CHAPTER FOUR
King Erik
I pace my hotel suite and pretend I’m not thinking about Glen getting fired and pretend Olav is not looking increasingly worried.
The problem with having a royal advisor who can anticipate your every move is that they seem to think it’s their mission to anticipate your every problem... and think they know how to solve any issues.
Mistletoe Springs Inn is one of those Victorian inns that seems intent on replicating the best of the V&A Museum in London. Mistletoe dangles from the ceiling, from the sconces, and even the pillowcases have a hundred mistletoe sprigs crammed onto the fabric.
“The owners must like Christmas,” I observe.
“The town is called Mistletoe Springs, Your Majesty.”
“One would think they might tire of Christmas.”
“An impossibility, for anyone.”
I give a weak smile.
I may have tired of Christmas.
I’m reciting platitudes when I praise the season, like an amateur actor in a play put on in an engineering school where drama has been added to everyone’s curriculum by clerical error.
A knock sounds on the door, and one of Mistletoe Springs’ many cheerful locals appears with room service.
I take a sip of tea and frown immediately. “My tea tastes like cloves.”
“I remember you enjoying Christmas.”
“That was before.”
Olav’s face sobers. All the staff loved Sissel.
My vision blurs, and I hastily change the subject. “Now Christmas is just orange and cinnamon where they don’t belong.”
I wait for Olav to laugh. By Solberg, even a polite laugh would do something to dissipate the heaviness in the room and the ache in my heart.
“It’s been three years,” Olav says.
I stiffen. “Are you saying Sissel is not worth mourning?”
“Of course not,” Olav says sharply, and I regret my words.
Olav has served me loyally for two decades. He remembers when I first started courting Sissel.
“I care about your happiness.” Olav’s voice carries the gravitas of a parliamentary address. “I doubt the late queen would want you to spend the rest of your life moping around.”
“I’m content.”
“With your garden?”
“It’s highly enjoyable.”
“There are royal women you could consider dating,” he offers, carefully avoiding eye contact with me. My blood pressure rises anyway. “Or even... men?”
The air vanishes from the room, the way it does in a heist movie when the vault door seals shut.
My throat tightens, but I force my voice to remain calm. “I never should have told you that.”
“I was your friend before I was your royal advisor,” he says softly. “We went to school together. You can confide in me.”
My heart races like it always does when school is mentioned. Olav means well, he always does, but sometimes I think he still sees me as the little boy people were all too eager to mock. Everyone wanted to prove their status was higher than a prince’s.
I look away, toward the snow-dusted windows framed by garlands and mistletoe. “Kings don’t date men.”
He leans forward. “Don’t you think showing Anders you can lead Solberg and lead the life you want would be beneficial?”
“I’m not dating again, Olav.” My voice is sharper than I intend, and for a moment, even the poinsettias seem to wilt under it.
“But—”
“I’m merely doing a few photo ops with the countess’s daughter.”
“But—”
“She’s a professor at Mistletoe Springs University. My people will believe the long-distance didn’t work out.”
“But—”
“Do you have any idea how far apart Nevada and Solberg are?”
“I am exceedingly aware,” he says. “I recently took an excruciatingly long plane ride.”
“I have no interest in romance.”
“You seemed pretty interested in that cowboy,” Olav says.
Glen’s warm eyes flash through my mind, and heat skitters through my body, like someone’s set it ablaze. I squirm. “There was a cowboy? I-I don’t recall.”
Olav lets out an amused laugh.
By Solberg, does that mean that everyone could tell? Sven? Anders? Glen Garland himself?
Something curdles behind my ribs, and I pour more tea into my cup, even though I hate it, even though the brown liquid looks as bleak as it tastes.
When my hands shake, I regret that I decided to pick up the only item in the room filled with hot liquid.
I shouldn’t have told Olav. I shouldn’t have.
Though to be honest, I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t know. He went to school with me. If I heard what people said about me, he heard more. Most people are more comfortable talking about you when you’re not in the same room.
Life is filled with pretending I’m not someone I am and pretending I’m interested in things I’m not.
It’s feigning disinterest and stomping down emotions.
It’s making speeches about things that only sort of interest you, where you’re conscious that people don’t really care for you, and every part of your appearance will be dissected at length, so you better make yourself perfect.
“I know you,” Olav says. “I’ve seen you smitten. I remember when you fell in love with Sissel.”
I huff out an exasperated sigh. “I’m not smitten.”
Olav raises his hands. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were. But I saw the way you looked at him. And moreover, I saw the way he looked at you.”
“He did?” Something sizzles inside me, and a smile swerves onto my face before I force it down.
For a moment, Glen and I are speaking again, and my nerves are alive with the wild energy that makes me unable to stop smiling. The world is umber eyes and a stubbled face and a wide sturdy body. The world is capable hands and a baritone voice with a cowboy drawl.
It doesn’t matter. I’m not romantic.
I don’t pine over cowboys I barely know. I refuse to confuse my nation as I pursue desires I’ve kept locked up.
I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “I got Anders out of his room, at least.”
“That’s something,” Olav agrees.
I want it to be enough.
Sulky teen boys need more than trips to the other side of the world, but I don’t know what to give him. Anders is my son, but the cheerful boy I remember is gone, and I don’t know how to make this new one happy.
And how can he be? His mother died, and the global media is focused on him.
“Do you have another suggestion for tomorrow?” I ask, to show that my nerves are not doing some sort of advanced acrobatic routine, and that I am calm and capable.
“I can always contact the cowboy and ask him to be your fake date.” Olav winks, then leaves the room.
The door clicks shut, and all the thoughts I don’t want to have rush in. Mistletoe sways above me, daring me to imagine scenarios kings have no business imagining.