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He grumbles, “Getting you off the dock before someone shows up to investigate all the screaming.”
I am offended.
“I didn’t scream; I gasped,” I protest.
The prince doesn’t reply; he only marches down the dock and crosses the wide clearing like he’s on a mission.
“Dunno what you think you’re doing not wearing a life jacket in my rowboat, especially if you don’t know how to swim,” he throws in for good measure when we reach the cabin.
Okay. There’s a lot to unpack with that sentence.
“First of all,” I say, trying not to notice how he somehow opens the cabin door with a knee while still carrying me princess-style, “I do know how to swim. I just got disoriented.” Lies. I’m a lying liar who lies. “Secondly,yourrowboat? Since when is that your rowboat?”
He doesn’t answer but sweeps me over the threshold, and now I’m blushing because of this? Yeah…this looks like a groom carrying a bride over the threshold, and it’s working for me. A little too well. A lot too well.
I am…uncomfortable with how comfortable I feel in the arms of a man I’ve never met before.
I could be mistaken, but I may see a twinkle of amusement in his silvery gray eyes as he gently sets me down on the sofa. But then, the glimmer is gone like a wisp in the next second as the prince turns away from me and heads to the kitchen.
“It’s been my rowboat since the day I built it,” he mutters, not looking at me as he fills the kettle with water from the tap.
He built it? He made a fucking rowboat?
Okay, he’s delusional. One of the oars struck him on the head when he dove into the water to rescue me.
Prince Sigurd continues to putter around the kitchen, gathering tea and sugar and mugs and spoons. Meanwhile, I’m dripping all over the sofa.
“I’m soaking these cushions, and there’s water all over the floor. I’m going to change.”
“Don’t move,” he orders.
“But the sofa…?”
“Is ugly,” he tosses over his shoulder as he fetches the milk from the fridge and sniffs it.
It’s a brand new sofa that I would kill to own, and the knockoff version of it costs over a thousand euros. I know this because I was browsing furniture online the day after this very prince tipped me after that scene at the pub with his brother. I’d figured it was time to graduate from my wood-plank-and-cinder-block entertainment unit and make an actual grown-up sitting area. I changed my mind when I got distracted by a call on the house phone for Jakob, the caller ID saying it was from Mirror Lake. I thought that sounded like a nice place to visit. And then I remembered the whole country was due for an unseasonable late September heat wave that would only make moods in the house snappier and crankier.
On top of that, I told myself that I deserved some time away. So, after handing the phone to Jakob, I sat down and looked up vacation rentals in that area. It’s better to make memories with this windfall than buy stuff.
And here I am, ruining this beautiful sofa that I can’t afford to replace. The rental company is going to be pissed. “I should go change.”
“Don’t move until I check you over for a concussion. That’s an order.”
There was a time in my life when I would have run away when someone gave me firm orders like this. I was too used to being ordered around, hemmed in by my foster families and the group home. Anyone telling me what to do or not do with my body triggers a flight response. This fact was something I learned during my last go-round in the group home when they brought in a counselor to help me transition out of the house when I turned 18. She was really lovely and helped me understand my emotions before reacting. That was super helpful when I had to get a job. I like the tips while waiting tables but hate when the manager shouts. And when the chef hurls abuse the way he does, I don’t just want to run; I want to stab.
Imagine my surprise when I notice that Sigurd’s tone doesn’t trigger my fight or flight response at all. It’s giving me something else I can’t quite identify. I stay still because I simply want to stay still.
“How do you take your tea?” asks the prince.
It must be the way he doesn’t shout and is only firm. It could be the way he uses so few words to get his point across. The way he shows no emotion.
“Splash of milk, one sugar,” I say, my throat still slightly scratchy from my accident.
I watch Prince Sigurd closely as he walks over a moment later and hands me a steaming mug printed with words on the side. I can’t quite read, but it looks like the scrawling handwriting of a nine-year-old.
He moves deliberately but carefully.
“Thank you,” I say.
