CHAPTER TWO
King Erik
A shatter sounds, then a tree crashes through the glass wall. It sprays glass shards and ornaments.
I freeze.
Because really, there’s no way a tree is actually careening through the glass wall. That’s not something trees do. This particular one seems to be ridden by a cowboy in a red sweater and a cowboy hat. The same cowboy I noticed moments earlier.
“Your majesty!” Sven flings himself on me.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever been thrown onto the ground by a bulky ex-wrestler, very currently capable bodyguard.
It’s an experience I do not recommend.
Vehemently, in fact.
Sven’s muscular body is massive, as if he’s considered the afterimages of Popeye after a few dozen cans of spinach and laughed hysterically, deeming him an amateur who belongs on the easy side of the gym.
I’m slammed against the floor, then pelted with shattering glass. Ornaments roll around me in the cheerful manner normally found in Christmas commercials, clinking and clanking every time they bump into a piece of glass.
I am living what may be my least dignified moment.
It had to happen at some point.
Sven moves, and I expect to no longer feel crushed. Instead, he’s wriggling up my body, then he burrows his torso over my head.
It’s...
Well, sadly it’s more action than I’ve had since Sissel passed.
All his body is currently pressed against mine, and I somehow wish the palace had not approved every new piece of exercise equipment and kilo of protein powder.
Anders is also pinned to the ground. Another bodyguard has helpfully tackled him. Other guards are at the fresh hole in the glass wall. I hope they can prevent anyone from recording this incident.
If I didn’t know better, I would have thought we’d wandered onto an American football field.
“We should never have left Solberg,” Olav mutters, uninjured and unimpressed.
Shards glitter across the floor, surrounding the cowboy.
Dark eyes framed by long dark lashes widen in horror, and I hope it’s out of sympathy for my current undignified position and not some visceral recoil of my facial features.
Most of the men I see are my employees or my subjects or ministers from foreign lands with some heavily ornamented woman clutching their arm.
I think my facial features are fine. The paparazzi who surround my palace seem enthusiastic about them, and I haven’t yet had a royal portrait artist complain or suddenly decide that an abstract rendering would better suit my castle’s painting gallery.
Some of my weak-chinned, balding second cousins in charge of other countries have gone through that experience and have pretended they intended their artists to convey them as various colored blobs even while their faces are flushed, and their eyes downcast, all the better to hide their newly appeared red-rims.
This man is handsome, and my heart does a wild beating thing that’s entirely inappropriate. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, which I suppose is a thing people do in Nevada. It’s appealing. Like a crown, but bigger, and more masculine.
Stubble lines his face, making each chiseled cheekbone stand out, as if there was any doubt that this man is utterly, devastatingly attractive.
My nerves do some sort of zinging thing, and the world is suddenly too hot, as if we’ve landed in Maui instead of Mistletoe Springs. Olav’s eyes narrow.
I hate it. I hate that I told Olav once that I was bisexual. I hate that he knows and that he thinks I should be doing unkingly things like sowing oats or whatever it is people do in agriculture-themed sexual promiscuity.
The man’s cheekbones are rosier than before. Crashing through a glass wall must be a suboptimal career move.
Or worse.
Is he hurt? I scramble up, my gaze fixed on those umber eyes, that dark, tousled hair, those lips that...
I wrench my head away.
I’m not gazing at his lips. Obviously. I’m not.
I don’t get randomly attracted to strangers in faraway lands. The whole reason I’m here is because I don’t want to date again.
But my cells prickle all the same, and I feel discombobulated, as if they think I should go to him.
“On behalf of Mistletoe Springs Airport, Your Majesty,” a female voice says somewhere above me. “I apologize. I assure you that...”
“Trees don’t generally crash through glass walls?” I tilt my gaze at Sonja, our airport guide.
Her face grimaces. “Yes, that.”
“This man is one of our contractors,” Sonja says. “Not a security threat.”
