Page 42 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
“I know. I can ask her to the Christmas ball. Thank you.” Anders hurries ahead.
“Where’s that boy going?” Erik grumbles. He turns to me. “He’s being rude. I’ll go get him.”
“Let him be. He’s talking to someone important.”
Erik’s jaw drops, and he looks at me with such incredulity that some of the stiffness that entered my body since I reminded Anders that I was leaving drifts away. He raises his jaw, and I wonder how he always looks so regal. “You’re important. Max is important.”
I gesture toward Anders. He’s speaking with Tina. It’s awkward, but they’re definitely speaking.
“Look.”
Erik frowns, and for a wild moment I think that maybe he doesn’t see after all, or worse, that he’ll take the opportunity totell Anders to speak with Max or me, as if he doesn’t already spend lots of time with us at the castle.
A proud father smile moves over his face, and everything is okay.
“Oh,” Erik says. “He’s getting older.”
“Sure is.” I chuckle.
Max joins Anders and Tina, and I think about calling Max back, but Anders brightens. Reckon Max is giving Anders something to talk about. Tina is laughing at something Anders says and smoothing her hair, which is definitely a good sign.
“You bring everyone joy.” King Erik looks at me with intensity, and my heartbeat quickens. It’s not used to pale blue-green eyes and aristocratic features looking at me like that.
And I shouldn’t, shouldn’t be here.
But Dean isn’t here. He hasn’t been here in a while.
I stare at the handsome man before me, who knows what I’ve been through. He puts his hand on my waist, and I wonder if he’s ever put his hand on another man’s waist.
I don’t think so.
His eyes dart to my lips, and I lick my lower lip automatically.
Is he going to kiss me? I stare, transfixed.
“Kiss!” Someone shouts, and for a wild moment I think it’s my own mind.
Other people are also shouting the words. Other people holding up professional-looking cameras.
“Oh, no.” Erik’s jaw tenses, then he squares his shoulders as if nothing happened.
And technically, nothing did.
Photographers, clothed in black, dart and jump in front of us, contorting themselves into odd angles to get the best shots. They wriggle on the ground, unconcerned by the snow, and snap photos.
“Exactly how many people in Solberg become photographers?” I ask Erik.
“Most of them are international,” Erik says. “I sell magazines all over Europe and North America. Looks like you’re going to help too.”
“Kiss!” the photographers scream again.
Erik’s cheeks turn a pink shade, and he quivers.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, turning to the cameras.
I frown. We’re supposed to be engaged. Why wouldn’t we kiss?
I pull him toward me, then wrap my arms around him, as if maybe I can stop him from shaking.
