Page 17 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
My eyes round.
His do not.
And then, just in case I might think I’m hallucinating, which is the sort of thing that’s been known to happen in the desert, though that’s when it’s hot and summer and not when it’s cool with a couple of inches of snow on the ground, he takes my hand.
“I—”
Nothing comes out.
I try again. “Afoiheofja.”
His eyes widen this time, but his lower lip does this tugging-up thing, just on one side, as if to tempt people to reach out to touch it with their tongue or something.
Not me, naturally.
Just other, imaginary people.
I mean, they could exist, obviously.
You don’t got to be imaginary to want to do something like that. That’s for sure. Not where His Majesty is concerned.
He leans toward me, and for a wild moment, I think he’s going to kiss my cheek or something. Or like, suck on my earlobe. My skin heats automatically, as if all my blood is rushing to the part of the body he’s near, like they want to be closer to him.
Can’t say I blame them, even if I’m currently wobbly.
“This is when you agree with me,” he whispers.
“To them?”
He nods slowly, and I study his pale blue eyes, and the way shards of pale green and pale blue shimmer from his pupils, in a way that I could only replicate if I took out Max’s 1000 Crayola crayon pack, and maybe not even then.
Definitely not even then.
I’m no artist, and King Erik... Well, King Erik is art.
“You need me to be your fake date?” I whisper.
He nods.
“They’re waiting for you,” he whispers, his voice affecting me as much as every other part of his body.
“Okey-dokie,” I say faintly, proud that I’m sort of speaking in real words.
I turn to the others.
For some reason, the king needs my help. I can do that. I can help him.
The world’s difficult enough as it is, and if there’s some little thing I can do to brighten someone’s day... well, I’d be a fool not to do it.
I tangle my fingers with his.
I haven’t held someone’s hand since Dean died. Well, I guess I hold Max’s hand if we’ve got a big street to cross, but that don’t really count.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and I nod.
I don’t tell him it’s nothing, because it’s not.
“You love each other?” the reporter with the brown hair asks.
