Their Clueless Alpha Princess Chapter 10

Their Clueless Alpha Princess Chapter 10

Thea’s POV

Soren’s face changed.

The indifference cracked – just for a second. His brow tightened. His gold eyes dropped to our joined hands, then snapped back to mine with a sharpness I couldn’t read.

He grabbed my wrist. Pulled my hand toward him, turned it over, and pressed his thumb into my palm.

Nothing.

No jolt. No current. Just his dry, warm skin against mine.

He tried again. Squeezed harder. Still nothing.

I yanked my hand free. “What are you doing?”

His jaw went tight. He stared at his own hand for a beat, then closed his fist.

“Your static electricity is insane,” I said, rubbing the inside of my wrist. “Do you shuffle your feet on carpet all day?”

He didn’t answer. Whatever he’d been looking for, he hadn’t found it, and the frustration showed in the hard set of his mouth before he smoothed it away.

I straightened my bag strap. We still had terms to sort out, and one strange handshake wasn’t going to derail the plan.

“Here’s how it works,” I said. “Juno and I will handle the script. We’ll draft a modern adaptation of L’Avare and have it ready within two weeks. After that, we rehearse twice a week – you and Ash show up, learn your lines, and don’t miss a session. As for the princess – I’ll pass along anything I find. You hear from me first.”

Soren uncurled his fist slowly. Looked at me.

“Fine.”

One word. No pushback, no questions about the play or the schedule. Just fine, like the entire conversation had already left his mind and he was still thinking about whatever had happened between our palms.

I waited for him to say something else. He didn’t.

“Then I’ll see you at rehearsal.”

I turned and walked back through the fire door before the silence could get any heavier.

The diner smelled like burned coffee and hamburger grease.

My palm still tingled where Soren’s hand had been. I flexed my fingers once, shook it off, and clocked in at four. Tied my apron over yesterday’s jeans and started bussing tables. Maple Street Diner wasn’t much. Cracked vinyl booths, a jukebox that hadn’t worked in years, and a mounted TV that played the local news on permanent loop. But it was the kind of place where everyone ended up, which meant everyone talked.

Today, they were talking about one thing.

“The Solvane brothers – you know, the ones from that rich family? – they’re looking for some billionaire’s granddaughter. Right here in town.”

“A million dollars. Can you imagine?”

“My neighbor’s daughter was adopted. She’s eighteen. You think she could be-”

“Get in line, honey. Every mother in this zip code thinks her kid’s the princess.”

I refilled coffee mugs. Cleared plates. Wiped down tables. Even Deb behind the counter had a theory – she was convinced the girl worked at the gas station on Fifth.

I listened. The million-dollar search was the biggest thing to hit this town since the high school football team made regionals. Everyone had a theory. Everyone had a candidate. By the end of the dinner rush, I had half a dozen names scribbled on a napkin -girls in the area who were eighteen, adopted or fostered, no clear family history.

I pulled out my phone during my five-minute break and texted Soren.

I have a list. Names and locations. When do you want it?

The phone rang before I could put it in my pocket.

“Saturday.” No greeting. “Three o’clock. The parking lot behind the public library. You’ll come with me to verify them.”

“Come with you where, exactly?”

“Their addresses. Don’t be late.”

He hung up.

I stared at the screen. Not a request. Not even a conversation. A time, a place, and a command, delivered like I was a subordinate who’d been given an assignment.

I put the phone away and slid it into my apron pocket. Saturday at three. I could manage that. It was part of the deal, and deals were the only currency I had.

The evening rush hit around six. The diner filled up fast – families sliding into booths, regulars claiming their usual stools at the counter, a group of construction workers ordering enough pie to feed a football team. I moved between tables on autopilot, refilling coffees and swapping menus, the rhythm of the work settling me back into something that felt normal.

I was carrying two plates of the daily special toward table seven when I looked down and realized the customer was Vesper.

He sat alone by the window. A book lay open beside his water glass, and his dark hair was pushed back neatly off his forehead. He wore a navy pullover with the sleeves folded once at the wrists – simple, clean, the kind of effortless that probably wasn’t effortless at all.

I set his plate down. He looked up and smiled.

“Thank you, Thea.”

His voice was warm. Not warm the way Ash was warm – calculated, performative, a grin with teeth. This was gentler. A real thank-you, the kind that actually noticed the person holding the plate. The contrast with the voice that had barked Saturday, three o’clock, don’t be late at me twenty minutes ago landed harder than it should have.

“You’re welcome.” I started to turn, but he spoke again.

“I didn’t realize you worked here.”

“Four days a week.”

“And you’re at the library every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon.” He tilted his head. “That’s a full schedule.”

I blinked. He’d noticed my library visits. Vesper sat three rows from me in every class we shared, and until last week I wasn’t even sure he knew my first name. The fact that he’d been paying attention, quiet and unhurried, made my chest go warm.

“I’m saving up,” I said. “For college. Every shift goes straight into the account.”

“Veritas?”

My hand paused on the edge of his table. “How did you -”

“You borrow preparation guides from the reference section.” He picked up his water glass. “I see them stacked on your table.”

My face went hot. Three years of watching him from across hallways, and he’d been watching me back. At least in some small, careful way.

“I noticed you’ve been reading Amara Voss.” He smiled. “She’s one of my favorites.”

My heart did a small, stupid flip. He liked the same author. He’d noticed.

“This might interest you, then.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a slim paperback, the same cover I’d been staring at for the past month. “She’s doing a signing this Saturday at the bookshop on Elm Street. I was thinking of going.” He met my eyes. Would you like to come with me?”

Saturday.

Three o’clock. Parking lot. Don’t be late.

But this was Vesper. Vesper, who remembered what I read. Who noticed my schedule without being asked. Who said thank you like the words still meant something.

Was this a date?