“I hope I didn’t squash you, Your Majesty,” Sven says from above me.
“I’m fine,” I say valiantly, even though my body aches. Not that I’ll admit it, in case the cowboy is listening. Not that I would care if the cowboy is listening. In fact, for his hearing ability purposes, I hope he can hear me. I wouldn’t want to wish sudden hearing loss on someone.
“I’m so sorry,” the cowboy says in a deep baritone with a twang that is distinctly non-Solbergian. “I was hanging mistletoe and reckon someone crashed into my ladder...”
I close my eyes, then tilt my head up to Sven. “Can you please get off me?”
“Um...”
“Assassins generally don’t use Christmas trees,” I tell him.
Sven sighs above me, then lumbers up. He offers a hand which I don’t take, then regret it when I slide on an ornament. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are one of those shades found on berries.
“I’m no assassin,” the man says, his umber eyes widening as he scrambles to his feet. “I’m a contractor. Glen Garland. Of Garland Contracting. We always leave a sparkle behind.”
He glances down at the shattered mess around us and cringes. A startled laugh escapes me.
Crushed ornaments cling to the man’s sweater.
“You’re sparkling too,” I say.
“I’m really sorry, Your Highness.”
Sven’s scowl deepens, a difficult feat given his resting glower face, and he clears his throat.
“Or lordship?” Glen asks, his voice rising in a way I don’t like.
I saw him in the lounge before he noticed me. His strength, his calmness, his Christmas cheer radiated from him.
“The King of Solberg is not a lord,” Sven says sternly. His hands have somehow made their way to his waist.
“Though I am a gentleman.”
“Your kingship?” Glen asks with increasing horror.
“That’s not important,” I say, conscious of my staff jerking their heads toward me.
Because of course, the way I am addressed is important.
“We’re not in Solberg,” I say somewhat defensively.
It’s not like I told him to call me by my first name or anything.
And the odd thing was, I was tempted.
He studies me, and my nerves feel alive, like they’ve been plugged into voltage.
“I’m fine. You have some, uh...” I gesture vaguely toward his face.
“What?”
I reach forward and pluck something from his cheek. I twirl the greenery. “Mistletoe.”
His eyes widen.
Mine widen as well.
Mistletoe might be something you can get in the grocery store, or wherever people buy greenery... Not everyone has a greenhouse. But mistletoe is really more. Anyone marginally acquainted with Christmas traditions knows its association with romance.
My fingers shake. I am not holding mistletoe and thinking of kissing Glen. Naturally not.
Glen’s eyes are soft, and I step closer before I can stop myself, then notice that I’m glittering.
I swipe stray sparkles from my suit jacket. For some reason, his lips twitch.
“Let me help.” He moves his hands to my suit and brushes the heavy gray fabric. Sparkles glide in the air.
“Crushed Christmas ornaments,” he explains.
“Ooh.” The word is revoltingly close to a moan, and Sven immediately moves closer.
“No touching,” Sven tells Glen sternly. “This man is royalty!”
Glen’s cheeks redden. “I’m sorry. I’ve never met a king before.” He drops his hands, and I resist the impulse to tell him he can keep touching me.
I catch Olav’s incredulous gaze. Even Anders looks startled.
I step away from Glen. “It’s fine, Sven.”
My bodyguard continues to glare.
“Glen! What did you do?” An angry voice shouts, then a brash man with a garish suit and gelled blond hair steps through the gap in the wall.
Glen’s eyes round, and I want to tell him it will be okay.
Instead, he turns from me. “Uh, hi, Mr. Brenner.”
Sven clears his throat and leads me away. I turn my head to watch Glen.
“Reckon I’m fired?”
“You reckon correctly,” the brash gentleman referred to as Mr. Brenner says.
I freeze and turn back to Glen. His cheeks are scarlet, and I’m ushered away by my team before I can figure out what to say.
I should have said something.