Royally Not Ready(132)

As we make our way to the car, I’m tempted to reach out to Lara, to lean on her for support, but I know it wouldn’t look right, so I wait until we get into the car to let out a large exhale.

“Oh my God,” I whisper as we all buckle up. The car begins to move, and I turn toward Lara. “Please tell me it felt like there was a lack of oxygen in that room.”

“The minute your eyes connected with his, yes . . . the air seemed to shrink.”

I press my hand to my chest. “I was not . . . expecting that. I knew his mom was an artist, but he made it seem like he wasn’t that good.”

“He didn’t represent himself well when talking about his talents, then. His pieces are magnificent.”

“Does he focus on landscapes?”

“Everything. Lately, late at night, while we talk, he draws portraits.”

“Oh? Of who?”

“Of you,” she answers. “Wherever you’ve been photographed for the day, he’ll spend the evening sketching you in his notebook while he tells me how beautiful you are.”

Okay . . .

Act normal.

That’s no big deal.

It’s just, you know . . . art.

It’s not like a romantic thing or anything like that. I have a sketchable face. That’s it.

Lara slides the piece of paper over to me. “It’s a shame when we realize the moment we lost the most important thing in our lives, isn’t it?”

I give her a side-eye. “I thought you were staying out of it.”

She holds her hands up. “I am, I’m just, you know . . . talking.”

“Uh-huh.” I unfold the piece of paper and read the poem to myself.

So desperate for love,

Beating, screaming,

Begging for one glimpse.

My heart is yours,

A servant to your being,

Forever yours but hopefully,

Never, never.

It takes me a few moments to reread it, to understand what he’s saying, and when I do, I mentally hear myself say, forever . . . never, never.





“Listen, Lara, if I walk through that door into the wood-whittling place, I need you to tell me, will I see him there?”

She grimaces and quietly says, “There’s a high probability he’s in there.”

“How high? Give me a percentage.”

“One hundred,” she says just as Henrik opens the door, and I come face to face with three men. One of them is pretty old, wrinkles etching his face, a hump in his back. One is quite charming, with rich dark hair and a crooked nose. And the third is Keller, wearing jeans and a button-up shirt, with a heavy cloth apron tied around his neck and torso.

His hair has grown longer on the top so he can fix it into a ponytail, and the bruise under his eye is completely gone. I don’t know how it’s possible, but he looks bigger, stronger than a week ago.

“Princess Lilija,” Henrik says. “Allow me to introduce you to some of our best whittlers in the capital. This is Eriek.” Henrik gestures to the old man. “And this is Jon, and you’re already acquainted with Keller.”

“Hello,” I say while trying to speak to all of them, not just Keller. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Eriek steps up and says, “We’re very pleased to have you here. With Torg just around the corner, we’re excited to show you how we put together a fish for trading, using some of the oldest utensils on the island.”

I smile and act as though I’m interested, but the entire time, I feel him so close. His energy is so palpable, that I almost cut myself at one point while trying to shape the fish. I nick myself, nothing a small bandage won’t fix. Eriek and Jon are both lovely men, very involved in the history of whittling, while Keller watches over us, waiting his turn.

And when his time comes, he bows and, hoping for a note, I hold out my hand, which once again, he squeezes three times. To my satisfaction, he slips me a note. That piece of paper? It feels as though it lights up my entire body. It may be only parchment with scribbling on it, but it’s so much more than that to me. It feels like glue, repairing the damage that’s been done to my heart.

“Princess Lilija,” he says. “Thank you for joining us. I’ll be going over the painting portion of the fish. Would you mind stepping up to the table?”

I do as I’m told. The command in his voice is soft, so no one else would notice it, no one but me. He stands next to me, the heat of his body so powerful that I feel it in the depths of my soul. As he speaks, his shoulder brushes against mine, sending chills up my spine, one wave after another, until I feel almost breathless. He shows me how to paint the fish, just like he did in Harrogate, taking me back to when we couldn’t be apart from each other.

Memories flood me.

Emotions tickle my brain.

The need for him now is so strong that I can’t quite remember exactly why we aren’t together.

And when he looks me in the eyes, the desperation causes my heart to bleed because, despite it all, I feel the same way. I want him badly. I’ve missed him terribly.

When we’re back in the car, Lara slips me the note, but I don’t look at it right away. Instead, I stare out the window at the retreating Keller, who doesn’t tear his gaze away until I can’t see him anymore.

Still looking out the window, I whisper, “I love him, Lara.”