Royal Icing

By KD Proctor

Soon to be Queen, Princess Adelaide, has gone rogue. At least her country thinks so. In reality, Addie needs time to decide if she should follow her heart or follow her country's outdated expectations. Desperate to stay out of the public eye until she can figure out what to do, she takes a job as a pastry chef at a historic bed & breakfast in Holly Grove, Vermont. Only problem: she only knows how to bake one thing. And worse, her ex-fiancé works across the street at the local coffee house. Suddenly hiding in plain sight is the least of her worries.

As a classically trained pastry chef, Lucas Bishop has studied all over the world and is about to launch his first cookbook. Before it hits the shelves, he needs every eatery in and around Holly Grove to sign off on an exclusivity clause--agreeing not to bake any of the featured recipes for at least a year. When he realizes his ex-fiancé is not only working at the B&B across the street, but has made his signature cookie--everything he's worked for could go up in smoke.

Their close proximity is risky, but Addie devises a plan: if Lucas teachers her how to bake--while keeping her real life under wraps--she’ll make sure the B&B’s owner signs his much needed waiver. Old feelings resurface and she is forced to choose between serving her country or being a part of a life Lucas has built after their split. Ultimately they must decide where their loyalty lies--with their families or each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KD Proctor
• Release date: Nov 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732547223

KD Proctor

KD Proctor loved college so much that when it came time to graduate, she didn’t want to leave. Trading in her textbooks for student handbooks and policy manuals, she began a career in college student personnel and she fulfilled her wish to stay on a college campus forever. Working on a college campus gives her lots of book ideas—but most of all, her mother is just happy she's finally using that English degree. KD is a multi-award winning author and lives in West Central, Minnesota with her husband and fur-kids. Her characters are smart, funny, and always swoony. And yes. They always get their happily ever after.

Book preview

1

Addie

When most people get their wallet stolen, they usually call someone to help them.

Except, I’m not most people.

Calling a friend, or worse, calling my parents? Not an option. They don’t know where I am and I intend to keep it that way for as long as I possibly can. Which is why I’m having to hope against hope the police officer called out to investigate doesn’t realize I gave him an alias. My real name makes headlines, and headlines are exactly what I’m trying to avoid.

I mean, I’ve been sight-seeing from a Greyhound bus for the last two weeks. Nothing screams hiding in plain sight like a crown princess riding a bus to New Hampshire.

Well, Miss Olson . . . The young police officer smiles at me while he taps away on his phone. I’m really sorry your first visit to Vermont resulted in filing a stolen property report. With the tree lighting ceremony right around the corner, criminals pop out of the woodwork with all the people coming to town.

I set my wallet down to tie my boot and poof. Gone. Now, I’m standing here in the Maple House Inn gift shop, no money, no transportation, and my plans shot all to hell. My mind swirls like water circling the drain. It’s the middle of December, ten days before Christmas. What the hell am I supposed to do? Hang out on a park bench?

I snort. God. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants if that made the gossip rags?

Crown Princess Adelaide Robbed and Forced to Sleep on a Park Bench while on the Run from her Royal Duties and Upcoming Coronation.

Unfortunately, the real reason isn’t much better . . .

King Harold’s Retirement and Abdication put on hold as Crown Princess Sneaks Off to America to Figure Out a Way to Become Queen and Be with the Man She’s Forbidden to Marry.

A cool breeze blows up behind me. I hug myself as a young kid drops a stack of newspapers in the front lobby before dashing out the door again.

Travis, can I access your security footage?

The question snaps me out of my thoughts.

Check with Rose. It’s all under lock and key. The guy working the front desk points down the hallway.

The officer gives my arm a tiny pat. Ma’am? I’ll be right back.

I sigh. I’m not going anywhere. I pace the lobby, stopping at the large picture windows looking out over the town square. For as small as this place is, it sure has everything you could need. There’s a pub, a bookstore, even a quaint little coffee house with people buzzing in and out, white paper bags in hand with their to-go cups of coffee. In the town square, a group of city employees are stringing an enormous pine tree with lights.

The tree lighting ceremony is a big deal around here. Everyone comes out for it. The guy from the front desk refills some local tourist pamphlets by the front door.

I smile, more to myself than at him. Sounds nice.

Is there anyone I can call for you?

No! I blurt out. My pulse takes off and I gulp. Thank you, but I’m okay. I don’t want to worry anyone.

Funny how I’m concerned about that now. I’ve been toodling around the countryside without so much as a text, email, carrier pigeon or message in a bottle to let my parents know I’m okay. That I just need time to think. My stomach twists into a ball of knots. I can’t imagine what kind of stress this is putting on them, not to mention the questions and rumors flooding into their public relations office.

