CHAPTER SIX
Glen
I park my truck outside, then burst through Mistletoe Springs Restaurant. I remove my cowboy hat, then put it on again. The last time I was here, I was with Dean.
Well, no reason to muse over that.
Dean is looking down from heaven, probably thinking I don’t look prepared for my interview.
I square my shoulders, then stride up to the hostess. I keep my hat on my head, just in case I’ve managed to give myself a bad hair day by pulling it on and off with such frequency.
My shirt is crisp, my brown suit is steamed, my orange tie is knotted, and it don’t matter if I’m nervous.
I’m gonna win this contract. Yes, siree.
“I have an interview,” I announce to the hostess. “It’s in a private room.”
The hostess flashes a smile, clutching a phone to her ear. “The private rooms are in the back. I’ll bring you over in a second...”
“No need.” I weave through the restaurant, waving at Casey and her girlfriend Sonja.
Finally, I’m at the back of the restaurant. There’s more than one private room, and I frown. I don’t want to disturb someone’s birthday celebration or something.
Just then, a door opens, and the ma?tre d’ exits.
“Is this where the fancy meeting is at?” I ask.
“I’ll say. Come in. You’re late.” He drags me inside, then I’m in a room with four other people.
I recognize one of them at once.
The King of Solberg sits at the table.
For a moment, he stares at me in shock.
I don’t blame him. I’m not supposed to be in the presence of royals. We just don’t got them in this corner of Nevada, and they don’t seem to want to make the long journey here.
I’ve got no idea why the ma?tre d’ put me in this room, but I know a mistake when I come across one.
I slink back toward the door.
A smile breaks over the king’s handsome face, and he looks beatific, like the pictures in churches of people on clouds, then leans forward and speaks to another guy in a suit. “Olav, you’re spectacular.”
The king winds his way around the table, turning to the ma?tre d’. “We’re all here! Let’s move this to the balcony.”
“Wait! Your Majesty!” Olav, the guy he was complimenting, waves his arms around, but the ma?tre d’ ushers him briskly outside to the balcony.
“I didn’t expect you, Glen,” the king tells me, his eyes soft.
Excellent. I’m not crazy.
“I’m a bit confused,” I admit.
It’s not like the king doesn’t know who I am. Whatever this is, it’s not a case of mistaken identity.
“That’s perfectly understandable,” the king says in a regal voice.
His eyes soften, and I’m not getting lost in those shards of blue and green. I’m not.
“Let’s go,” he says, heading for the balcony.
“You want me to go out there with you?”
“Yes. But don’t worry. I’ll do the talking. Just agree with everything I say.”
“Uh... This won’t take long, will it?”
His shoulders slump, but he gazes at me in a reassuring manner. “I’ll get you out of here soon. I promise, Glen.”
We exchange smiles again, then go outside.
The staff have turned the balcony into a winter wonderland. The balcony has views of Mistletoe Springs Mountains. Lilac and pink streak against the sky.
Winter ain’t most people’s favorite time, but it’s always been mine. There’s nothing like the crisp cool air that causes your nostrils to constrict.
Icicles glisten from the balcony’s railing.
Three people are seated facing a podium. Various Christmas treats are placed before them, and one woman munches happily on a gingerbread cookie.
Reckon they taste better than the kind I make.
“I’ll introduce you quickly,” the king says. “Glen, this is my son, Prince Anders.”
“Hello, Your Majesty,” I tell him, proud that I’ve remembered he’s got one of those fancy titles.
The prince’s eyes widen.
“That’s not what you call him,” Olav says, his demeanor outraged.
Have to say, I’m not crazy about him.
The king clears his throat.
“We really must speak,” Olav says.
“This is my royal advisor, Olav.” King Erik introduces us.
“Hi! I’m Glen Garland.”
“I know,” Olav mumbles. He looks at the king. “Perhaps if we step inside...”
“Mr. Garland has a busy schedule,” the king says, and I shoot him a grateful smile.
His eyes soften, and he gazes happily at me.
“By Solberg,” Olav murmurs.
King Erik sighs and crosses his arms. “Tell me what the issue is. Make it quick.”
