CHAPTER FIVE
King Erik
After an afternoon of sightseeing and scanning the streets for a certain brown-haired cowboy and telling myself I don’t care when I don’t spot him, it’s time for the restaurant.
I’ll formally announce that I’m dating the countess’s daughter to Lena Haugeland, then we can fly back to Solberg. Obviously, Olav’s suggestion that I fake date Glen Garland was a joke.
Still, I wish I’d seen him.
I shouldn’t feel lonely for a man I barely know.
Mistletoe Springs Restaurant is on Main Street, and it seems as proud of its location as most of the other establishments. There’s Mistletoe Springs Barber Shop, Mistletoe Springs Talent Agency, and Mistletoe Springs Movie Theater.
The restaurant is more crowded than I expected, and happy people wearing cowboy hats chatter and eat.
Waiters attired in crisp uniforms wind through the tables, carrying platters of interesting-looking food.
Everything is wood and red, as if the owner was determined to fill the place with as much warmth as possible.
A large fireplace sits in one corner of the room, flames leaping to the fiddle music streaming from the speakers.
We weave through the tables. Sonja, the airport worker who guided us through the airport, sits at a leather booth. Beside her is a woman with short hair and a green vest... They laugh and smile, their faces close. Clearly, they’re excellent friends.
In the next moment, they’re... kissing.
Yes, kissing.
In the middle of a restaurant.
In the middle of a date, presumably.
I collide straight into a tray of Christmas cocktails.
A crash sounds, a waiter looks distraught, and shards of glass, sticky with rosemary sprigs and some sort of red liquid, are suddenly at my feet.
“I’m terribly sorry!” I apologize to the wide-eyed waiter. “Excruciatingly sorry. Olav, please ensure we pay for these.”
“Father?” Anders’ eyebrows climb up. “Are you... fine?”
Generally, I do not crash into waiters. Generally, I’m not particularly clumsy, and certainly never in a spectacular sense.
“I’m fine,” I blurt, falsely cheerful. “Perfectly fine!”
Anders frowns, and something inside me sloshes unsteadily. I’m out of my body, as if my insides have liquified, and I’ve drifted from it.
I eye the broken glass on the floor. “I’m fine. Those cocktails are not.”
For some reason, Olav smirks. He ushers Lena Haugeland, the reporter, into a private room in the back of the restaurant.
Anders gives me a strange look.
“Did you, er, see Sonja?” My voice drops to a whisper. “From the airport?”
His eyes round. “Is this about the fact that you saw her out on a date with a woman?” He steps back. “Are you homophobic, Father?”
“No!” I say hastily. “I’m not! You can ask Olav.”
He gives me another sneer, no doubt one I deserve.
“You really don’t mind?” My heart bangs against my ribs.
Anders’ stare is sullen.
I hold my breath.
“Of course I don’t care,” Anders says. “It doesn’t matter. You’re so uncool, Father.”
Then Anders storms toward the private room.
I stare after him.
He doesn’t care.
He doesn’t.
My son is good and kind and wonderful.
And if I wanted to...
I stumble after him, my pulse skittering faster than my steps.
Olav emerges from the private room. He smirks at me. “Come on, Your Majesty.”
“I, uh—” I doubt I’ve ever been as inarticulate.
Anders doesn’t care.
Would he be fine if I were dating a man?
But I’m certain I already have my answer. My cells zing through my body, and it’s all I can do to avoid colliding into anything else.
“You can say, ‘Olav, you really know best.’ Or even... ‘Olav, let me give you the Solbergian National Award’.”
I open my mouth to contradict him, then I shut it.
Because maybe Olav did know best. Maybe I should have listened to him. For the first time, I regret this whole charade.
Maybe someone else is out there for me. And if that person happens to be a man... maybe that wouldn’t be terrible. Maybe it would only be wonderful that I found someone.
I slide into a seat in the private room.
The countess’s daughter remains late.
I resist the impulse to squirm in my seat and pretend I don’t notice people’s gazes flick to me with ever-increasing regularity. I insisted we go to Nevada. Only Olav knows the announcement I’m about to make.
My leg jiggles, and I press a palm to my knee.
Kings are cool and collected. Regal and resolute in the face of enemies. Leaders and representatives of their countries.
I won’t make a fool of Solberg. Not when Solberg is the best country in the world. Not when my people don’t deserve that.
My gold-and-platinum watch, passed down from my great-grandfather, gleams. The long hand is dangerously over where it should be. But then, decades-old watches, even ridiculously expensive ones, might not tick with commendable regularity.
Olav, Anders, and the journalist I invited sit across from me, expectant and confused. The staff have put up a podium on the balcony, and we’ll move there once the countess’s daughter arrives.
If she arrives.
In truth, we were supposed to meet earlier today. She e-mailed to let me know she was running late, and I told her to meet us here. Honestly, I wasn’t eager to spend my short time in Nevada making small talk with her.
But she hasn’t arrived.
Lena Haugeland is expecting me to make a major announcement. Most likely she thinks it’s some Chamber of Commerce thing. I’ll shock her instead.
Coming to Nevada made sense. If I’m going to be in a fake relationship with someone, I have to actually spend time with that person. No one gets into fake long-distance relationships. Well, no one who has graduated high school, at least.
This is the right thing to do. Naturally.
But suddenly Olav’s arguments invade my mind.
Is it possible I was... wrong?
I’m never wrong.
But I have the potential to be. Certainly, my calculus teacher would vehemently agree. My ultimate top score took a ridiculous amount of work.
I’ve avoided criticism. Solberg is thriving, the people are satisfied.
Maybe Anders is moody, but he’s succeeding at school. His favorite subject is chemistry. He got his mind from his mother.
The ma?tre d’ sweeps through our room. “We are exceedingly delighted to have you here, Your Majesty. It is our utmost honor.”
My pulse hammers, and I smile. Kings don’t panic.
From the raised eyebrow of Lena Haugeland and the fact she chooses just then to scribble something into her phone, I’m fairly certain that I’m unsuccessful.
I suck in a deep breath and fling him my best pasted-on smile. “You have a very... decorated restaurant.”
The ma?tre d’ claps his hands, delighted.
Will Miss Haugeland write an article about me in the next hour about how I’m a failure as a king and dragged my royal staff and son and journalists to Mistletoe Springs for no reason at all?
Anders scowls, unimpressed by the perfect decor, perfect lighting, perfect fruit, and cheese platter.
I fiddle with my bowtie.
The ma?tre d’ steps forward with a regal manner that would have made my etiquette tutor clap with joy. “I personally inspected each grape to ensure appropriate plumpness.”
“They’re delicious,” Lena Haugeland assures him while she pops another into her mouth.
“Any word from my other guest?” I ask, attempting to banish the wobble from my voice.
“I shall check, Your Majesty.” The ma?tre d’ walks backwards at a brisk pace, bowing, then leaves the room.
Olav types something into his phone, and I pretend I am not deeply mortified.
Please let Olav fix this. Please let Olav fix this. Please let Olav fix this.
Will Lena Haugeland report that I flew her and my staff across the Atlantic, and across most of a continent, for nothing?
My nerves zing. The cowboy and his warm eyes and deep, rumbly voice rush back, uninvited.
I have an heir. I could...
My throat thickens. The idea is absurd. No king has ever dated a man.
But I could technically, couldn’t I?
Then I remember I’m flying home tomorrow. I’ll never see Glen Garland again.