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“Hello,” I say. “Need some help?”
Sigurd doesn’t look up; he’s in his element, that is clear. I approach and expect to be disgusted by the fish odor, but that doesn’t happen.
Instead, he hands me an ancient, strange-looking knife.
The blade is straight with a weird curve on the end and two sharp points that I immediately touch with the tip of my finger.
“Don’t touch it, it’s extremely sharp. Here,” he says.
Sigurd backs away from the table and points down to the ground, signaling that I should come forward and stand before him.
I do as he says because who wouldn’t?
Standing at the table, his big arms come around my middle, and he gently holds my right hand, which grasps the knife.
“Now, grip the head like so.”
I bite back the urge to gag and squirm. No, Stasi. This is dinner, so brave it out. After all, I like learning new things, and this prince is very kindly showing me how to clean a fish.
Strangely, it’s not as disgusting as I thought. Of course, it helps that a large, adept fisherman is guiding my every move, but it’s fun in a weird way.
By the time we finish, we’ve made a dozen filets, ready for the fire.
“I can’t believe I did that. That’s so cool!” I shout, washing my hands at the water pump.
He grunts, wrapping up the filets.
“Do you show all your first dates how to clean their dinners?” I tease, shooting him a wink when he snaps his gaze to mine.
The word “date” got his attention.
“Thanks for your help,” he says, starting back on the short path to the cabin.
Pleased at the happy sound of a kettle boiling, I slide into a kitchen chair as I brush through my tangled mess.
I find I like watching the prince dominate my kitchen.
“So, explain to me again how this is your cabin?” I ask, working through a stubborn snarl of hair.
I watch as the prince pours two cups of tea, carries them to the table where I’m sitting, and slides one over to me. The opposite chair squeaks in protest as the prince sits across from me and pours an astonishing amount of sugar into his steaming mug.
“The house is owned by the palace. I use it for fishing weekends. I was planning on using this cabin as a base camp.”
“Base camp?”
“A place to crash when the weather gets too rough for cold weather camping. In case of an emergency.”
I sip my tea, deciding what tone to take when arguing with a Prince. Cold weather camping? A place to crash? This is not the behavior of royalty. This is bizarre even for Sigurd, the most eccentric of royals. He has to know that.
“With all due respect, Your Highness, I rented this cabin from a property management company, not the palace.”
He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “No one told me the palace was letting it out. And apparently, the rental company doesn’t have to tell you who owns the property.”
“Not that it matters. I rented it under a perfectly legal, binding contract,” I say.
I wait for him to do the right thing—the chivalrous thing—and leave. Clear out and take up his grievance with his family. The very thing that I don’t want him to do yet would be the proper and correct thing.
“You’re really attached to the place,” I say.
