Page 29 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Glen
The royal limo rumbles over the cobblestones, climbing a hill. All around us are pretty buildings decorated for Christmas. If I don’t watch it, I’m going to get myself a crick in the neck. It will be worth it. Max and I aren’t sitting beside each other, but at least he got a window seat. He looks similarly impressed.
The drive from the airport isn’t long, but every second is beautiful.
Solberg is surrounded by large dark green mountains covered in pine trees and snow, and though it’s afternoon, the sky explodes with colors, clearly about to do its nighttime farewell dance.
The houses are bright reds and blues and whites like I’m in a children’s storybook. People stroll on the sidewalk, bundled in thick coats, and no one wears a cowboy hat.
A grand building rises above the others, all pink stone and narrow snow-covered turrets and windows adorned with Christmas wreaths. Is this the castle? It’s bigger than any building in Mistletoe Springs. It sits against the mountain, like it’s part of it, and it overlooks the town. We drive past a Christmas market, rows of wooden stalls, then the limo finally stops.
Back home, our idea of architecture is the Mistletoe Springs Movie House, from 1927.
A gate opens, and the limo bounces as it drives over cobblestones, then it stops entirely.
We exit the limo, cold air once again hitting my face, and I see it... the pink stone building. The doors are four times as tall as me, and black cannons are scattered around the courtyard.
“Welcome to Solberg Castle,” King Erik says.
“Golly...” I murmur.
This time I definitely crane my neck.
The giant castle is sure something special. Max looks similarly impressed and is also craning his neck. Reckon we look like we’re in an outdoor yoga class.
The mountains peek on either side of the castle. There’s no way we can forget we’re in Solberg. This ain’t cowboy country.
“Anders,” King Erik says. “Pay attention to our guests.”
I lower my gaze in time to see Anders’ face reddening. Near him are a group of teen girls his age. They watch us, then giggle.
Anders clenches his fists. “You’re embarrassing me.”
Anders storms into the castle.
King Erik’s face falls. “I’m sorry, Glen. I don’t know what got into him.”
“It’s hard to be sixteen.” I nudge my shoulder against Erik’s.
His eyes soften.
Max’s eyes harden.
He seems transfixed at the narrow gap between King Erik and me, then he marches toward the castle door Anders just entered. My mouth drops.
“Eight is also a difficult age.” Erik extends his hand to me. “Ready to play my fake fiancé?”
I take his hand. “Let’s pretend we’re crazy about each other.”
We stroll toward the imposing entrance, hands clasped firmly together. Shutters click. The paparazzi must have followed us. I turn my face toward him, so we look the devoted couple. Frankly, I like looking at his face. It’s sort of comfortable. And comforting.
My gaze bounces around the imposing castle. It even has arrow slots. Actual arrow slots for the people inside to shoot any intruders.
I can’t help but think that the people who built this place would have considered me an intruder. Max and I are probably the first people to visit from Mistletoe Springs.
To tell the truth, I was only vaguely aware that Solberg existed at all. It only comes up during trivia questions for smallest Scandinavian kingdom.
