CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Erik
I stroll through the corridors to the movie room with Glen at my side.
Sissel, Anders, and I used to watch movies here all the time. After Sissel’s death, Anders and I got out of the habit of watching films together.
I open the movie room door.
“Wow!” Glen says, and I turn to him.
His head is currently craned up, and he’s looking at the dozens of glow-in-the-dark stars attached to the ceiling.
I grin.
“We don’t bring guests here,” I say. “The style is more modern.”
He chuckles. “If modern is art deco. We call 100-year-old style old-fashioned over in Nevada.”
“Oh.” Heat floods my cheeks, and I look down.
“It’s mighty pretty though.”
We have a few velvet loveseats lined up, and I sit down on one. Glen plops down beside me, and the cushions bounce. His scent wafts over me.
“You still smell like pine,” I say.
He turns to me, and I realize that’s not a statement I should have made. My cheeks heat, and I scramble for the control to dim the lights.
Sitting on a narrow sofa with an attractive man with the lights mostly absent does nothing to lessen the rapidity with which my heart beats.
“I took a walk this afternoon on the mountain,” Glen says. “Reckon I must have picked up the scent there.”
“Oh.” I blink rapidly. “There are many pine trees on the mountain.”
“Sure are. Makes me feel at home. Like I belong.”
“You do belong.”
He gives me a strange look, visible even in the dark light, and my pulse speeds.
Because strictly speaking, he doesn’t belong. But that doesn’t mean that his presence doesn’t feel more right than anything I’ve felt all year, like someone’s strung Christmas lights around him.
I find the remote control, then we search for a movie, and if I spend most of my time pretending that I don’t notice every breath he takes, and my heart feels like it’s recently completed a race, well, he doesn’t need to know that. There’s a reason they tuck hearts deep inside bodies anyway.
We settle on something cheerful. A romantic comedy about a person realizing that her small-town was the best place to be, and I don’t like paying too much attention to it, because I’ve been keeping Glen from his small town.
“That was a great movie,” Glen says finally, and I realize the credits are rolling.
Glen stands. “This was fun, Your Majesty.”
I nod more times than necessary.
In fact, I think that maybe nodding once was unnecessary.
Glen’s eyes crinkle, like he’s seen something adorable.
“Well, I—uh, reckon I’ll get back to my studies. I’ll see you tomorrow perhaps.”
I swallow hard.
We’re not supposed to be seen in public until the Christmas Ball. We don’t have to hang out until then. But suddenly, that seems far too long away.
“The Christmas Market!” I blurt. “You mentioned it earlier. We’ll go there tomorrow. Definitely. I should be more festive.”
“Well, I’m all for being festive,” Glen says. “But it is your choice...”
“No! It’s a splendid suggestion. Let’s plan for it!”
Glen nods. “Okey-dokie. Well, see you—”
“Wait—,” I blurt.
He pauses, and his eyebrows drift upward in a manner I don’t like.
I suspect I’m acting un-kinglike.
In fact, I suspect I’m even acting un-non-kinglike.
“I want to show you something,” I say.
“Oh.”
“You haven’t received the complete tour,” I say hastily.
“And I want to rectify it. Naturally. It’s, um, appropriate.
Unless you’re sleepy. Or exhausted.” I suddenly hate he’s been studying.
“All the Norwegian. The conjugations. The masculine/feminine/neuter nouns. The extra vowels and rolling rs. And it’s a tonal language. ”
“When you say it like that, I don’t feel so bad for not getting the hang of it.”
“You mentioned you liked the mountain, and I, um, have something similar I want to show you.” I frown, worried that he’ll get the wrong idea.
“Not, of course, that it is as magnificent as a mountain.” I start to laugh, and his look grows concerned, like he’s wondering why Olav didn’t slip him a first-aid kit. “I’ll show you.”
He nods, and then I find myself leading Glen through the hallways toward my most beloved place.
The place I never show anyone.
But suddenly it’s vital I show him.
GLEN
Erik sure can walk quickly. We scurry through dark corridors.
Erik hasn’t explained where we’re going, but I don’t much care.
I wasn’t ready to say goodnight to him.
Moonlight glows through the windows, shining soft light upon us.
