Page 18 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
My fingers clench, but I nod. “Yes.”
“Does this mean you’re engaged?” the reporter asks.
“Yes,” I say, beaming at her.
King Erik stiffens beside me. Was I not supposed to say that?
I look at the reporter who shoots a happy gleeful smile at me. The royal advisor looks less happy, and in the next second, he topples to the ground.
CHAPTER SEVEN
King Erik
No, no, no.
Glen Garland just announced to Lena Haugeland, of Solberg National Media, that I am engaged to him.
And I have the distinct impression from Olav’s reaction that Glen wasnotin fact my fake date.
“Mr. Garland, how does it feel to become Prince Consort? As an American, are you prepared to take on the responsibility to represent the nation of Solberg?”
Glen’s knuckles whiten. “I, um—”
“Well, that was a wonderful press conference,” I say in my brightest voice. “We need to leave. Thank you, Miss Haugeland. Anders, please join us.”
With that, I drag Anders from the balcony, still holding onto Glen’s hand. Both Glen and Anders look stunned. It’s an emotion I’m familiar with.
I hurry through the private room. Only once we’re in the hallway do I stop.
“What was that, Father?” Anders asks.
“Well...”
“Are you engaged?”
“Naturally not!”
I turn to Glen. “I thought my royal advisor arranged you to be here.”
Glen narrows his eyes, and I shudder beneath their sudden intensity. I’m not used to being besieged by umber and gold. Most people’s eyes in Solberg are icy blue or green.
“You thought I was your fake date, huh?”
I give an awkward chuckle and try to pretend I haven’t placed myself in one of those North American tornadoes that flingpeople up, up, up until they can’t break through, and the only end is falling to their deaths.
“It was foolish of me,” I admit, but when I’m brave enough to look at him, his gaze is kind.
He feels steady. A solid muscular body with strength and a gentle demeanor and a commitment to making people happy.
Even though not going along with my plan would have been better for everyone.
A woman with blond hair rushes past in irritation. Her hair bounces, and her turquoise dress brings out the color of her eyes. She looks like an angry Grace Kelly, or more specifically, like the countess’s daughter.
Sven probably told her she was too late.
“Reckon that was your real fake date,” Glen says. “I’m sorry you didn’t have a chance to meet her.”
“I’m not,” I admit, and perhaps my jaw moves up.
