Page 37 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
In fact, I think that maybe nodding once was unnecessary.
Glen’s eyes crinkle, like he’s seen something adorable.
“Well, I—uh, reckon I’ll get back to my studies. I’ll see you tomorrow perhaps.”
I swallow hard.
We’re not supposed to be seen in public until the Christmas Ball. We don’t have to hang out until then. But suddenly, that seems far too long away.
“The Christmas Market!” I blurt. “You mentioned it earlier. We’ll go there tomorrow. Definitely. I should be more festive.”
“Well, I’m all for being festive,” Glen says. “But it is your choice...”
“No! It’s a splendid suggestion. Let’s plan for it!”
Glen nods. “Okey-dokie. Well, see you—”
“Wait—,” I blurt.
He pauses, and his eyebrows drift upward in a manner I don’t like.
I suspect I’m acting un-kinglike.
In fact, I suspect I’m even acting un-non-kinglike.
“I want to show you something,” I say.
“Oh.”
“You haven’t received the complete tour,” I say hastily. “And I want to rectify it. Naturally. It’s, um, appropriate. Unless you’re sleepy. Or exhausted.” I suddenly hate he’s been studying. “All the Norwegian. The conjugations. The masculine/feminine/neuter nouns. The extra vowels and rolling rs. And it’s a tonal language.”
“When you say it like that, I don’t feel so bad for not getting the hang of it.”
“You mentioned you liked the mountain, and I, um, have something similar I want to show you.” I frown, worried that he’ll get the wrong idea. “Not, of course, that it is as magnificent as a mountain.” I start to laugh, and his look grows concerned, like he’s wondering why Olav didn’t slip him a first-aid kit. “I’ll show you.”
He nods, and then I find myself leading Glen through the hallways toward my most beloved place.
The place I never show anyone.
But suddenly it’s vital I show him.
GLEN
Erik sure can walk quickly. We scurry through dark corridors.
Erik hasn’t explained where we’re going, but I don’t much care.
I wasn’t ready to say goodnight to him.
Moonlight glows through the windows, shining soft light upon us.
Finally, Erik pushes open a door and we’re in a glass-paned room, filled with plants. Thick herbal scents bombard me. Reckon it’s the sort of scent one of them French cologne makers might like for inspiration.
The room is brighter than the corridor. The moon and stars shine in full force over the glass-paned ceiling.
“It’s awfully pretty,” I tell Erik. “Is this your special place?”
“It’s my greenhouse,” he says. “I built it after, well, you know.”
