A Nordic King(49)

Oh good. I remind him of his dad.

“Your father must have good taste,” I manage to say, and my voice comes out all squeaky.

“Mmm,” he grunts in reply and continues to work his way to the bottom, frowning as if in deep concentration.

“Do you ever stop frowning?” I ask him softly, and without thinking I reach up and slide my thumb between his brows, smoothing over the deep line. He closes his eyes to my touch, as if surrendering to me. It makes me think he might be as deprived of touch, of connection, as I am.

I should take my hand away, but I don’t. Instead I gently trail my fingers up and over his tense brow, feeling the cold of his skin beneath my fingertips. I bring them down over the dip of his temple, coasting the tips of his wet hair, dusting over his high cheekbones.

His inhales through his nose sharply, eyes pinched shut, letting go of the end of my cardigan. He places his hand over mine, holding it to his cheek, warm fingers wrapping over the edge of my palm.

For a moment it seems like he might move my hand to his mouth and kiss my palm.

For a moment, this is all I can hope for.

For a moment, this is all I’ve ever wanted.

But he doesn’t. His eyes open and they flash with something I can’t figure out, something raw and dangerous, and that frown returns. He removes my hand from his cheek and gets up to his feet.

“I think you can handle the rest,” he says, gesturing to the last two buttons. He clears his throat and bends down to scoop up Snarf Snarf. It would be the cutest thing in the world if I still wasn’t reeling over what happened. We were so close there, just for one moment, but a moment was all there really was.

“You must really love that pig,” I comment, trying to cover up how awkward I feel. “To go after him like that.”

He cocks his head. “I went after you, didn’t I?”

That’s true. And he obviously doesn’t love me. He’s just a good man, even if I get the feeling he doesn’t believe it himself.

He stares at me for another beat and then turns around. “I’m going to put him back in his room, make sure he’s okay,” he says over his shoulder. “Get dressed, stay warm. I’ll be right back.”

I watch as his tall figure disappears.

Then I get up.

I take his pajamas and head up to my room. I know he told me to stay where I was but honestly, I don’t trust myself. I’m at the point where I’m involuntarily touching him, feeling his damn face like he’s braille, not to mention that I ran out into the snow and nearly got hypothermia, which seemed to really piss him off.

No, this is an evening that needs to be put to bed.

But that doesn’t stop me from slipping into his pajamas anyway.

Just to fall asleep to the smell of him.





Chapter 12





Aurora





The rest of the weeks leading up to Christmas fly by. After the Snarf Snarf incident (and, believe me, there always seems to be a Snarf Snarf incident), Aksel and I went from one step forward to two steps back. Though he sometimes took part in the girls’ Christmas activities, such as candle lighting and wreath decorating, most of the time he’s been gone.

It’s not his fault. It turns out that Christmas is the busiest time of the year for a king, with an endless stream of public duties, such as parties for Helena’s various charities, taking part in annual ceremonies and attending numerous galas and dinners around Denmark, and even abroad. We even had a dinner at the palace for the Crown Prince of Norway, but according to Maja, my job was to keep the girls out of sight.

When I did happen to see Aksel, he was back to keeping his distance from me, much like he did at the very beginning of this job. He’s not as grumpy or cantankerous. He’s not even that cold. It’s more like he’s wary of me and unsure. He treats me like I’m a wild deer, permanently ready to bolt. No sudden movements around the nanny.

I’m going to assume that he thinks I’m an unstable nutcase since he found me running around in the snow and doesn’t quite know how to handle me anymore. And that really sucks because December was already a tough month for me to begin with. I hate having this space between us, especially since I still feel this pull to him, like one magnet to another, that only increases with each and every day.

It’s foolish. So foolish. And it hurts my heart.

But hearts are made to hold you hostage and I’m captive against my will.

Now, it’s Christmas Eve, the main event, and he’s here, sitting across from me at the lavishly decorated dinner table, looking too handsome for his own good. There’s a half-eaten Christmas goose between us, surrounded by leftover plates of herring, dill and potatoes, dark breads, fried fish, shrimp, meatballs, cabbage, and shot glasses of aquavit and bitter Schnaps. The girls are still devout vegetarians (well, Clara is. I saw Freja sneak a bit of goose when her sister wasn’t looking) but at least they were satisfied with the ample amount of potatoes and root vegetables.

At the moment, everyone is eating a traditional Danish dessert called ris á l’amande (which is French but actually doesn’t exist in France), which is rice pudding, whipped cream, cherry sauce, and cut almonds. It’s delicious and we’re all stuffed but those aren’t the reasons why we’re eating it so slowly. It’s that one of the bowls has an uncut whole almond in it, and apparently whoever discovers the almond in their bowl wins a present.