Page 27 of Royal Rising

I park in my usual spot between the west side of the castle and the garden. “Yeah,” I say heavily.

And then I wait for Dillon to tell me it was time to do something about it, but he doesn’t.

“You good today?” he asks instead.

I frown. “Why?”

“Never heard you talk so much.”

I give a bark of laughter and race Dillon intothe castle.

I can’t deny that Edie is on my mind as I head through the halls of the castle to my father’s office, especially how she looked in that dress last night.

And the pink of her lip gloss.

Whatever my uncertainty about the possibility of becoming the next king of Laandia, I can’t deny that I loved growing up in the castle. Built back in the sixteen hundreds, the place has secret passages, dungeons, and a ton of character. Plus, it really impressed the girls when I was into impressing them.

Except Edie. She was never impressed I lived in a castle.

If she was, she never showed it.

She never treats me like a prince, never refers to me as Your Highness like so many others do.

These days, it’s hard to find a woman to date who doesn’t make a big deal about my family. Fenella doesn’t.

Edie never did.

Dillon takes off for the kitchen as soon as he sees me safely inside, leaving me to the capable hands of Mrs. Theissen and Duncan Laz, Dad’s right-hand man.

I say hello to the staff I pass on the way to Dad’s office. The castle is both an office and a home for the royal family, as well as a part-time hotel.

I wonder if Fenella is wandering around here somewhere. And since I’m taking her out tonight, should I find her to say hello?

I should get back to the bar instead of looking for someone who might not even be here.

I find Dad in his small office, the one he does the work in, not where he meets with foreign dignitaries and local government and business heads.

King Magnus of Laandia leans back in his oversized chair, feet up on the desk. His sock has a hole in his toe, his jeans have that distressed look because Dad wears his clothes until they fall apart. Case in point is the rough-looking Aerosmith T-shirt he has on; it has holes within its holes and has turned a strange shade that is no longer gray, and not quite brown. It came from an actual concert and it wasn’t from this decade.

Or even last decade.

Dad is no one’s idea of a king but that makes him kind of great.

He’s reading something on his tablet, squinting so he doesn’t have to use the glasses he’s recently been forced to get. I knock at the open door. “You busy?”

“Ah,” Dad says, looking up with his usual cheerful grin. “My favourite kind of distraction.”

“I thought that was a cold pint of mead.” I take the seat across the desk, sinking down until the worn leather threatens to swallow me whole.

“That’s good too, but it’s early yet.”

“Not at my place. It’s packed already.”

“Storms are good for business when they don’t destroy everything.” Dad looks at me and there’s a barely perceptible shift from father to king. “How’s the town? Any problems this morning? Spencer and Gunnar went in yesterday to make sure the boats were okay, and no flooding.”

Spencer is Duncan’s son and like a brother to me. If we lived in medieval times, he and Duncan would be courtiers, dukes or other high-ranking aristocrats whose sole purpose is to help the king run the kingdom.

In fact, Dad has tried to give Duncan a title more than once, but he always says no.

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