CHAPTER SEVEN
King Erik
No, no, no.
Glen Garland just announced to Lena Haugeland, of Solberg National Media, that I am engaged to him.
And I have the distinct impression from Olav’s reaction that Glen was not in fact my fake date.
“Mr. Garland, how does it feel to become Prince Consort? As an American, are you prepared to take on the responsibility to represent the nation of Solberg?”
Glen’s knuckles whiten. “I, um—”
“Well, that was a wonderful press conference,” I say in my brightest voice. “We need to leave. Thank you, Miss Haugeland. Anders, please join us.”
With that, I drag Anders from the balcony, still holding onto Glen’s hand. Both Glen and Anders look stunned. It’s an emotion I’m familiar with.
I hurry through the private room. Only once we’re in the hallway do I stop.
“What was that, Father?” Anders asks.
“Well...”
“Are you engaged?”
“Naturally not!”
I turn to Glen. “I thought my royal advisor arranged you to be here.”
Glen narrows his eyes, and I shudder beneath their sudden intensity. I’m not used to being besieged by umber and gold. Most people’s eyes in Solberg are icy blue or green.
“You thought I was your fake date, huh?”
I give an awkward chuckle and try to pretend I haven’t placed myself in one of those North American tornadoes that fling people up, up, up until they can’t break through, and the only end is falling to their deaths.
“It was foolish of me,” I admit, but when I’m brave enough to look at him, his gaze is kind.
He feels steady. A solid muscular body with strength and a gentle demeanor and a commitment to making people happy.
Even though not going along with my plan would have been better for everyone.
A woman with blond hair rushes past in irritation. Her hair bounces, and her turquoise dress brings out the color of her eyes. She looks like an angry Grace Kelly, or more specifically, like the countess’s daughter.
Sven probably told her she was too late.
“Reckon that was your real fake date,” Glen says. “I’m sorry you didn’t have a chance to meet her.”
“I’m not,” I admit, and perhaps my jaw moves up.
We exchange smiles, and despite everything, something warms my heart.
“So, you’re not, uh... straight?” Glen asks finally.
I stiffen.
“Yes, Father. Do you favor men?” Anders asks, and guilt twines around every cell.
I close my eyes. “I loved your mother very much, Anders. You know that.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Father.”
I force myself to look at Anders. “I’m bi. I didn’t mean to tell you this way. Olav knows about me and suggested I be honest.”
Emotions war on my son’s face. Finally, he swallows them, finding his royal composure. When he speaks, the sarcasm is evident. “Wow, Father. You tell me to behave and now look at you. You’ll have to pretend to be engaged.”
My eyes widen.
Glen’s eyes widen.
“What?” we both exclaim in unison.
An angry Asian man walks out of another room.
“Oh, no,” Glen says. “I-I have to go.”
With that, he rushes past Anders and me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Anders again.
Anders doesn’t exactly smile, but he doesn’t seem furious. “I’m glad you’re not homophobic.”
The air thickens around us. “Twenty years ago...”
He rolls his eyes. “I get it. You’re old. This will be a disaster, you know.”
“Will it be?” I ask absentmindedly, my gaze focused on Glen Garland and the man he’s speaking to.
He’s a businessman, and not a happy one.
“You were my interviewee,” the businessman hollers at Glen, and I hate it.
I hate the sound, I hate the way the businessman’s face contorts into a sneer, I hate the way Glen’s shoulders droop.
I find myself walking toward Glen.
“Father, that’s none of your business!” Anders exclaims.
“It’s my fault.”
Anders doesn’t contradict me, and acid prickles my throat.
I’m tempted to return to my hotel suite and ask the staff for extra covers to bury myself under.
“Glen Garland, at your service,” Glen tells the businessman. “I’m awfully sorry for the delay.”
“I don’t hire contractors who waste my time,” the businessman says.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” I say quickly.
Glen’s eyes widen, and I hope I’m not making everything worse.
“He went into the wrong room,” I continue. “It was a simple mix-up.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Glen says eagerly.
We gaze at the businessman.
“You’re out of luck. I’m using my Vegas contractor.” The businessman marches away, and I hate the way Glen’s shoulders slump. They only go down a couple of millimeters, but I notice all the same, and abhor it.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer out to Glen.
“Not your fault, Your Majesty,” Glen says. He nods to Anders. “Nice speaking to you, Prince.”
