Page 14 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
From the raised eyebrow of Lena Haugeland and the fact she chooses just then to scribble something into her phone, I’m fairly certain that I’m unsuccessful.
I suck in a deep breath and fling him my best pasted-on smile. “You have a very... decorated restaurant.”
The maître d’ claps his hands, delighted.
Will Miss Haugeland write an article about me in the next hour about how I’m a failure as a king and dragged my royal staff and son and journalists to Mistletoe Springs for no reason at all?
Anders scowls, unimpressed by the perfect decor, perfect lighting, perfect fruit, and cheese platter.
I fiddle with my bowtie.
The maître d’ steps forward with a regal manner that would have made my etiquette tutor clap with joy. “I personally inspected each grape to ensure appropriate plumpness.”
“They’re delicious,” Lena Haugeland assures him while she pops another into her mouth.
“Any word from my other guest?” I ask, attempting to banish the wobble from my voice.
“I shall check, Your Majesty.” The maître d’ walks backwards at a brisk pace, bowing, then leaves the room.
Olav types something into his phone, and I pretend I am not deeply mortified.
Please let Olav fix this. Please let Olav fix this. Please let Olav fix this.
Will Lena Haugeland report that I flew her and my staff across the Atlantic, and across most of a continent, for nothing?
My nerves zing. The cowboy and his warm eyes and deep, rumbly voice rush back, uninvited.
I have an heir. I could...
My throat thickens. The idea is absurd. No king has ever dated a man.
But I could technically, couldn’t I?
Then I remember I’m flying home tomorrow. I’ll never see Glen Garland again.
CHAPTER SIX
Glen
I park my truck outside, then burst through Mistletoe Springs Restaurant. I remove my cowboy hat, then put it on again. The last time I was here, I was with Dean.
Well, no reason to muse over that.
Dean is looking down from heaven, probably thinking I don’t look prepared for my interview.
I square my shoulders, then stride up to the hostess. I keep my hat on my head, just in case I’ve managed to give myself a bad hair day by pulling it on and off with such frequency.
My shirt is crisp, my brown suit is steamed, my orange tie is knotted, and it don’t matter if I’m nervous.
I’m gonna win this contract. Yes, siree.
“I have an interview,” I announce to the hostess. “It’s in a private room.”
The hostess flashes a smile, clutching a phone to her ear. “The private rooms are in the back. I’ll bring you over in a second...”
“No need.” I weave through the restaurant, waving at Casey and her girlfriend Sonja.
Finally, I’m at the back of the restaurant. There’s more than one private room, and I frown. I don’t want to disturb someone’s birthday celebration or something.
