25. Performance Review
25
Performance Review
JACOB
The rest of the night is hell.
Alma emerges from the kitchen, her cheeks pale and drawn. I turn away before I give into the temptation to carry her into the landing and say I changed my mind, tripping over the words, and get back to the kissing.
Instead, I rope Max into a conversation about his cottage and the kind of sport fishing he goes in for. He offers to have me up again, but I can never go back there with Alma. I don’t trust myself with her in that much seclusion. Oskar wanders into our circle and presses cold drinks into our hands, content with not saying much.
A dark dress catches the edge of my vision, and I grip the glass. There’s a famous story about a Scandinavian ship, the largest of its kind, sailing from the harbor on its maiden voyage. The crowds were waving, and the ship-builders were still slapping each other on the backs over their excellent craftsmanship when it abruptly sank. It never made it out of the harbor.
Ella taps my shoulder. “Alma has a headache.”
I look over the room. “Where is she? Can I get her some water?”
She lifts her brow. “She’s having security run her home, but she’ll send the car back for us.”
Alma doesn’t bail on events just because she has a headache. I give a tight nod and return to my drink.
The week that follows is a test of my resolve. I am polite and professional. The tutoring sessions hum with activity as we cover royal procedure and diplomacy. Karl is puzzled when he catches me being too obedient. Alma is the Alma I met weeks ago—rigid and careful. The difference now is that I see the effort underneath.
I do the only thing I can do to ease her burdens. I force myself to absorb every scrap of information she imparts and learn every lesson she has to teach. She is polite, but there is frustration in the line of her shoulders and the way her eyes linger. The toll this takes on me is that this is hell—knowing she wants me and that my stupid pride is the only thing keeping us apart.
She continues to be seen with Pietor.
One morning, she drives me in a golf cart to a large garage with rows of vintage Bentleys and several Mercedes. She’s wearing a blazer and slacks, and as usual, I can’t stop checking her out.
“Today we’ll be working on cars—exiting, entering, and security protocols,” she says, parking the cart out of the way. She greets Nils Helmut with a warm smile.
“I know how to get out of a car,” I tell her, forgetting my resolve to be easy.
“Oh?” She gestures toward a customized Mercedes town car, parked sideways in a wide-open area. “Show me.”
The head of palace security watches us behind dark glasses, and I feel self-conscious when I enter, dragging the door closed. “Now get out,” she calls, voice muffled through the thick glass.
I hop out and slam the door, jogging over to her.
“Wrong,” she chirps. I swear she enjoys it.
“I got out of the car.” The air between us crackles with all the things we’ve said and done, all the things we’d like to do. Even as we fall into the familiar pattern of teacher and student, there are new layers.
“Would you show him, Nils?” she asks the security officer. He points two fingers in a pattern between me and two orange cones on the other side of the parking stall.
“Those represent the ‘entrance’ of whatever event you’re arriving at,” he says, “which makes this the most dangerous stretch of ground, from a security standpoint. We can secure that”—he points at the car like he’s deploying soldiers through a strategic pathway—“and the venue. We’ve got bomb-sniffing dogs and security perimeters to lock it down. This”—his fingers sketch an outline of the concrete—“has more variables. When you follow the protocols, you give your team a better chance of keeping you safe.”
“This isn’t about you,” Alma tells me. “You’re not Jacob who runs a business. You’re the heir to the throne—the representation of the state made manifest in your blood. If anyone injures you, they’ve injured more than a man.” She lifts her brows, deadly serious. Got it?
I love you. I shake my head. Got it.
“Watch me.” She takes my place in the backseat of the car and emerges from the opening in one smooth movement and sweeps forward. “Don’t go on a walkabout unless you’ve cleared it with your security first. Security doesn’t like surprises.”
Nils closes the door and nods along. I can imagine him putting a teenaged Alma through the same paces, forcing her to recite his words like a litany. Security doesn’t like surprises.
I nod, taking my place next to the car. “Get out, shut the door, proceed to the venue.”
“No.”
“I messed up already?” She laughs, which is the first one of those I’ve heard in days. My heart stumbles, and I grin. I can’t help it. “I thought I wanted to be a man of the people.”
“The merits of being a man of the people are debatable, but the reason you can’t shut the door is because they lock when they’re closed.”
“That seems dangerous.”
“Nils?” she prompts. Grabbing a heavy wrench, she bangs it against a metal work table. Pop, pop, pop.
At the sound, I freeze. Nils moves fast, shoving me up against the car, shoving my head down as he fumbles for the handle, yanking on it several times. Time slows to a crawl, and all the while, Alma keeps hitting the table.
After a few frantic seconds, Nils relaxes and I straighten, pushing a hand through my hair and smoothing my tie with an unconscious gesture.
“ Chol nia , what was that?”
She throws the wrench down with a clatter. “That was the sound of shots fired. In the event of a real-life emergency, having a closed door wastes precious seconds. If something happens, the safest place is to bundle you back into the car and speed you to a safe place. Your security can’t waste precious seconds trying to get the door open.”
“Has that ever happened to you?” The thought makes my blood turn to ice.
Her neck tightens, and she picks up the wrench, returning it to its home. “Historically, Sondmark hasn’t had a lot of assassination attempts. The nineteenth century was different, of course. Anarchists were always blowing up carriages or knifing grand duchesses on holiday.”
She’s not looking at me, and her lips are dry as she continues. “Vorburg has had a worse time, I think—”
Doesn’t she know I know when she’s hiding? I cut her off, pinning Nils with my gaze. “Has she ever had her security compromised?”