Olav glances at the woman beside him. “I can’t...”
King Erik smiles. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this, Olav. All thanks to you.”
“And this is Lena Haugeland.” King Erik flourishes a hand to the woman. “She’s a reporter for Solberg National Media.”
“Wow.”
The woman smiles at me.
With that, King Erik marches to the podium. I stand awkwardly beside him. It’s strange, but I gotta say, I am pleased to see him. He’s been on my mind.
“Thank you for being here,” King Erik says in a manner that verges on the dramatic.
I grin. Casual, he ain’t.
“I am announcing that I am in love,” King Erik continues, shooting me a mischievous grin.
My throat dries.
I’m not jealous.
Nope. I’m not.
Of course, some person probably snatched the king up.
And he’s probably straight anyway. Though I sort of think that he’s likely bisexual.
If I didn’t know any better, I would say we had ourselves some chemistry, but reckon people always think that about him.
It don’t mean anything. Besides, I ain’t looking.
I’m especially not looking for dates in European royal families.
I look around the balcony, wondering who this mystery person is that the king is going on about, and when he’ll get to the part where he wants me to support him. Is this something to do with the restaurant renovation? Is the king buying it instead of that Vegas guy?
King Erik pauses his speech. His lower lip trembles, his face is paler than before, like he wants to match the snow, and his hand is sort of shaky.
If I were closer, and if it were appropriate—and I know it’s not, I don’t need no etiquette master to tell me that, I would want to rest my hand over his.
But my hands ain’t got magical healing powers, even if I’m mighty good at constructing things.
I chew my lower lip, and he meets my gaze. Though I don’t say nothing, a moment later, he’s drawing in a breath of that cool, crisp, delicious Nevada air, and squaring his shoulders, all-royal like.
“I am in a romantic relationship with Mr. Glen Garland.” King Erik gestures to me with a flourish of his hand.
My eyes round.
His do not.
And then, just in case I might think I’m hallucinating, which is the sort of thing that’s been known to happen in the desert, though that’s when it’s hot and summer and not when it’s cool with a couple of inches of snow on the ground, he takes my hand.
“I—”
Nothing comes out.
I try again. “Afoiheofja.”
His eyes widen this time, but his lower lip does this tugging-up thing, just on one side, as if to tempt people to reach out to touch it with their tongue or something.
Not me, naturally.
Just other, imaginary people.
I mean, they could exist, obviously.
You don’t got to be imaginary to want to do something like that. That’s for sure. Not where His Majesty is concerned.
He leans toward me, and for a wild moment, I think he’s going to kiss my cheek or something. Or like, suck on my earlobe. My skin heats automatically, as if all my blood is rushing to the part of the body he’s near, like they want to be closer to him.
Can’t say I blame them, even if I’m currently wobbly.
“This is when you agree with me,” he whispers.
“To them?”
He nods slowly, and I study his pale blue eyes, and the way shards of pale green and pale blue shimmer from his pupils, in a way that I could only replicate if I took out Max’s 1000 Crayola crayon pack, and maybe not even then.
Definitely not even then.
I’m no artist, and King Erik... Well, King Erik is art.
“You need me to be your fake date?” I whisper.
He nods.
“They’re waiting for you,” he whispers, his voice affecting me as much as every other part of his body.
“Okey-dokie,” I say faintly, proud that I’m sort of speaking in real words.
I turn to the others.
For some reason, the king needs my help. I can do that. I can help him.
The world’s difficult enough as it is, and if there’s some little thing I can do to brighten someone’s day... well, I’d be a fool not to do it.
I tangle my fingers with his.
I haven’t held someone’s hand since Dean died. Well, I guess I hold Max’s hand if we’ve got a big street to cross, but that don’t really count.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and I nod.
I don’t tell him it’s nothing, because it’s not.
“You love each other?” the reporter with the brown hair asks.
My fingers clench, but I nod. “Yes.”
“Does this mean you’re engaged?” the reporter asks.
“Yes,” I say, beaming at her.
King Erik stiffens beside me. Was I not supposed to say that?
I look at the reporter who shoots a happy gleeful smile at me. The royal advisor looks less happy, and in the next second, he topples to the ground.