Page 12 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
In the next moment, they’re... kissing.
Yes, kissing.
In the middle of a restaurant.
In the middle of a date, presumably.
I collide straight into a tray of Christmas cocktails.
A crash sounds, a waiter looks distraught, and shards of glass, sticky with rosemary sprigs and some sort of red liquid, are suddenly at my feet.
“I’m terribly sorry!” I apologize to the wide-eyed waiter. “Excruciatingly sorry. Olav, please ensure we pay for these.”
“Father?” Anders’ eyebrows climb up. “Are you... fine?”
Generally, I do not crash into waiters. Generally, I’m not particularly clumsy, and certainly never in a spectacular sense.
“I’m fine,” I blurt, falsely cheerful. “Perfectly fine!”
Anders frowns, and something inside me sloshes unsteadily. I’m out of my body, as if my insides have liquified, and I’ve drifted from it.
I eye the broken glass on the floor. “I’m fine. Those cocktails are not.”
For some reason, Olav smirks. He ushers Lena Haugeland, the reporter, into a private room in the back of the restaurant.
Anders gives me a strange look.
“Did you, er, see Sonja?” My voice drops to a whisper. “From the airport?”
His eyes round. “Is this about the fact that you saw her out on a date with a woman?” He steps back. “Are you homophobic, Father?”
“No!” I say hastily. “I’m not! You can ask Olav.”
He gives me another sneer, no doubt one I deserve.
“You really don’t mind?” My heart bangs against my ribs.
Anders’ stare is sullen.
I hold my breath.
“Of course I don’t care,” Anders says. “It doesn’t matter. You’re so uncool, Father.”
Then Anders storms toward the private room.
I stare after him.
He doesn’t care.
He doesn’t.
My son is good and kind and wonderful.
And if I wanted to...
I stumble after him, my pulse skittering faster than my steps.
Olav emerges from the private room. He smirks at me. “Come on, Your Majesty.”
