Page 25 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
My fingers twitch, and I want to rest my hand on his thigh to calm him down. “Would it truly be helpful?”
I shouldn’t consider it. There are things involved in going there that I don’t want to do.
“It would,” he says. “And you can bring Max. Of course.”
I nod solemnly. Maybe going to Solberg is better than another Christmas sitting around the Christmas tree imagining what Dean would say if he were here and pretending his absence don’t matter. Reckon they’ve got some skilled cooks over in that kingdom to make some yummy things for Max. What kind of dad would I be if I turn down a chance for a boy to go to a European castle? That’s what people call a lifetime memory.
I flick my gaze to the king. He’s quiet, somewhere between hope and a nervous wreck, and his energy seems to vibrate unsteadily. I’d like to calm him. I don’t know how I’m the guywho can make him feel okay, but if I am, well, reckon I can make myself useful.
“Okey-dokie.” I extend a hand.
King Erik stares at my hand, like there’s something special about it, then we shake hands. Warmth fills me at once, like the king was sitting close to the fire, but he was only sitting close to me.
CHAPTER NINE
Glen
Max bounces around the living room, while I double check that we’ve packed absolutely everything. I had the feeling that Max would like going on an adventure, and I was right.
When the royal limo pulls up in front of my house, escorted by SUVs, Max sprints to the limo. A bodyguard insists on carrying Max and my lime-green duffle bags, then opens the door. Max and I hop in.
“Morning, Your Majesty,” I tell the king. His son is sitting next to him, and I nod. “And Your Majesty.”
I think Prince Anders giggles, but I can’t be sure, because it turns into a cough soon after.
“I’ll add etiquette lessons to the schedule,” Olav says smoothly, tapping something into his phone. “You may refer to the prince as Your Highness.”
“Oh.” I don’t meet King Erik’s eyes. Maybe I should have studied up on how to hang out with royals after our talk last night.
“He’s shorter than the other man,” Max says, eyeing Anders.
“Titles are a bit silly,” King Erik says agreeably.
“This is my son, Max.” I make sure that Max is seat-belted in. “Max, say hi.”
“Hi.”
I hope Anders and Max will get along. I hope I didn’t just ruin Max’s Christmas.
“This car is super long,” Max says.
The soft leather ain’t nothing like the dark vinyl in my pick-up truck. I smooth my Sunday clothes awkwardly, conscioushow out of place my corduroys and boots look against this luxury.
The limo’s real fancy: polished wood accents, gleaming chrome, and lights that flick from red to green.
“Christmas colors,” I marvel.
King Erik smiles. “I thought you would appreciate them.”
“You thought right.” I smile back at him, taking in his pretty eyes and the way his chest puffs out, all proud-like.
Max chatters happily about the limo, about Solberg, and what it’s like, and Anders and Erik answer.
Finally, the limo pulls up at Mistletoe Springs Airport, and by the time we’ve exited the vehicle, someone has lassoed my stomach again. The morning air is cold against my face, and the clouds are gloomy like someone smeared gunmetal over the normally cheerful blue Nevada sky.
A plane takes off with a roar, and I try not to flinch. It becomes smaller and smaller until it vanishes completely into the broad expanse of clouds. The long mid-century modern pink building normally makes me smile, but last time I was here, I was fired.
Maybe I saw lots of planes take off but that didn’t mean I wanted to be inside one of them. Maybe that’s why I worked hard to make the lounge cozy and cheerful for passengers, because I wouldn’t have wanted to do what they were about to do.
