Page 21 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
“But—” Olav’s skin turns a vague puce color, like he’s trying to see if he can self-explode.
“You are my royal subject, and I command you to leave.”
For a moment, there’s silence.
I should apologize.
I should take it back.
But I don’t want to. I want to know if Glen likes my idea. I want to make sure he’s not harmed from losing his chance to work for that atrocious businessman.
“Fine, but I’m slamming the door,” Olav says.
I promptly stuff my fingers in my ears.
Olav storms out, and from the force and speed with which Olav moves the door, I’m confident he’s definitely, definitely slamming it hard.
Once the room is empty, I hurry to the closet. I find my coat, then hat. I push my hat down as far as it will go, give my surroundings a once-over, then tap something into my phone.
Please, please, please.
Apparently, Glen Garland lives at 3 Valley Hope Street, Mistletoe Springs.
“Thank you, phone.”
I consider sneaking out the door, but I know my staff too well to attempt that. Loud Christmas rock n’ roll music sounds from the floor below: Sven is exercising.
I open the second-story window. Stars twinkle overhead. Victorian buildings are wonderful, but I’ve never fully appreciated their attention to porches and facades. I appreciate it now.
I crawl out the window, then walk on the snowy ledge. Cold crisp air is around me, like I’m back in Solberg. I don’t want to attend the Royal Christmas Ball in Solberg with a broken leg and hesitate.
Fortunately, there are garlands all over the building. After making certain that one garland is attached firmly to the building, I tie it around my waist, then I jump into a particularly fluffy snowdrift.
I’m successful.
I’m free.
I beam at the sparkling night sky, then fiddle with my phone, since there’s probably a better way of reaching Glen than walking three miles through the snow late at night.
“I found you.” Sven’s deep voice is behind me, and I jump.
Oh, no.
I swing around. My chief bodyguard looks triumphant, like a cat just about to lay a mouse at its owner’s feet.
In this case, I’m the mouse.
“You did find me. I am about to get something called a rideshare.”
“No, you’re not.” Sven puts his walkie-talkie to his face, and it crackles ominously. “I require the royal limo and a full bodyguard entourage with the bulletproof cars. Formation alpha, stat!”
“Maybe we can just share one?”
Sven looks at me aghast. “A Solbergian monarch travels in style and security.”
My shoulders droop, before I remember that a Solbergian monarch’s shoulders also never droop.
Bodyguards are already filing around me, their fedoras in place. They usher me to the bulletproof limo.
