Page 52 of The Winter Princess

The surprise of it jerks me into action. “Are you insane?” I ask, darting forward, and dumping my things on the sofa. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

He glances my way, his cheek barely bulging, and brings his hammer up until it’s just kissing his lips. The surface comes away with a tack on the end, held lightly by a magnetic connection. In a quick, precise motion, Oskar flips the hammer around, taps to set the tack, flips the hammer again, and taps the tack into position.

He’s on the fourth or fifth one when I say, “I’m filming this.”

He doesn’t smile or stop but grunts briefly.

I dig into my bag and set up my equipment, capturing the moment when he refills his store of tacks and the way he drags his upholstery pliers down with his free hand to get a good stretch on the canvas. I’m close but careful not to interrupt his rhythm.

He scoots away from the table when he’s finished and deposits the few remaining tacks onto a folded-over paper towel. When he looks up, my blood starts to race.

“Good morning,” he says.

I have to say something, anything. I look through the camera screen and train the lens on him, grateful for this small measure of breathing room. I ask, my voice sounding like newsreader Tor Hjefdal asking a guest to explain her position on monetary policy and looming inflation, “What was that you were doing with the tacks?”

He goes to the sink and washes his hands, drying them on a towel. When he turns, he braces his hands against the counter. Has he read the comments from our videos? Sondmark loves it when his shirt stretches across his chest like that.

Not just Sondmark, Freja.

His answer is spare but engaging. “It’s called spitting tacks, an old upholstery trick.”

I adjust the focus. “Do you work faster than if you hold them in your hand?”

“Yes, but the frame is old and dry. If I nailed the steel tacks in there, as is, they’d slip right out. Because they’re a little wet, the wood swells slightly and grips them. Why are you making that face?”

“It’s spit.”

His head tilts back and away as he tries to keep himself from smiling. “It’s a legitimate trick of the trade.”

That’s a good end to a video that will be both informative and unnecessarily hot.

I nod and set the camera aside.

Now that there’s nothing to distract me, my thoughts come crowding back. Oskar kissed me last night, and it can’t mean anything. It can’t. I think of the list my mother will one day present to me, full of barons, grand dukes, and princes whose titles originate with the Holy Roman Empire. I think of my well-ordered life and the sanctuary of my palace suite. I think of how Oskar and I come from different worlds.

I remember the way his hair slips forward and the strong hand which sweeps it back. He’s sweeping it now.

It’s time. I have to clear the air. I start wrapping my charging cord around my hand. I unwrap it. I have to tell him not to get any ideas about us.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he says, brown eyes hooded.

17

Sexy Town

OSKAR

The lie slips from my lips, sharp as a steel tack. Freja’s shoulders stiffen. I could see, the moment she walked in this morning, that she was planning to have words with me.

We’re grown adults—

Don’t assume—

I didn’t mean anything by—

She doesn’t need to say them. I’ve been imagining her words all night.

No. Not all night.