Page 24 of Gotta Have Mistletoe

We enter the gazebo, and King Erik looks wide-eyed. “Did you build this?”

I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Yup.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Wanted a little sparkle for the boy,” I say.

King Erik nods. He looks up. “You have mistletoe.”

I follow his gaze. The mistletoe sprigs are directly above us. “Uh-huh.”

My voice is a pitch it never is.

Because I know what you’re supposed to do under mistletoe.

Don’t want His Majesty to think I brought him out here for that, even if I am thinking about it. I’d sure like to explore King Erik’s lips with my own.

King Erik’s cheeks are darker than before, and any hope that Solberg hasn’t learned about mistletoe and mandatory kissing rules vanishes, replaced with my cells jumping about like some weeks-old colt.

“I need you to play my fiancé,” King Erik says.

Well, that got me to stop thinking about mistletoe.

“Uh...” My tongue is thick. Maybe I misheard. I must have misheard.

“Please?” he asks. “I want you to come to Solberg with me. Just for Christmas.”

“You want me to pretend to be your fiancé in front of more people?”

“Yes.”

I press my lips together.

At one point, I was a fiancé.

At one point, I was laughing and romancing my future husband.

It feels all sorts of wrong to pretend to be someone else’s fiancé. To say we’re going to do those happily ever-after things together, when we don’t intend to be in each other’s lives past Christmas.

My heartbeat quickens, and when I open my mouth to say no, I can’t quite manage that either.

Reckon I pretended too well that we were in love. Now he has a mess to clean.

I should have walked straight out that door when I saw him in the restaurant.

I’m a widower, not someone who goes around playing some king’s fake fiancé.

“After one week, I’ll announce to the press that you miss the United States. People will be shocked—Solberg is beautiful, but they’ll accept I’ll never attempt to date again.”

I don’t like him planning to lead the rest of his life alone, but I can’t say anything... that’s my plan too, and I get mighty annoyed when someone hints I should do otherwise.

“And then, you can live happily ever after alone,” I say.

“Precisely.”

I’m silent.

“I’m sorry. You have a son. I’m disturbing you.” His breath is faster, like he’s having one of his panicky moments.