Page 64 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
“Father! Don’t go there!” Anders calls after me.
Shutters click, and the world is yellow.
“That car belongs to the paparazzi,” Anders whispers.
“I know, Anders.”
I continue my march toward the car, clutching the tree.
“You’re not supposed to go there,” Anders whispers frantically.
The paparazzi seem to be in a similar state of disbelief. Both men wear black, as if that will make them blend into the seats.
I tap on the window, and they draw back.
“He’s going to yell at us!” one of the paparazzi exclaims. “He’s going to put us in the tower!”
“They don’t do that in Solberg.”
“Are you sure?”
I snort. “Open the door.”
“Do you think he heard us?” one paparazzo asks.
“I heard you,” I say.
“Should we open the door?” he asks his colleague.
I sigh. “Yes. I am in a huge hurry.”
The paparazzi open the door, and I grin.
This is going to work.
“Merry Christmas. I find myself in need of a ride to the airport.”
“Um...” The paparazzi exchange a mystified look. “Very well.”
“Hop in, Anders!” I say cheerfully. “I hope none of you are allergic to Christmas trees.”
The paparazzi shake their heads, and one of them gets out and helps me put the Christmas tree in the trunk, then ties the lid of the trunk down with a shoelace.
“Ingenious,” I tell him, and his cheeks pinken.
Anders and I are driven to the airport, the car smelling like stale peppermint mochas, then deposited at the front. We wave goodbye to the shocked paparazzi.
I head for the revolving doors, remember the tree, and open a narrow door beside them. We stumble inside, the Christmas tree barely fitting.
Holiday travelers drag wheeled suitcases, and the PA announces something.
Pine needles scatter across the polished floor, and everyone stares at us.
“Come on, old man,” Anders says, heading for a flickering board above us, as people murmur and raise their cellphones in our direction. “Let’s get you a happily ever after.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Glen
