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I pack up what remains of breakfast, suddenly not feeling very hungry.
While searching through the kitchen for leftover containers, I find a small insulated drink cooler, which I fill with drinks. I’ve no idea if it’s too early for an adult drink on the dock, but the sun is shining, and it’s the perfect time to get a tan.
So, I’ll do what I came here to do in the first place.
The only thing left to decide is which swimsuit I want to wear and which book I want to read.
The azure blue suit seems perfect, and I’m grateful the gods graced our little kingdom with some extra sunshine in September. It looks great with my hair down, and it matches the color of the sky today. As for the book, I pick up a spicy thriller from the bookcase in the living room.
I hum to myself as I spread out my blanket on the end of the dock and situate my little Bluetooth speaker.
I fire up my playlist and crack open a can of the cheap stuff, deciding that it tastes far too hoppy, but it will do the trick.
When the sun goes behind a cloud, I sit cross-legged on the blanket and read a few chapters. The complete silence, other than birds and fish, is almost unsettling. Almost.
All the more reason to be grateful for a little company.
But then I remember, the prince is gone. He even took his little rowboat with him.
I should have counted my bras and panties this morning instead of preparing breakfast for him.
Humph.
The sun peeks out of the clouds, and the temperature heats up. I spread out on my blanket on my stomach, reach back, and tug the string at the back and neck of my bikini top, letting it fall.
I’ve never had a proper tan without tan lines, and now is as good a time as any to go for it.
After about thirty minutes, it’s time to flip.
Do I dare?
I lift my head to examine the lake, the shoreline. No one is around.
I’m doing it.
I sit up and stretch, amazed at how great it feels to be utterly topless in the sun.
A lazy smile spreads across my face as I lie back, tits up, and soak in the Vitamin D.
8
Sigurd
The fish practically jump right into my boat.
That’s how Mr. Black would have described it when he first taught me how to fish when I was young.
I’m anchored at my favorite cove at the shadiest part of the lake, feeling grateful to the former gamekeeper of the palace.
I know my father the king loves me as much as he is capable of love, but Mr. Black gets most of the credit for raising me. As a child, I had no aptitude for piano or violin. My marks in school were mediocre at best, and I was not charming and social like Torben at royal engagements. If anything, photo ops gave me anxiety.
My parents and governesses didn’t know what to do with me until Mother came running outside one day, all in a tizzy that Mr. Black was showing me how to string a bow. It was too dangerous, she said.
She fetched Father, expecting him to put a stop to this activity. But the moment the king stepped into the garden where Mr. Black had set up a target, I hit a bullseye.
I remember it as clear as day: Father walked up to Mr. Black, gripped him by the shoulder, barely darting his eyes to me, and said, “Black? He’s all yours. Teach him everything you know.”
Mr. Black took that to heart, and I was thrilled. Finally, I had found my thing. I thrived under his teaching, and Callum and I, being the same age, became the best of friends.
