brother chases a half‑naked girl to the docks where she kicks him in and rescues him again.”
Charlotte leaned back, smirking. “She’s better than me, I would have thrown a lifebuoy at his head.”
Caroline nodded. “No, she just reels him in like one of her fish. Isn’t she basically a part‑time fisherwoman? She probably thought you were a drowning tuna. Caught the really big golden fish now, huh?”
Charley added, “Definitely smells like one when he comes home from a run.”
Mom choked on her drink. Briony covered her mouth, laughing. Luc’s shoulders shook with silent amusement about my sisters collectively roasting me.
Dad pointed at me. “See? Even your sisters know you need professional rescue services. Goodness boy, you really do not like doing things the classic way, do you?”
I groaned. “Can we not.”
Charlotte grinned. “We absolutely are doing this, Nate.”
Caroline added, “You fell in the ocean after getting coffee‑crotched by a girl who stripped in public. She fished you out. That’s basically marriage in Bellacorde. No offense, Luc.”
Luc cleared his throat, diplomatic but amused. “None taken. In some coastal villages, that statement is probably accurate. Especially in Verdemar.”
Briony elbowed him. “Don’t encourage them. I’m just grateful there was no press or people with cell phones. Other than my own family, of course.”
“I am more grateful that my Maman and Papa are, once more, travelling and were not at the café with us,” Luc added bone‑dry.
“True. That would have been another stern sit‑down situation in the Sitting Room.” Briony giggled.
“In the Study. The Sitting Room is reserved for your fainting spells, mon cœur.” Luc grinned slyly at her.
The glare my sister shot him said more than any very inappropriate words she was clearly thinking. Luc knew it and laughed.
But the damage was done — the sisters were on a roll.
Charlotte raised her cup. “To Nate’s French Baywatch girlfriend.”
Caroline clinked hers. “And to her side hustle as Nate’s personal fisherman. I think they both caught more than each other. You really did catch feelings, didn’t you, Nate? You’re completely crazy for that girl.”
“Nate‑y’s in luuuuuuv…” Charley chirped.
I dropped my bright‑red face into my hands.
They cackled.
And honestly? I didn’t even care. Because they were right — she had rescued me.
Luc, ever the diplomat, simply folded his hands and said, “I trust Mademoiselle Marceau is feeling better this morning.”
I grinned big at him, and he raised one hand, smiling, shaking it lightly as if saying, Got it, please do not elaborate.
Dad clapped me on the shoulder. “Son, you look like you slept in a sunbeam.”
I didn’t deny it. I couldn’t. I just set the tarte down on the table, trying not to smile too hard, but failing miserably.
Mom leaned forward, eyes lighting up. “Is that…?”
“Lavender blueberry,” I said. “She made it for you this morning and I helped.”
Charlotte gasped. “Like the one she made for us before? Those cupcakes?”
Caroline practically bounced. “The one that tasted like summer and magic and happiness?”
Dad nodded solemnly. “Best damn cake I’ve had in years.”
Mom elbowed him. “Language. Since when do you curse in company, babe?”
He shrugged. “It deserved it.”
Luc and Briony exchanged a look — curious, intrigued, slightly amused.
Briony tilted her head. “Tell me more… it sounds delicious.”
Luc smiled faintly. “I admit, I am… intrigued.”
I opened the box. The scent drifted out immediately — lavender warm from the sun, blueberry sweet and tart, the buttery crust softening at the edges. It filled the room like a spell.
Briony inhaled once, eyes widening. “Oh… oh that is lovely. Look at that, Luc.”
He waved one of the staff closer to have them serve it.
Luc accepted his slice with the same grace he used for state dinners. He took a small bite, thoughtful, analytical — then his brows lifted.
“This is extraordinary. What a talented young pastry chef, your Élodie.”
Briony took her bite. Her eyes closed. She made a soft sound, almost a hum. “This girl,” she said, “is dangerous. To my figure. I’m not sure if I want Nate to marry her on the spot or break up with her, because losing the baby weight with all the delicacies Luc spoils me with was hard enough. Considering I will have at least one if not two more babies, and cravings… I’m not sure I want this cake on my radar.”
Charlotte burst out laughing. “Right?! I’m torn between beach bod and a second slice.”
Caroline nodded vigorously. “She’s like… a baking magician. Chad made me breakfast once and it was basic bitch stuff and he burned everything.”
Mom smiled at me over her cup. “She’s talented. And sweet. And clearly cares about you. Her temperament reminded me of myself. Now, I don’t think I ever took my clothes off to make a point, but… impressive.”
“What’s impressive is how she knows how to make cake like this and still has that figure!” Caroline chimed in.
Dad pointed his fork at me. “Son, if you don’t marry that girl someday, I will spank sense into you.”
“Brad,” Mom sighed. “Absolutely not funny. We don’t meddle in our kids’ relationships.” Then, with a look at my two minor sisters, she added, “The adult kids.”
“I’m not sure the word adult is anything other than irony when describing our son,” Dad said, “but he has come around a lot. And while I’m not sure how to feel about Élodie’s behavior yesterday, I will say she seems to have figured out that our son needs a swift kick in the rear to deliver results. Proven several times over now.”
Luc took another bite, slower this time, savoring it. “Mademoiselle Marceau has a gift,” he said. “A rare one. I shall inquire with her if she would be interested in supplying this delicacy for the palace during events. Against generous reimbursement, of course. I believe this confection might become the weakness of many, once introduced to them.”
Briony nodded. “And she clearly has a weakness for you, Nate. Good for you. She’s cute. I approve. And I will tell you from experience, dating a Bellacordian is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.”
She and Luc traded one of their unbearably sweet glances — smiles, winks — the kind that made me sick to my stomach to watch.
I felt my face heat, but I didn’t care. Everything felt lighter. Everything felt right. Everything felt… possible.
They kept eating, talking, teasing, praising her, praising the tarte, praising the fact that I looked like I’d been dipped in happiness and hung out to dry.
And me? I was just waiting for them all to chill down a little, so I could go see Élodie again.
Echoes Of Legacy 