CHAPTER NINE
Glen
Max bounces around the living room, while I double check that we’ve packed absolutely everything. I had the feeling that Max would like going on an adventure, and I was right.
When the royal limo pulls up in front of my house, escorted by SUVs, Max sprints to the limo. A bodyguard insists on carrying Max and my lime-green duffle bags, then opens the door. Max and I hop in.
“Morning, Your Majesty,” I tell the king. His son is sitting next to him, and I nod. “And Your Majesty.”
I think Prince Anders giggles, but I can’t be sure, because it turns into a cough soon after.
“I’ll add etiquette lessons to the schedule,” Olav says smoothly, tapping something into his phone. “You may refer to the prince as Your Highness.”
“Oh.” I don’t meet King Erik’s eyes. Maybe I should have studied up on how to hang out with royals after our talk last night.
“He’s shorter than the other man,” Max says, eyeing Anders.
“Titles are a bit silly,” King Erik says agreeably.
“This is my son, Max.” I make sure that Max is seat-belted in. “Max, say hi.”
“Hi.”
I hope Anders and Max will get along. I hope I didn’t just ruin Max’s Christmas.
“This car is super long,” Max says.
The soft leather ain’t nothing like the dark vinyl in my pick-up truck. I smooth my Sunday clothes awkwardly, conscious how out of place my corduroys and boots look against this luxury.
The limo’s real fancy: polished wood accents, gleaming chrome, and lights that flick from red to green.
“Christmas colors,” I marvel.
King Erik smiles. “I thought you would appreciate them.”
“You thought right.” I smile back at him, taking in his pretty eyes and the way his chest puffs out, all proud-like.
Max chatters happily about the limo, about Solberg, and what it’s like, and Anders and Erik answer.
Finally, the limo pulls up at Mistletoe Springs Airport, and by the time we’ve exited the vehicle, someone has lassoed my stomach again. The morning air is cold against my face, and the clouds are gloomy like someone smeared gunmetal over the normally cheerful blue Nevada sky.
A plane takes off with a roar, and I try not to flinch. It becomes smaller and smaller until it vanishes completely into the broad expanse of clouds. The long mid-century modern pink building normally makes me smile, but last time I was here, I was fired.
Maybe I saw lots of planes take off but that didn’t mean I wanted to be inside one of them. Maybe that’s why I worked hard to make the lounge cozy and cheerful for passengers, because I wouldn’t have wanted to do what they were about to do.
It’s fine.
People go up in planes all the time. People leave Mistletoe Springs all the time.
I don’t want Max growing up scared, and now we’re getting a real adventure.
King Erik’s staff remove our bags, putting Max and my bright duffel bags with the fancy brown leather suitcases with their sharp edges and shiny hardware.
King Erik’s men move efficiently, and I do my best to smile, even though returning to where you were fired isn’t the ideal way to start the day. Not the worst, mind you, but definitely not the best.
Olav explains that we can go straight to the plane.
I’m happy that Max and I already had passports when Dean and we were going to visit Italy for vacation.
That never happened, and Max and I went to a funeral instead.
If we didn’t have passports, Olav would have arranged for us to get emergency ones in Vegas.
A row of staff members stands in front of the big doors leading to the tarmac, like they’re in a goodbye scene in Downton Abbey. Personally, I think they just want a close look at the king, but I suppose it does look rather respectful.
King Erik glances at me, and for some reason, his expression is worried.
And then I see him.
Mr. Brenner.
It ain’t no problem, but my nerves don’t seem to know that, because they zing anyway, like they’re trying to escape him.
I focus straight in front of me, like I’m one of the king’s bodyguards, and don’t make eye contact. It doesn’t work.
“Glen? What are you doing here? These people are important!”
“Good morning, Mr. Brenner.”
“Back to beg for your job, Garland?” He smirks, and I’m humiliated all over again.
“I—uh—” My collar strangles my throat.
Mr. Brenner’s smirk widens, and my heart does a frantic pitter-patter thing, like a rabbit hightailing into a not large-enough burrow entrance.
Then, someone takes my hand. I look to my side, and it’s King Erik.
His calm gaze is fixed on Mr. Brenner. Heat zooms through me, which is probably due to the surprise.
Not the fact that my fingers are suddenly entwined with the soft, smooth fingers of an adult male who already makes my heart think someone strapped it on a bull in a rodeo.
King Erik’s hand is warm and reassuring, and he doesn’t let go, even in front of the man who scoffed and demeaned me.
“Glen is accompanying me home to Solberg,” King Erik says.
Mr. Brenner’s eyebrows move together. “But you’re...”
“A king?”
Mr. Brenner’s jaw drops, and laughter bubbles up within me. I glance at King Erik quickly. Maybe laughing is one of those things that isn’t etiquette-approved. But when I look at him, his eyes dance, and he presses his lips together, and I wonder if it’s so he can contain his own laugh.
Anders seems to be watching us carefully, but he doesn’t seem upset, and we pass a stunned Mr. Brenner.
Finally, we stop in front of the plane, and King Erik releases my hand.
I examine the jet. As far as planes go, it’s mighty fancy.
It’s a sleek black that I haven’t seen on any of the commercial airlines.
The acrid scent of jet fuel and whirr of engines remind me that this ain’t no natural thing, and though the plane soars over us on its giant wheels, it doesn’t seem big enough to take us to a whole new country.
We’re going to leave Mistletoe Springs. We’re going to fly over the red sandstone mountains, over the farms and the cities and the great big Atlantic, all the way to Scandinavia.
I take Max’s hand in mine. Too late it occurs to me that he doesn’t like me to hold his hand, now that he’s a big third grader, but luckily, he just gives me a surprised look, then squeezes his fingers with mine. Maybe he can feel that my fingers are trembling.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” Max says. “They don’t do carjackings in the sky.”
“That’s right.” I chuckle, because that’s the sort of thing I should be telling him.
King Erik and Anders exchange worried glances. Don’t think I ever did mention how Dean died. Dean never came back after he left Mistletoe Springs, and I tell myself that Solberg is different, Solberg is safe, and nothing bad will happen to me and Max.
“Ain’t left Mistletoe Springs since my husband died,” I explain. “Guess it took a king to drag me out.”
I climb the stairs, my boots echoing on each metal step, Max beside me, and then we’re in the plane, all cream leather and warm air and newness, ready to leave Mistletoe Springs.