Finally, Erik pushes open a door and we’re in a glass-paned room, filled with plants. Thick herbal scents bombard me. Reckon it’s the sort of scent one of them French cologne makers might like for inspiration.
The room is brighter than the corridor. The moon and stars shine in full force over the glass-paned ceiling.
“It’s awfully pretty,” I tell Erik. “Is this your special place?”
“It’s my greenhouse,” he says. “I built it after, well, you know.”
I nod.
I do know.
“You can’t really see it in the dark,” he says, and I frown, because I don’t like him apologizing all the time.
People who should apologize, like Mr. Brenner, never do.
It’s only the kind people who think about everything, who want everyone to be happy, who apologize.
“Reckon it’s mighty nice,” I tell him. “Real special.”
The plants have turned into interesting shapes in the dark.
In all actuality, the place is pretty romantic, what with the smells and the moonlight and the quietness.
Ain’t gonna tell that to the king, even if he would blush in a mighty cute way, and act like one of those rabbits out in the countryside.
Erik leads me deeper into the greenhouse, past potted plants and raised beds, past interestingly shaped greenery I cannot name, that’s special even in the dim moonlight that paints Erik’s face and hands silver.
“This is wonderful,” I say, and his shoulders square.
“I planted everything myself,” he says. “I wanted something to focus on, to make some little section of the world prettier.”
“This is pretty,” I tell him. My gaze falls on some of the raised flower beds. “I can make new wood casings for you. Add some flourishes.”
“You like wood.”
I grin. He’s too innocent to know he made a dirty joke.
“I think you’ll appreciate this,” he says, taking me to an oak tree.
“It’s big,” I say, unsure where this is going.
“My staff built the greenhouse around it,” he explains. “Maybe you can’t see, but you can feel the trunk.”
The king takes my hand, even though there are no cameras around, and no one for us to impress pretending to be in love for the tabloids.
I shiver under his touch. I should tell him that I don’t date, that I don’t hold hands with anyone, that I’m going to spend the rest of my life alone and that I made my peace with that long ago.
But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out, and when he rubs my hand over something on the oak tree and I realize he’s not pulling me closer to him, that he’s not trying to kiss me, I feel confused and. .. disappointed.
My hands brush over something growing on the trunk, some sort of flower.
“Is it mistletoe?” I ask.
“Yes,” the king says happily. “This is the first year I got the berries to grow. They’re parasitic and need the tree to survive.”
“We’re under real mistletoe,” I say in wonder. “I-I always bought it from the store.”
“I saw you hanging mistletoe at the airport,” he says.
“Trying to hang,” I correct him.
“Would have happened if someone hadn’t knocked you from the ladder.”
“Every place needs mistletoe,” I say, my voice hoarse for some reason. “Makes a place ready for Christmas.”
I feel his gaze on me, and my skin prickles.
Because mistletoe isn’t merely a Christmas decoration. It’s a reminder that love is important and can happen even spontaneously. I suddenly think about Casey and her teasing. Maybe I was more ready for romance than I thought.
“I’m from Mistletoe Springs,” I say stupidly, even though he knows it.
“I wanted to see it in person.” He frowns. “I didn’t get to see any mistletoe. Except the kind stuck on your sweater and on your gazebo.”
“I could show you,” I say, “if you visit again. We have some places where people harvest it. Not this fancy European kind, but...”
I stop talking. Of course, the king won’t visit Mistletoe Springs, Nevada again.
His gaze remains on me, and my hand is still under his, feeling the mistletoe.
Moonlight shines over his face in an interesting manner, and I want to kiss him. I want to pull his lips into mine and suck on them.
I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.
Mere inches separate us, and my head whirls with the scent of Christmas and the handsome man in front of me.
“Who’s there?” A flashlight beams at us, and Erik steps away hastily.
I blink into the bright light.
“It’s only me, Sven,” Erik says.
“Oh. I was worried, Your Majesty. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
“I was showing Mr. Garland around the castle.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Sven says apologetically, lowering the flashlight. “It’s after midnight and—”
“I’m sorry I worried you,” Erik says quickly. “We’re leaving.”
And with that, Erik and I leave the greenhouse, then say goodbye. I enter my bedroom, with its ridiculous high ceiling and ornate molding, but when I close my eyes, the only thing in my mind is Erik.
I would have kissed him back.