Page 9 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
“How was school?” I ask, just in case Max is going to ask for weights or something and really throw me off-center.
He’s eight, I tell myself.
He’s a child.
“School was boring,” Max declares. “How was work?”
“Not boring.”
The phone pings before I can explain about the king and the firing and all the things he might learn in school tomorrow.
I lurch for my phone, like it might self-destruct like in one of those spy movies if I’m not quick enough.
A text pops up—interview tomorrow.
“I got an interview!” I say, my voice rising, and the lasso around my gut loosens. “One of those Vegas guys wants to renovate Mistletoe Springs Restaurant, and he wants to interview me!”
“Wow!”
“Super wow!” I agree. “I’ll have to steam my suit.”
Max giggles. “You don’t wear suits, Dad.”
“Don’t tell anyone.” I wink. “Gotta be professional.”
I go to google the fancy Vegas builder, and my gaze falls on my past google history of the king. I definitely was being ridiculous. My gaze lingers on the man’s high cheekbones and pink cheeks anyway, and I don’t like the way my chest clenches when I exit out of the tab.
CHAPTER FOUR
King Erik
I pace my hotel suite and pretend I’m not thinking about Glen getting fired and pretend Olav is not looking increasingly worried.
The problem with having a royal advisor who can anticipate your every move is that they seem to think it’s their mission to anticipate your every problem... and think they know how to solve any issues.
Mistletoe Springs Inn is one of those Victorian inns that seems intent on replicating the best of the V&A Museum in London. Mistletoe dangles from the ceiling, from the sconces, and even the pillowcases have a hundred mistletoe sprigs crammed onto the fabric.
“The owners must like Christmas,” I observe.
“The town is called Mistletoe Springs, Your Majesty.”
“One would think they might tire of Christmas.”
“An impossibility, for anyone.”
I give a weak smile.
I may have tired of Christmas.
I’m reciting platitudes when I praise the season, like an amateur actor in a play put on in an engineering school where drama has been added to everyone’s curriculum by clerical error.
A knock sounds on the door, and one of Mistletoe Springs’ many cheerful locals appears with room service.
I take a sip of tea and frown immediately. “My tea tastes like cloves.”
“I remember you enjoying Christmas.”
“That was before.”
