“Thank you kindly, Mr. Griffin.” She beamed at him. “That’s right sweet of you.”

He didn’t even correct her English, or her bizarre misuse of “mister.” That was him being nice. Again. He grunted and glanced away, not wanting to stare at her. But he felt . . . better. He liked that smile of hers. It was completely and utterly sincere, and her eyes shone when she smiled.

Not many people were sincere around him, and he appreciated the ones who were. He began to pick up his book so he could get a few pages in, then put it back down, because she was still smiling at him. Like she expected . . . conversation. Since he was in a charitable mood, he obliged. “I trust your sleep was pleasant?”

“It was wonderful,” she gushed. “The pillows were as fluffy as baby lambs. I can hardly believe that they give those kinds of pillows to hotel guests. Aren’t they afraid people will steal them?”

He nearly choked on the water he was sipping. “Steal?” From L’hotel de Bellissime? Did she realize that the people who stayed in his suite were usually visiting royalty or celebrities? Did she think everyone had the same accommodations? But she seemed so thrilled about everything that he didn’t correct her.

He didn’t even point out that it was pronounced “pillow” and not “piller.” He was heading straight for sainthood if this kept up.

“Yup. Every time I went on a trip with my aunties and uncles down to Georgia or Florida or someplace, they’d strip the motel room of everything they could carry off. Said it was expected.” She shook her head. “I’m guessin’ most folks don’t do that, then.”

“I can assure you, I’ve never stripped a hotel room of anything.”

“You’d want to if you had my pillow,” she said with a cheery nod. “Best pillow I ever snuggled.”

For some reason, the mental image of a sleepy Maylee, curls tossed on her pillowcase, clasping a pillow to her breast . . . did unspeakable things to his groin. Griffin cleared his throat. “I shall take your word for it.”

The waiter delivered their breakfasts, and Maylee was effusive in her thanks. She chatted with him about the weather, the delicious smells coming from the kitchen, and how pretty his home country was. The man’s attention was completely removed from Griffin, and he conversed with her for a few minutes as if they were old friends, and then disappeared.

Griffin frowned as he picked up his silverware. “The staff is acting odd this morning.”

“Oh?” She looked innocently curious. “I thought he was lovely.”

Of course she did. The waiter was clearly flirting with her. Perhaps Maylee’s uneducated drawl was some sort of aphrodisiac to men who only heard fluid French and British English. Who knew.

He decided to let it go and took a bite of his toast, then opened up his book and began to read, enjoying the peace and quiet of breakfast without scrutiny. Maylee was quiet as she ate, too, though that happy smile remained on her face.

Griffin had only read a page before a shadow fell over his book, dampening the light. He glanced up and frowned as two men approached the table, one dressed as a chef, and one as a waiter. He closed his book with an annoyed sigh. The silence had been too good to last, he supposed. Now he’d have to endure the stream of questions. Bracing himself, Griffin frowned at the two men and leaned back in his chair. “What is it?”

Maylee shot him a quick look—as if he was the rude one—and turned her smile on the men.

“Beg your pardon,” the waiter said, and looked at Maylee. “I’m sorry to intrude, but my companion wanted to thank you for your help last night.”

He had no idea what the man was talking about. Or why he was looking at Maylee and not Griffin.

“Oh, no!” Maylee’s hands rose into the air and she shook her head. “You absolutely cannot thank me. It won’t work if you do.”

“What won’t work?” Griffin asked, perplexed. He glanced between the two men and Maylee.

The cook said something in French, and the waiter nodded, translating. “Etienne, he says the pain is gone this morning.”

Maylee beamed, proud. “I’m so glad to hear that. Tell him to be more careful when pulling the bread out of the oven next time. I—”

“Excuse me,” Griffin cut in. “What are you talking about?”

That warm smile was turned on him, and Griffin felt momentarily dazzled. “Burn talking,” Maylee said. “Mr. Etienne here,” she said, gesturing at the cook whose name she’d just butchered, “had a very nasty burn on his hand, so I offered to take a look at it.”

“Why?”

“I’m a burn talker.” Maylee folded her hands on her lap as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “It’s a gift. My mama can talk the warts off anyone, but I’m only good with burns.”

“I . . . see.” Folk healing. How . . . strange.

“It worked, my lord,” the waiter said. “The burn has bothered Etienne for days, to the point that it made it difficult for him to work. But Ms. Meriweather worked on his hand and fixed it right away. Which is why—”

Maylee raised a hand again, smiling. “Remember—no thank yous or it won’t work anymore.”

The men nodded and, after a few more moments of chatter, they glanced his way and then left.

And again, Griffin was surprised.

“Sorry about that,” Maylee said with a small smile. “I asked them not to come up while you were seated, because I know you said you hate hovering.”

“I do,” he admitted, and glanced around the empty private dining room. He could hear people in the next room over, but theirs was blissfully quiet. “Is that why we’re here instead of in the main room?”

Maylee nodded. “Last night, I talked to the manager a bit to learn some about the place.”