He nods. “A few times. The one that taught us the most happened more than a decade ago. A union strike got out of hand, and we were lucky no one had a gun. One of them made it into the car.”
“He got right out again,” Alma rushes, bundling the memory away.
I pin Nils with a look.
“Because she ordered the driver out of the car and refused to take the assailant to the palace.” He glances at Alma. “Nerves of steel, that one.”
She shakes her head. “Thank you very much, Nils. I’ll take it from here.”
The head of security jogs off, and Alma steers me to the Mercedes. A flame ignites at her touch.
She pushes me onto the seat, hands braced on the roof and the door, trapping me with her frame. I want to wrap my arms around her waist and pull her inside, to make a little trouble in the backseat of a car like a couple of kids.
“Jacob.” Her voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “You have to remember the security implications of getting out of a car. No matter what flourishes I add next, don’t forget that Nils already taught you the only thing you have to know. If you always do what your security team says, you’ll be in good hands.”
Her eyes are intent, and I nod. “Do what they say,” I repeat. “I won’t forget.”
“Good. Now I’ll help you with the aesthetics.”
“I have an aesthetics problem?” I hold her eyes. This has been the most difficult week of my life, and I can’t stop wanting her.
“Stop it,” she whispers. For a second, I see how weak she is for me.
Alma clears her throat. “Most of your paparazzi shots will be as you cover this stretch of ground. Get it right, and you’ll be in control of the press rather than them being in control of you. Now…” She pushes me deeper into the car and wedges herself in the narrow space between me and the door she closes behind her. The dark interior of the Mercedes feels like a cave at twilight, embers dying in the fire. No one can see through these windows. It would take so little to bend my head.
She catches my expression and tilts her chin, exposing the column of her neck.
“Stop it,” I whisper.
Her lashes flicker in triumph but she hasn’t forgotten that I’m here to get an education. “You won’t have a skirt to manage, so it’s relatively straightforward. The trick is to be simple and direct,” her hand touches my knee, and I grip the leather seat, trying not to go deaf and blind with wanting her.
“Try not to twist too much as you exit,” she continues. “Left leg out, straighten, followed by the right. Fasten your suit button—” Her lips twitch.
“What?”
“That’s the picture they’ll post, if you get it right—you buttoning up your suit.”
“Why?”
She lifts a shoulder. “It makes you all look like medieval knights, snapping their helmets down and charging the dread host with blood and vengeance at the end of your lance.”
“Is this a good thing?”
Again, she smiles, and it gives way to stupid laughter. That kiss released something we can’t lock back up. I want her. She wants me. We can’t unknow it.
“All right,” she breathes, reaching for the door handle. I watch her get out, buttoning her jacket. Chol , I’d believe she’s on her way to poison an archbishop.
“Now you,” she says, closing the door on my hungry face. She retreats to a maintenance cart, leaning against it.
Having received so much instruction, my movements are jerky under her exacting gaze.
“You’re like a marionette. Now try it without thinking so hard.”
I repeat the process several times, getting smoother each time, looking for her approval. “Stop worrying about what I think,” she says. “You’re the crown prince of Vorburg, and you’ve come to solve the housing crisis or weed out corruption in the financial sector. Be sure to turn to greet the crowd.” I wave and even that comes under scrutiny. “Dial that down. You’re not a puppy looking for attention. You already have it.”
She runs me through my paces several more times. More than necessary. Finally, I get it through my thick skull that she’s checking me out.
“Alma,” I admonish, pushing the button through the hole for the ninth time, “what are you doing?” I turn and give a brief wave, walking to the cones. The process over, I make my way to her. I should stop well away, put my hands in my pockets, and wait for the performance review. I don’t. I inch close, crowding her against the workbench, and placing my hands on either side of her.
“Do I need to make a human resources complaint?” I ask.
She looks unrepentant. “What would you tell them?”
“I’d tell them a princess of Sondmark is objectifying me.” I inch closer. I’m playing with fire, flicking the lighter and rolling my fingers through the orange flame. This is going to end with third-degree burns.
She bites her lip and runs her finger down my lapel with a light touch. “You’re not the crown prince of Sondmark.” You’re not the boss of me.
My feelings for her are like a foot planted between my shoulder blades, forcing me into her arms. She would take me. I’m an idiot to refuse.
I drop my head. “Alma,” I groan, “we agreed not to do this.”
She runs a hand through my hair, gripping it, a sound of frustration in her throat as she tugs my head back. “I agreed to nothing of the sort. There are good reasons to delay announcing my broken engagement,” she says, eyes dipping to my mouth. “And you can’t stop me from hoping you’ll change your mind.”
I’ve felt this feeling—an echo of it—on a motorcycle. Pouring through a turn, hitting gravel, and feeling the control slip, slip, slip. Surrendering myself to the inevitability of pain. A fool would know better than to play around with this.
I’m worse than a fool.
I narrow the distance between us. A flush washes over her cheeks, her hand slips out of my hair, and she tips her face up. If I have to suffer this temptation, she’ll suffer with me.
“It could be you,” I say, lips a breath away from her mouth, “who changes her mind. You could announce that you’re done with Pietor and that you’ve taken up with a man from Vorburg. You could do it today.”
I want to give her a taste of my own torment. Instead, I’m caught in the dangerous undertow of how much I want her . Her breath hitches, and her eyes drift closed.
I—
I hear a metal door clang open. Alma ducks past me, and I drop my head.
Karl’s voice rings across the spacious garage. “His Majesty the King is on the phone, Your Royal Highness. He would like to speak with you.”