CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Glen
For the first time in years, I wake up with someone splayed around me. Though Erik is no longer literally on top of me, our legs are tangled together, and his head is on my chest.
His eyelashes flick up, and his green-blue eyes gaze at me.
“Morning,” I say.
He sighs delightedly and squeezes me to him. My lower region is definitely wide awake, and it’s everything I can do to resist the temptation to spend the morning showing him exactly how appreciative I am of him.
“Reckon I should get back to my room in case Max checks on me.”
He nods slowly.
“Then I’ll shower and see you soon at breakfast?”
Erik brightens. “Maybe we can spend the day helping set up for tomorrow’s ball.”
I grin. “Sounds perfect, Your Majesty.”
“You can call me Erik.”
I shrug. “You’re sort of fancy.”
Then I jump out of bed and pull him against me. I kiss him hard, until he’s doing that quivering thing, then I grin and dress hastily.
Erik looks at me all stunned and dazed when I leave, and I chuckle.
I hurry down the corridor and make my way to my bedroom. Fortunately, Max isn’t pacing inside or anything. I shower, dress in different clothes, then knock on Max’s door and we head down to breakfast.
Erik beams at me across the breakfast table, then looks down hastily. I must be acting similarly strangely because Anders’ eyebrows fly up.
Fortunately, Max chatters away.
“Let’s bake something today,” Erik says.
Max shakes his head. “That won’t work.”
“Oh.” Erik frowns. “Why not?”
“My dad is a terrible baker. Like, really awful. You might not like him after you bake with him.”
Erik chuckles. “He can’t be that bad.”
“You would think that,” Max says, and I consider ducking under the table.
“What about if we bake Solbergian treats, and I lead the baking?” Erik asks.
“That could work,” Max says. “If you want to risk it. He’s even bad at stirring. No one is bad at stirring.”
Erik and Anders look at me strangely, clearly pondering how anyone could be bad at stirring.
The back of my neck heats. “I’ve made some tough pastry in the past.”
“I’ll monitor your father carefully,” Erik promises Max.
“Don’t let him out of your sight,” Max says.
“I’ll make it my mission,” Erik vows.
After breakfast, Erik and Anders lead us to the royal kitchens. Max’s eyes go wide and his jaw drops. I think I manage to be too worldly to have my jaw drop in the face of giant walk-in refrigerators and pots that would feed hordes of people, but I’m not sure.
“This is pretty impressive,” I say.
Erik gives a humble shrug.
Gunnhild and Olav enter the kitchen.
“Your Majesty!” Gunnhild exclaims. “How wonderful to see you.”
“We’re going to make kransekake,” Erik announces.
“What’s kransekake?” I ask.
“Kransekake is a traditional Scandinavian dessert,” Erik says.
“Though the Solbergian version is superior,” Gunnhild says.
“We add saffron,” Erik explains.
“Don’t tell him,” Olav admonishes. “That’s a national secret.” He turns to me. “The Norwegians don’t put saffron in their kransekake.”
“Of course, the cowboy can know,” Gunnhild chides. “Mr. Garland will become Prince Consort! And what a wonderful one he will be!”
Erik busies himself with the recipe, and I try to smile as Gunnhild beams happily at me.
I want to hint that I won’t be here for long. But even joking that I don’t have my own palace doesn’t feel right.
Because everything here is incredible, particularly Erik.
In three days, I’ll be home in Mistletoe Springs, like Max and I never went here.
It’s gonna hurt.
Erik busies himself with opening cabinets, then he triumphantly pulls out a series of metal rings.
“What’s that?” Max asks.
“This is the form for the cake.” Erik holds up a metal ring. “We put the cake batter in each ring, bake them, then we remove them from the forms, and place the rings on top of each other, the widest at the bottom, so they form a cone.”
Max furrows his brow. “That’s strange.”
“It’s how they make cake.”
“Just this kind of cake,” Anders says. “You’ll like it.”
Max nods, seemingly satisfied by Anders’ words. Anders and Max get along better than I expected. Before we left, I worried I might ruin Max’s Christmas with this trip, but now I think the only thing he’ll be sad about is that it will end.
I blink rapidly and focus on Erik as he measures out powdered sugar and ground almonds. He shows Max how to crack eggs and how to separate the yellow from the white, a part of recipes that I never thought much mattered, but apparently does.
“No flour?” Max asks.
“No flour,” Erik says.
“In the US, we use flour.”
“Solberg has a harsh cold climate, unsuitable for wheat. Almonds come from far away, but they are small, easy to store and last a long time.”
“Cool.”
Olav exits the kitchen. When he returns, Lena Haugeland is with him.
Erik stiffens and narrows his eyes. I narrow the distance between him.
“Miss Haugeland, I did not expect to see you.”
“The Solbergian people love photos of their king. What would they love more than photos of their king baking?”
“It was my idea,” Olav says with pride.
Erik tightens his grip on his wooden spoon, and for a moment I think he might crack it.
“Very admirable,” Erik says. “But surely there’s something else besides baking for you to cover?”
“Oh, no,” Miss Haugeland says. “Solberg is run exceptionally smoothly. No scandals. No crime.”
Erik mumbles something, and I inch closer to him.
“How do you like Solberg?” Miss Haugeland’s eyes gleam.
“It’s lovely,” I say, realizing that whatever I say will be reported in the news. “With, um, lovely people.”
“And that’s enough,” Erik says sternly. “This is family time.”
Miss Haugeland blinks. “You want me to leave?”
Olav leans toward Erik’s ear. “Your Majesty, this is a wonderful opportunity for an interview.”
“You may take some photos,” Erik tells Miss Haugeland reluctantly. “I suggest you take them soon.”
Miss Haugeland frowns but snaps photos, then leaves the room.
“That was not advisable, Your Majesty,” Olav says. “You were lucky she was able to come on short notice. You want to give the press stories. You don’t want them to go searching on their own. She was already mentioning American contacts.”
“I do not want it to be national news when I venture into my own kitchen.”
“But—”
“I am grateful I am king,” Erik says. “I enjoy being king. And I think I excel at it.”
“You’re exceptional, Your Majesty!” Gunnhild exclaims.
“Not now, Gunnhild,” Olav says.
“We went through a paparazzi onslaught yesterday. I would like some private time with my guests.”
Olav frowns. He darts his gaze around the kitchen. Gunnhild is speaking with Anders and Max. “You’re acting like this is real. We both know it’s not.”
Erik goes rigid. “That is enough, Olav.”
Olav leaves the kitchen.
“I’m sorry about that,” Erik says.
“Let’s get back to cooking,” I say.
“Baking.” His smile broadens, and he narrows the distance between us, and presses a finger against my chest. “You are bad at this.”
Heat swirls around Erik’s finger.
Erik’s eyes sparkle, and it’s all I can do to resist the urge to press his finger against my mouth and kiss it. It’s all I can do to resist the urge to haul Erik over my shoulder and kiss him senseless in his bedroom.
The kitchen glitters, and I gaze at the handsome man teasing me.
Anders’ gaze darts from Erik and me, and his lips curl.
Erik is still smiling as he supervises putting the batter into the molds, then the molds into the oven, and still smiling when it’s time to decorate the kransekake with frosting and Solbergian flags. The kitchen fills with the sweet, nutty scent of toasted almonds and sugar.
My own smile sticks on my face when we decorate the ballroom for tomorrow’s event, and it continues to stick on my face when I sneak into Erik’s bedroom at night.