Page 66 of Coffee Break with the Billionaire

She smiles and accepts the adoration, but her gaze keeps returning to me.

I keep smiling and nodding and do my best to keep her in sight.

This is so much better than watching her social media posts. Fenella tonight seems like a different person from last night. It could be the alcohol, but I think it’s something else.

Last night, we sat on a bench and looked at the stars. Now, she’s showing off her moves to an entire bar full of admiring fans. She’s getting as much or more attention than the king.

That could be because the vest she’s wearing sparkles like a disco ball. It’s covered in sequins—

No, they’re crystals. Her vest—worn with no shirt underneath—is covered entirely in crystals.

It shines as much as she does. Her confidence is awe-inspiring. How many people can go bar-hopping with the royal family and not turn into a simpering sycophant?

Look at me—King Magnus is beside me, dancing to ABBA and I have to fight the urge to drop into a bow like a proper courtier. I’ve lived my whole life in Battle Harbour, and I’ve spoken to him once.

Now I’m dancing right beside him.

When the DJ notices the king and Duncan Laz out on the floor, ABBA changes into “Want You,” which was Kräftig’s biggest hit.

King Magnus and Duncan Laz used to be in a heavy metal band. The monarchy of Laandia has always been a little bit different.

This is what Fenella’s life is like all of the time.

We stay for another few songs and then head out to Sailor’s Salon, where the few patrons holding up the bar don’t blink at the sight of their king’s sudden appearance.

He buys a round foreveryone there.

Fenella nudges me with her shoulder. “Having fun?” The lights are dimmer and her vest doesn’t sparkle as much as it did in Ragnarok.

But she still sparkles. She shines, and it’s hard for me to take my eyes off her.

“I was head-banging with the king. That’s not my usual evening entertainment.”

She grins, eyes sparkling as much as her vest. “You’ll always have fun with me.”

“I’ve never doubted that.”

“Then why don’t you want to kiss me?”

She catches me with my pint glass halfway to my mouth. I pause and then take a much-needed mouthful of local IPA. “I never said I didn’t want to kiss you,” I say carefully after I swallow.

“You didn’t say it, but it seems like that.” She looks down, smile fading.

“I don’t think we should talk about this right now,” I suggest, at a loss for what to do. She seems… disappointed? That I don’t want to kiss her?

“We probably won’t talk about it at all because I’m horrible at expressing my emotions. I over-react.” She enunciates carefully. “That’s what my parents say.”

I really dislike her parents. “I think you’re doing a great job expressing your emotions.”

“The alcohol helps.” Fenella’s expression clears like the sky after a quick summer rain. “We had a lot of wine with dinner.”

“While you were dining with the royal family.”

“I was.” She squints at me—possibly trying to read what I’m not saying, or maybe because she’s had too much to drink. “Does that bother you?”

“Nothing that you do could bother me, Fenella.”

“Because we’re friends.”

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