Griffin was surprised at her thoughtfulness. “Oh?”

“Yes, and I told him how much you value your privacy and asked what we could do to make sure that you wouldn’t be bothered during such a stressful time. We discussed a few things and among them, we suggested that you dine in here if the room isn’t in use. No one wants their breakfast interrupted,” she admitted with a careful bite of her eggs. When she finished chewing, she added, “I told them that if you were able to enjoy your meal in peace, you’d probably stop by and tell the kitchen staff if you enjoyed it. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous. I know they’d love to hear from you. You’re a big deal to them.”

Trade a few minutes of compliments for peace and quiet while he dined? It was genius. He pulled his book out again. “That’s very thoughtful of you. And yes, I am enjoying having a nice quiet breakfast. Thank you.” With another bite of toast, he flipped his page and continued reading about the exploits of Edward Shackleton.

“I’ll move over to this other table and work so I don’t bother you,” Maylee said, picking up the laptop.

He looked up from his book and glanced at the laptop, then at her. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her to stay, but he nodded instead. “Thank you. You have the schedule Kip left?”

“It’s all right here,” she said. “I’ll give you a rundown of the day when you’re ready to go.”

He nodded again and returned to his book.

The dining room was silent, and Griffin sipped his hot tea as he ate his breakfast and read. The sunlight poured in through a nearby window, and it felt like an island of calm in this moment. Occasionally, he would look up and see Maylee working on the computer, taking notes on her sticky pad, or occasionally chatting with one of the staff nearby. They were always smiling and happy to see her.

All so bloody happy around his assistant. He wasn’t sure if he found that interesting or irritating.

***

Maylee’s first day in Bellissime was an exhausting one.

Once they’d finished breakfast, she’d given Griffin a brief overview of his schedule for the day. For someone who didn’t visit the country much and wasn’t getting married, he sure did have a heck of a social calendar. There was a museum visit, a fitting at the royal tailor, an afternoon tea with a dignitary of a neighboring country, a visit to a charity of something or other, a photo op with another viscount, and an interview for a gentleman’s magazine that dealt exclusively with archaeology and exploration, which she learned was one of Griffin’s passions. And it was her job to herd him along and ensure that he got to them all on time.

It had been a struggle, but Maylee was proud of herself for keeping things going. At one point, she’d panicked to discover that the venerable Kip had double-booked Griffin to tea, so she’d had to smooth a few feathers, make some phone calls, and reschedule his appointment with his mother for the next day. She hadn’t told Griffin, because she knew he’d give her that particular down-his-nose look as if it was her fault.

But she’d managed it. She’d spent the day with her phone pressed to one ear, laptop on her thighs, and waiting in the limo as Griffin went to one social appointment after another.

It was obvious he didn’t like any of this; his mood got fouler as the day went on, though he was always polite and gracious to the people waiting for him. It was just Maylee and the driver, Mr. Sturgess, who received the brunt of his unhappiness.

Between Griffin’s appointments, Maylee had to also juggle incoming press requests to interview Griffin, more requests to visit local charities, and somehow make arrangements in regards to the wedding. She had to make calls to the palace to speak with the Royal Wedding Coordinator—who hadn’t wanted to talk to her at first, thanks to her accent—so she could find out what clothing colors should be avoided for royal appointments, and when and where the rehearsal dinners, wedding breakfasts, and the like would be held. The locations were secret, Maylee was told, because the press would get a hold of the information and descend like a horde.

She couldn’t argue with that. The moment they saw the seal on Griffin’s limo, they were followed everywhere. She really had to talk to that man about an inconspicuous ride.

But at least the worst was over and Griffin had only snarled at her once (when his tie was askew and he was about to drive up to his tea appointment). She’d fixed it without so much as a thank you from the man. Not that she blamed him—if she was feeling frazzled by his schedule, she could only imagine what it felt like to be the pony in the dog and pony show.

The grueling day was over, though, and even if she hadn’t had a chance to eat—or breathe—since the quiet breakfast, she’d gotten Griffin to all his appointments on time and looking respectable, and now they were back at the hotel. He’d disappeared into his room for the evening and that meant she was finally free to explore Bellissime.

Of course, she was so tired that all she wanted to do was take a shower and raid the mini-bar in her room to see what she could scarf down before breakfast tomorrow.

Maylee took a long, hot shower, luxuriating in the fancy soaps and shampoos that were complimentary with the room. She made sure to hide the bottles once she was done with them, so the staff would replace them daily and she could get new ones to bring home with her. Maybe Mr. Griffin wouldn’t mind if she snuck his extras, she mused as she wrapped one of the huge, opulent towels around her torso.

Humming to herself, Maylee tucked the top of the towel in at her breast and headed into her room. She moved to the bed and began to adjust her towel when she noticed the closet door was slightly ajar. With a frown, she crossed the room and went to go close it . . . but something about it nagged her, and she peeked inside it instead.

A man stood there, camera in hand. “Don’t scream,” he whispered, “I can offer you a very lucrative deal if you’re willing to work with me to get the inside story—”