Page 33 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
Something in my chest loosens. “I’d like that.”
“And if you mess up, I have access to an iron flail.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Glen
Norwegian.
Ain’t a language I ever thought I might learn.
I’ve got stacks of language books, a dictionary, and even audio guides.
Olav has told me to learn as much as I can, and I want to impress the king.
Orange and red flames dance in the hearth, unencumbered by the need to learn grammar.
Olav has installed me in the living room, and my heart jumps when I see the king. I don’t want him to think I’m going teenage crush on him, like the people who buy the magazines with his pictures in them, just to get a proper look at him, even if it’s the 2-D, non-talking version.
The king steps inside the room, and I scramble for what to say, flipping through my notes. “Jeg heter Glen. Hva heter du?”
“My name is Erik.”
I frown. “You were supposed to say that in Norwegian.”
“Jeg heter Erik.”
I beam at him, then look at my notes for the right response. My head is foggy in his presence.
His eyes soften. “I brought you some hot cocoa. Gunnhild gave it to me. She likes you a lot.”
I take the mug, and if my hands brush his, I try not to dwell on the sudden warmth and sudden zing. I sip my cocoa hastily. My throat floods with chocolate and whipped cream. “This is delicious.”
“Naturally. Everything in Solberg is delicious.”
“You’re an excellent king.”
He smiles, but there’s something melancholic about it.
“I’ll...um...” He shifts his legs.
I’m not ready for him to patter away to another room. Even when he’s not in my presence, I’ll be thinking about him.
I gesture to the spot next to me on the sofa. “Sit.”
He settles down tentatively, perched on the end of the sofa. He’d be shocked if he saw how I generally sit on sofas, feet up on one armrest, head perched on the throw pillows.
“What’s troubling you?” I ask, though I reckon I know the answer.
People can tell I’m not your normal royal fiancé. I want to learn as much Norwegian as I can for him. I want to study up on Solbergian culture. I want people to think the best of the king, and for that, I must be the best.
“I’ve shocked my people,” King Erik says finally.
“I’ll try to be a good fiancé,” I promise. “I will. Olav told me you have a big Christmas ball in a few days. I can handle it, I swear.”
Erik glances at the textbooks piled around me. “You’re trying to learn Norwegian?”
“Ja.”
