Page 5 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
I close my eyes, then tilt my head up to Sven. “Can you please get off me?”
“Um...”
“Assassins generally don’t use Christmas trees,” I tell him.
Sven sighs above me, then lumbers up. He offers a hand which I don’t take, then regret it when I slide on an ornament. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are one of those shades found on berries.
“I’m no assassin,” the man says, his umber eyes widening as he scrambles to his feet. “I’m a contractor. Glen Garland. Of Garland Contracting. We always leave a sparkle behind.”
He glances down at the shattered mess around us and cringes. A startled laugh escapes me.
Crushed ornaments cling to the man’s sweater.
“You’re sparkling too,” I say.
“I’m really sorry, Your Highness.”
Sven’s scowl deepens, a difficult feat given his resting glower face, and he clears his throat.
“Or lordship?” Glen asks, his voice rising in a way I don’t like.
I saw him in the lounge before he noticed me. His strength, his calmness, his Christmas cheer radiated from him.
“The King of Solberg is not a lord,” Sven says sternly. His hands have somehow made their way to his waist.
“Though I am a gentleman.”
“Your kingship?” Glen asks with increasing horror.
“That’s not important,” I say, conscious of my staff jerking their heads toward me.
Because of course, the way I am addressed is important.
“We’re not in Solberg,” I say somewhat defensively.
It’s not like I told him to call me by my first name or anything.
And the odd thing was, I was tempted.
He studies me, and my nerves feel alive, like they’ve been plugged into voltage.
“I’m fine. You have some, uh...” I gesture vaguely toward his face.
“What?”
I reach forward and pluck something from his cheek. I twirl the greenery. “Mistletoe.”
His eyes widen.
Mine widen as well.
Mistletoe might be something you can get in the grocery store, or wherever people buy greenery... Not everyone has a greenhouse. But mistletoe is really more. Anyone marginally acquainted with Christmas traditions knows its association with romance.
My fingers shake. I am not holding mistletoe and thinking of kissing Glen. Naturally not.
Glen’s eyes are soft, and I step closer before I can stop myself, then notice that I’m glittering.
I swipe stray sparkles from my suit jacket. For some reason, his lips twitch.
