Maylee pulled out her wallet and tried to pay, but everyone had protested so much that she’d eventually put it away. And to make up for the sandwiches, Griffin agreed to pose for a few photos.
Immediately, the staff whipped out smartphones, ready for such an occasion.
Ten minutes later, Griffin and Maylee left the kitchen, and her good mood had returned. “That was so sweet of you, Mr. Griffin,” she said in that twangy drawl. Her arms held the small brown paper bag of the sandwiches he’d requested. “You could tell how excited they were to meet you and get a picture with you. One-on-one time is important. It makes people feel valued.”
“Is this a lecture, Miss Meriweather?”
She sighed heavily. “No. Can’t I just comment on something without you thinking there’s an ulterior motive?”
“No,” he said in a cool voice, and she fell silent. Damn it all, why was it that he always ended up being the churl in these conversations?
They were both silent as the sedan pulled into the street. This time, only one car pulled away to follow them instead of the fleet that normally trailed them. An improvement, Griffin admitted to himself. The driver pulled into the shopping district of downtown Bellissime and parked in front of one of the metered sidewalks.
“Oh, dear,” Maylee said at the sight, and began to dig through her purse. “I don’t have any Bellissime change on me. Just a few U.S. quarters.”
“Just ignore the meter,” he told her as they got out of the car. “They wouldn’t dare ticket a member of the royal family.”
Her brows furrowed at that. “But why not? You’re not obeying the law.”
“The laws don’t apply to my family.”
She looked like she disapproved of that answer, but followed him into the nearest store.
Inside, Griffin scanned the clothing. Dark suits, neutral-colored dresses. Modest fascinators. Nothing with flash or a pattern. “This will do nicely. Go find a salesclerk.”
“Here?” Maylee asked, and her mouth was pulled into a frown. “This looks like funeral wear. I thought we were going to a wedding.”
“I assure you it is not funeral wear,” Griffin said. “And even if it was, you are my employee. I reserve the right to request that you wear the appropriate clothing for the occasion, especially if I provide it.”
She pursed her lips.
“You’re stalling,” he warned her.
“Mr. Griffin,” she began. “I’m mighty uncomfortable with you buying me clothes. It ain’t right.”
“It isn’t right,” he corrected.
“I know. I just said that.”
Jesus Christ. He rubbed his brow. “Just get the salesclerk, please. We can’t spend all day here.”
An hour later, Maylee was appropriately attired in a dark blue-skirted suit, matching modest heels on her feet. He’d even—against Maylee’s protests—managed to get her a somber, normal purse instead of that heinous saddle-shaped monstrosity she carried around. Bagged up for the rest of the trip were several more sedate outfits, shoes, and fascinators to go with the more dressy outfits.
Griffin was pleased. She’d hardly fussed over any of the clothing, not fighting him over any of it. The entire purchase was charged to his personal account, which was why he was puzzled when Maylee paused as they left the shop and hurried back to the salesclerk. He watched as she murmured a few words to the woman and then pressed something into her hand. The salesclerk beamed and thanked her with a nod. Then, Maylee trotted back to his side.
“Sorry ’bout that, Mr. Griffin.”
He was going to be forever correcting her on his proper title, wasn’t he? But curiosity weighed heavier on him than a correction. “What was that about?” he asked as they exited the store.
“Oh, I was just giving her a tip,” Maylee said. “It’s only polite.”
He turned and frowned at her. “Why would you tip her?”
“Because she helped us?”
“Helping us should be enough of a privilege for her,” he told Maylee. Was that why the staff was so bloody friendly? Was she handing out money to all of them?
Maylee snorted. “You sure do have a high opinion of yourself, Mr. Griffin.”
Of course he did. He was a viscount as well and had once been ninth in line to the throne. Why shouldn’t he? “Exactly how much have you been spending on tipping these people?”
“Well, Mr. Griffin, Mr. Hunter always gives me money so I can tip his people. It’s the polite thing to do.” And she gave him a prim look, as if he was the one at fault in his manners.
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
She sighed. “A couple hundred. I figured I’d just expense it when we got back.”
“A couple hundred?” Out of her personal wallet? When she lived in a hovel so she could send money to her parents? And dressed like a vagrant? “Are you insane?”
She shot him another hurt look. “Excuse me for trying to be polite.”
“Look, if you’re going to hand out money to everyone, at least let it be my money.”
“That’s fine.” She turned to him and put her palm out.
He looked down at it, then at her. “I don’t have any money on me right now.”
She arched a brow. “Like I was saying?”
“Let’s just go.” He gestured for her to get back into the car, when he spotted a garish stand at the end of the street. It was covered in the bright yellow and blue Bellissime flag and he spotted touristy T-shirts. He paused. Sighed. Looked at Maylee’s frowning face. “Actually, let’s do one more stop before we go on.” He took her elbow and gently turned her until she faced the souvenir stand.
Maylee’s undignified squeal of delight was rather fun to hear, he admitted to himself.
***
Griffin was just escaping from a dinner party when his phone rang with a very distinct ringtone. “Excuse me,” he told the waiting Maylee and driver, and walked away a few steps to answer the call. “Jonathan,” Griffin said into the phone. “How goes the trip to Spain?”
“Incredible,” Jonathan said. “You really should be here. Some of the artifacts they’re finding are downright unbelievable. They’re convinced we might have enough proof in a few years to give strength to the theory that it’s truly Atlantis and not Tarshish.”
Griffin felt a surge of excitement, followed quickly by jealousy. “I wish I was there.”