Page 18 of The Impossible Princess
“Thanks,” I say, moving to take her light jacket. It brings us close and suddenly she swivels her head. For a second, we freeze. I wouldn’t mind being rooted here for the rest of my life, but she steps back and tucks her hair behind her ear, a gesture I’ve never seen before. The girl on the television and the one in front of me are like a double exposure. I can’t quite reconcile them into one person.
She smiles. “Sorry, I’m a bit nervous.”
The admission is disarming, and my own apologies seem to evaporate in the face of it. I try to bring my mind squarely to face the fact that she is only someone I’ve invited over for dinner. I try to forget that I made my grandmother’s sacred pork roast because this girl makes me lose my head. She has since the first time I saw her.
I lean against the door and hold the back of my neck to keep from reaching for her hand. “What’s there to be nervous about?” I look around the room at the modest furnishings. Maybe she thinks I might try to bury her in the woods.
“I haven’t been on a lot of”—her hand flutters in the narrow space between us—“whatever this is.”
“A date?”
9
Supposing Things
CLARA
I exhale, nodding. “That makes me sound like a troll. I went out a lot in the States. Clubbing, midnight runs to Penny’s for pie and greasy fries,” I say, naming a super cheap American chain with sticky menus wiped down with a damp cloth only periodically. “And there have been official meetings with Archduke So-and-so and his eligible son.” He frowns at that, I notice, and my stomach does a little flip. I like Max Andersen’s frowns as much as his smiles. “But I don’t go on dates. Not that many people ask.”
“Got it.” He gives me a soft smile, eyes lightly skimming my face, and folds his arms across his chest. “You’re not a troll.”
Max looks even better in jeans and a plaid shirt than he does in his uniform, and that ought to be scientifically impossible. He asked me why I’m nervous? Her Majesty would not approve of me being here; has already warned me away from him. But instead of driving on by, I’m cranking the wheel and peeling off the exit like the cops are on my tail.
There is a tattoo peeking out from under the cuff of his sleeve, winding across the inside of his forearm—
I blink hard and tear my eyes away, mentally adding his tanned, muscled forearms to the list of my top three favorite things about him.
“Do you have a washroom I could use?” I blurt, attraction threatening to turn me into an idiot. “I can help you in the kitchen.”
He points to a door and I slip in, gripping the pedestal sink with both hands and leaning towards the mirror. I conjure Ella. What would Ella say?
Get it, girl.
Ella is not a helpful shoulder angel.
Freja. What would Freja say?
Nothing. Freja would raise an eyebrow and go back to minding her own business.
Alma? Help me, Alma.
For the sake of your country, Clara, show some self-respect.
Thank you, Alma. My oldest sister can be counted on to remind me of my singular duty: Not ripping Lieutenant Commander Andersen’s shirt from his back.
I pump some foaming soap onto my hands and hastily wash up, checking the cabinet for methamphetamines and homemade bongs because Modern Dating. I am relieved to find a full complement of flavored flosses.
Putting a cool hand to the back of my neck, I give myself a silent pep talk, reminding myself over and over that this has to be a one-time thing, and enter the common room.
The kitchen comprises the back wall of the cottage and looks out on a lake. It’s small but tidy, and there is a pocket-sized table with a sharply pressed tablecloth set under a bow window.
“What can I do?” I ask, looking around. The smell from the oven, an aged and polished Aga, is making me drool.
He’s standing at the stove stirring a pot and a hand towel is flipped over his shoulder. I wonder if he’s a good cook or if he knows one dish and cooks it for every date. It seems forward to ask those questions.
“You can mix up the salad,” he says, not relegating me to being a bystander. I unhook a tea towel from behind the back door and tie it around my waist, open the fridge and pull out the butter lettuce, cucumbers, tomato, and assorted other vegetables.
He hands me a large wooden bowl, and I dance around him to the sink, rinsing the greens and shaking them out. When I return, a knife is sitting next to the cutting board and he’s bending into the fridge. I look to the ceiling and mouth my thanks. Max retrieves two bottles of berrybeer, popping the tops off with a flick of the bottle opener.
