Page 55 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
We enter the ballroom, and dang it if the whole place doesn’t stop. Hundreds of eyes follow me, probably wondering why I don’t have “Lord” or “Sir” in front of my name like a proper royal date.
Erik’s hand trembles, and I squeeze it. Not all the people’s faces are happy. Being out is strange for him, and I get it. Erik istoo polite to want to be different, and I reckon it’s mighty strange to be in his forties and announcing to world media that he’s been bisexual all this time.
But when I glance over at him, his gaze is steady and confident, and I smile.
“Can I go to the buffet table?” Max asks.
“Don’t make a mess,” I say.
“I’m going to choose my favorite caviar.” Max skips away.
“Don’t bankrupt the kingdom!” I glance at Erik. “Should I follow him?”
“He’ll be fine.”
Erik loops his hand on the crook of my arm, and I try not to show my surprise. I want to be a rock for him or maybe a tree. He does like to garden.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Thinking about your gardening.”
“Oh.” He looks down. “I suppose it’s—”
“It’s mighty nice,” I assure him.
“I thought I might design some gardens. Solberg is small, and I want every space to count. I own a lot of the land, but right now, it’s just open space.”
“Landscaping.” I grin at him. “That’s an excellent plan. Turning something into a hill, giving spaces angles and privacy.”
He brightens. “Yes.”
“Garland Contracting has done some landscaping. Always thought those projects were real fun.”
“You’ll have to tell me about them.”
I nod, unsure if he wants me to tell everything to him quickly now or if he wants to maybe call me from time to time and we can talk about gardens and plants. Not the same as being with him, but at least that way, maybe for a couple of minutes, I’ll have his voice.
Nicely dressed people suddenly surround us. The women are wearing shimmery red and green dresses, the men wear tuxes like Erik and me.
Erik introduces us, and I do my best to remember everyone’s names. I like people-ing, just never expected to do it in a castle.
The musicians start playing a waltz.
Erik swoops into an elegant bow. “May I have this dance?”
“Dance?”
“I don’t intend to only dance with you in hallways,” Erik says, and something in me eases.
“Of course I’ll dance with you, Erik.” I take his hand and chide myself for my foolish question.
Of course he’s going to dance with me. I’m here to play his fiancé. This is pretend. When we danced in the hallway, he might have been simply ensuring that we don’t stumble later for the photographers.
Shame gurgles inside my gut, and my smile feels artificial on my face, like it’s going to slide off at any moment.
The first rule of fake dating is not to take it too seriously, and I’ve definitely failed. Here I am getting sentimental, when I’ll be on a plane heading to my home continent in under forty-eight hours.
I’m not supposed to be getting mawkish about a man. I’m supposed to be married to Dean.
