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Chapter 7

"You save your soul by saving someone else's body."
~Arthur Hertzberg

Annalise

I whipped Mark's butt with a towel. "If you call me that again, I will kill you," I growled.

"How do you let the Prince of Veronacall you Annie but not your best friend?" He whined, rubbing his behind.

"Because if I physically assaulted him, I'd be in jail. Believe me, I want to, but I exert self-control."

"Does he like you or something?" Mark asked, snatching the towel out of my hands when I attempted to hit him again. I tried to regain it while I said, "No, I think I'm just another prize he wants. Now give me back that towel!"

"I beg to differ. Didn't you say he's been eating breakfast with you and James ever since he came down one morning a few weeks ago?"

I sighed. He had a point. William had joined James and me for breakfast almost every morning since I first shared the meal with him. At least he didn't bother me much on the job. I could get my chores done within seven hours if William didn't decide to pop in and ask if he could stay and talk. I always promptly told him no.

"That means nothing," I said.

"Liar." Mark casually lifted me from behind and carried me to the front of the bar. I thrashed my legs in an attempt to get him to set me down without any luck. When he finally placed me firmly on my feet, I slapped him on the arm.

"Never do that again," I warned.

"Are you PMSing?" he inquired, quickly jumping out of kicking distance as my leg extended out to nail him in his shin. I rolled my eyes before wiping down the counters. I almost felt grateful there were no customers in here to see that episode until I saw my old man friend in a corner booth, nearly out of sight.

He had turned into a highly loyal customer; he came in almost every night. It took me a few tries, but I learned his name was Smith.

"The usual, I presume?" I said when I reached him. He ordered nothing but milk and apple pie. I didn't understand why but didn't question it. One night he ate eight slices, which equates to one whole pie. Where he stuffed all that food, I don't know.

"Yes, please. Thank you, Miss Annalise," he replied. I glanced at the reading material he'd brought this time: Wuthering Heights.

"How's the book?"

"Interesting. Heathcliff is probably my favorite character."

"He was mine too. I'll be right back with your order." I left him alone and entered the kitchen. Mark whistled a merry tune while cooking some soup; he ignored me. I pulled out the apple pie I'd been baking. My mouth watered at its delicious smell, and I refrained from making a piece for myself. I brought Smith's order to him, which thanked me graciously for before sticking his nose back into his book.

Later that evening, the restaurant was packed, I checked on Smith again. He had changed from Wuthering Heights to a magazine. I couldn't tell which one.

"What's the article about?" I inquired, clearing the plates in front of him.

"Prince William."

"It's probably about him drinking again."

"Actually, quite the opposite. He hasn't been seen drinking at all. Odd, isn't it?" Smith mused.

"Very odd. He's usually partying every chance he gets. I don't know why he feels the need to do so, but oh well. It's his life. He can choose to live it however he wants."