Page 12 of Gotta Have Mistletoe

In the next moment, they’re... kissing.

Yes, kissing.

In the middle of a restaurant.

In the middle of a date, presumably.

I collide straight into a tray of Christmas cocktails.

A crash sounds, a waiter looks distraught, and shards of glass, sticky with rosemary sprigs and some sort of red liquid, are suddenly at my feet.

“I’m terribly sorry!” I apologize to the wide-eyed waiter. “Excruciatingly sorry. Olav, please ensure we pay for these.”

“Father?” Anders’ eyebrows climb up. “Are you... fine?”

Generally, I do not crash into waiters. Generally, I’m not particularly clumsy, and certainly never in a spectacular sense.

“I’m fine,” I blurt, falsely cheerful. “Perfectly fine!”

Anders frowns, and something inside me sloshes unsteadily. I’m out of my body, as if my insides have liquified, and I’ve drifted from it.

I eye the broken glass on the floor. “I’m fine. Those cocktails are not.”

For some reason, Olav smirks. He ushers Lena Haugeland, the reporter, into a private room in the back of the restaurant.

Anders gives me a strange look.

“Did you, er, see Sonja?” My voice drops to a whisper. “From the airport?”

His eyes round. “Is this about the fact that you saw her out on a date with a woman?” He steps back. “Are you homophobic, Father?”

“No!” I say hastily. “I’m not! You can ask Olav.”

He gives me another sneer, no doubt one I deserve.

“You really don’t mind?” My heart bangs against my ribs.

Anders’ stare is sullen.

I hold my breath.

“Of course I don’t care,” Anders says. “It doesn’t matter. You’re so uncool, Father.”

Then Anders storms toward the private room.

I stare after him.

He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t.

My son is good and kind and wonderful.

And if I wanted to...

I stumble after him, my pulse skittering faster than my steps.

Olav emerges from the private room. He smirks at me. “Come on, Your Majesty.”