As much as it tears me up inside, I had to. My life may have been mapped out and controlled since the day I was born, but is it too much to ask to let me just marry who I want? Even if the guy I want hasn’t seen or talked to me in eight years. Who knows if he’s even remotely interested in me anymore?

Or if he’s still single.

Just thinking about what is involved in my plan makes my shoulders ache. Thing is, I just need more time to figure out a solution. And a way to New Hampshire. Actually, what I need is the equivalent of a Christmas miracle and I doubt it’s going to drop out of the sky.

The front door opens again, and the frigid air swirls around my legs, sending goosebumps over my body. Behind the desk, a bright orange piece of paper taped to the wall flaps wildly in the breeze. When the door slams, the backdraft rips the flyer off the wall and it floats to my feet.

Wanted: Head Chef for Holiday Season

If this is the Christmas miracle the universe has in store for me, then the universe must be drunk.

Yes. I’m now broke and in desperate need of a Plan B. Taking a job? It’s not a bad idea and would certainly get me the money I need to get to New Hampshire. But as a chef? Jesus. I’m nowhere close to being head chef material. When I lived in my own flat in London during college, I did some cooking, but it usually involved scrambling an egg or boiling water for instant soup.

But then again, it is a bed and breakfast.

My hands tingle. This idea is crazier than me defying my father and sneaking around the American countryside. But I mean, really, how hard can breakfast be? Cereal? An egg? Toast? Coffee and tea? None requires much skill and it would give me the time I need while I try to sort out all this rewriting the laws stuff rather than fly back home.

This is so stupid. And risky. But right now, I don’t have time to be picky.

I hold up the sign to the guy behind the front desk. Are you still hiring?

He gives me the once-over. It doesn’t faze me. I’m used to it. As a princess, I get this look a lot. The small flash in his eye, though, is different than I’m used to. It’s like he’s trying to decide if I’m someone he can trust with the responsibility.

I’ll check. His tone is quiet as he steps away from the desk.

I poke around the lobby some more. Pictures of the hotel’s history line the walls. There are photos of record snowfalls, a fishing tournament, celebrities and even a photo of President Kennedy and his wife Jackie who have stayed for a night or two. The windows and wallpaper are clean, not a crack or watermark in sight. The cherry wood of the grand staircase is beautiful and buffed to a high polish shine. They’re paying attention to the details, and where I come from, it means you’re taking the steps to make sure future generations can benefit.

Travis tells me you’re interested in the job? a raspy voice asks from behind me. I turn, expecting to come eye-to-eye with the owner, but all I see is a pile of grey hair. My gaze drops to a woman who barely clears the top of the front desk. She gives me the same once-over Travis gave minutes ago, my bra suddenly squeezing my ribs tight. Wiping her hands on her apron, she shoves one in my direction. Rose McIntyre. Nice to meet you.

I open my mouth to offer my name, but it catches in my throat. I’ve always been known as Her Royal Highness or Princess Adelaide. I’ve been using a version of my middle name, Izzy, this whole trip. The Olson part came from a book I read on the plane. Regardless of how many times I say it, it still sounds weird.

Izzy. Olson. Izzy Olson.

Her eyes narrow and I pull in a breath. I wait for her to say I look familiar. Or worse, she’ll snap her fingers and point, excited a future queen is in front of her.

Sorry about your wallet. Don’t you worry. Grayson’s good. He should have some answers for you shortly.

I exhale slowly. Thanks. I’m sort of in a jam until he can find my wallet, which I’m guessing will take a few days. That’s why I’m curious about the job.

Ahh. Well, I’m looking for a pastry chef. Any experience?

Pinpricks flood my body. I don’t know squat about pastry. Other than I like to eat it.

Not wanting to point a finger at the glaring typo on her sign, I opt for a bit of reverse blaming. I must’ve read your sign wrong, I say with a bit of apology in my voice. I thought you needed a head chef.

She dismisses me with a wave of her hand. Ta-may-toe, toe-mah-toe. I need a pastry chef for our grab-n-go breakfasts. Muffins. Scones. Can you handle that?

I’ve had some one-on-one instruction. My heart tosses out an extra beat in my chest. My smile is as misleading as the instruction I had. Suddenly, it’s eight years ago, a rainy day in my London flat when a study-abroad pastry chef made love to me on the kitchen counter. I found flour in places I didn’t know existed.

Well, let’s see what you can do.

My back straightens. You’re giving me a shot?

Make me something, then we’ll see if I’m going to give you a shot. She grabs my elbow and leads me to the kitchen. You’re definitely not from around here, are you? Your accent is definitely British, but a little muddled.

Nothing gets past you, does it? I say with a light laugh. I went to school in London, but I’m also Norwegian. It’s a tiny, white lie. The native language of Gaithea is Norwegian since we seceded from Norway in the early 1700s. We wanted independence but were too lazy to