I suspect listening to awkward sexuality revelations don’t precisely count as pleasant conversations, but he’s more of a gentleman than anyone I met at court.
Then he leaves.
Despite what he said, this is my fault.
I remain melancholic when we return to the hotel.
I am not having a nervous breakdown.
I am a king.
But I’ve never felt less royal in my life. Guilt embeds itself into each cell, and I lie on the couch in the suite as Olav paces the room.
“Remember when I kept saying it wasn’t too late?” Olav asks finally.
I straighten. “Yes.”
“At this point, it is too late.”
My shoulders slump, then I glower. “There must be a way. Find it. Execute it.” I wave my hand around. “Do your royal advising thing.”
“I can call Miss Haugeland and tell her that this man misspoke, Your Majesty.”
I nod eagerly. “Do that.”
“But it won’t work. Unless you want me to tell Miss Haugeland you mistook a tree-delivery man for your fiancée.”
I leap from the couch. “He’s a contractor. He runs his own business!”
Olav bites his lower lip. Maybe it’s to keep from smiling. But in the next moment he’s huffing and rolling his eyes again, and I hate it.
Olav is not being helpful.
It doesn’t matter. I can come up with ideas. In fact...
“Fear not,” I assure him, and my shoulders might be expanding slightly. “I have an idea.”
“Oh, no. Not another one of your ideas.”
I scowl at Olav. “Give me a few hours.”
“Don’t contact the cowboy. You’ll just worsen the situation.”
I cross my arms. Olav is not being helpful. Of course, I’m going to contact Glen. I just got him fired. I have a solution that will help us both. “Goodbye, Olav.”
“But—” Olav’s skin turns a vague puce color, like he’s trying to see if he can self-explode.
“You are my royal subject, and I command you to leave.”
For a moment, there’s silence.
I should apologize.
I should take it back.
But I don’t want to. I want to know if Glen likes my idea. I want to make sure he’s not harmed from losing his chance to work for that atrocious businessman.
“Fine, but I’m slamming the door,” Olav says.
I promptly stuff my fingers in my ears.
Olav storms out, and from the force and speed with which Olav moves the door, I’m confident he’s definitely, definitely slamming it hard.
Once the room is empty, I hurry to the closet. I find my coat, then hat. I push my hat down as far as it will go, give my surroundings a once-over, then tap something into my phone.
Please, please, please.
Apparently, Glen Garland lives at 3 Valley Hope Street, Mistletoe Springs.
“Thank you, phone.”
I consider sneaking out the door, but I know my staff too well to attempt that. Loud Christmas rock n’ roll music sounds from the floor below: Sven is exercising.
I open the second-story window. Stars twinkle overhead. Victorian buildings are wonderful, but I’ve never fully appreciated their attention to porches and facades. I appreciate it now.
I crawl out the window, then walk on the snowy ledge. Cold crisp air is around me, like I’m back in Solberg. I don’t want to attend the Royal Christmas Ball in Solberg with a broken leg and hesitate.
Fortunately, there are garlands all over the building. After making certain that one garland is attached firmly to the building, I tie it around my waist, then I jump into a particularly fluffy snowdrift.
I’m successful.
I’m free.
I beam at the sparkling night sky, then fiddle with my phone, since there’s probably a better way of reaching Glen than walking three miles through the snow late at night.
“I found you.” Sven’s deep voice is behind me, and I jump.
Oh, no.
I swing around. My chief bodyguard looks triumphant, like a cat just about to lay a mouse at its owner’s feet.
In this case, I’m the mouse.
“You did find me. I am about to get something called a rideshare.”
“No, you’re not.” Sven puts his walkie-talkie to his face, and it crackles ominously. “I require the royal limo and a full bodyguard entourage with the bulletproof cars. Formation alpha, stat!”
“Maybe we can just share one?”
Sven looks at me aghast. “A Solbergian monarch travels in style and security.”
My shoulders droop, before I remember that a Solbergian monarch’s shoulders also never droop.
Bodyguards are already filing around me, their fedoras in place. They usher me to the bulletproof limo.
It’s too much.
It’s ridiculous.
They had to rent these cars.
But this is my life. I represent Solberg, and the Solbergian people want to be proud of their king. Unfortunately, tonight that entails showing up at Glen’s house with my security.
I could call everything off, but Sven would spend the night guarding the threshold of my suite were I to do that, and I do want to see Glen.
I sigh.
“Very well.” I hand Sven my phone with Glen’s address. “Please take me here.”