Page 22 of Gotta Have Mistletoe

It’s too much.

It’s ridiculous.

They had to rent these cars.

But this is my life. I represent Solberg, and the Solbergian people want to be proud of their king. Unfortunately, tonight that entails showing up at Glen’s house with my security.

I could call everything off, but Sven would spend the night guarding the threshold of my suite were I to do that, and I do want to see Glen.

I sigh.

“Very well.” I hand Sven my phone with Glen’s address. “Please take me here.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Glen

A 1950s song crackles on the radio, and I turn the Christmas music up louder. One of the benefits of living in an old farmhouse is that neighbors are far enough away to not mind one’s volume choices. Max and I shimmy over the linoleum tiles.

The doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it!” Max rushes toward the door.

Murmurings sound, and I frown and follow him.

He turns to me, and I don’t like the nervousness in his gaze.

“Tell them to come back after dinner.”

“I don’t think they’ll listen.”

I narrow my gaze, because that statement’s strange, then a large bulky bodyguard I recognize and two similarly suited men wearing dark shades burst into my living room.

They search the room with the efficiency of people long practiced in seeking out bombs, lifting the couch, and checking under the table.

A chorus of “clears” rings out.

“What’s happening, Dad?” Max asks. “Are we in trouble?”

“Nope,” I assure him, hoping I’m correct. I pull him into a hug.

Finally, King Erik strides into the house, his expression somewhere between nervous and apologetic.

I suppress a snort.

“Should have figured I’d see you again,” I say. “Your Majesty, this is my son, Max. Max, this is King Erik of Solberg.”

Max tilts his head up and eyes King Erik suspiciously. I don’t blame him.

“You’re really a king?” Max asks.

“Yes.”

“Like King Arthur?”

“Well, I never found a sword in a stone.”

Max raises his eyebrows. “They made you a king anyway?”