After three rousing games of Settlers with Gracie’s friends—all of whom believe she hung the moon and have at least four stories apiece about Gracie organizing a meal train for a new mother, charming her way out of speeding tickets, losing her car keys, applying for a bank loan with a pineapple upside-down cake, and running about town in that dinosaur costume shooting off a confetti gun before their annual Grits Festival—I convince Viktor we need to verify Gracie’s door is locked before we leave town.
Rumor has it she hasn’t seen her house keys in a few weeks, and if reporters are snooping around this little town because of Zeus Berger and Joey already, they’ll surely be coming in thicker droves once they hear a local daughter is dating royalty.
Which, of course, is what the rumors will say.
My father truly is going to have my head on a platter before the end of next week if I can’t find Elin a better husband. And I don’t wish to discuss what Elin’s father will do to me either. Or what Colden will do to me, since he’ll probably be her consolation prize.
I’m still waiting on a call from Gunnar, who loves to cite crown prince duties as a reason to avoid subjects he wishes to not discuss.
Such as my betrothal.
Gracie’s house is a small cottage on a street I would’ve called quiet until we step out of the SUV. A hound dog wails next door, night insects chirp in the pleasant evening, and voices carry through an open window one house down. A television or radio show, I suspect, from the canned laughter that accompanies the voices.
I rap twice on her door.
No one answers.
“We should go, Your Highness,” Viktor says.
Poor man. He’s not incorrect. He also insisted we should not travel to Goat’s Tit at all today—such a bloody fantastic name—but here we are, which I believe speaks to his blooming loyalty for Gracie as well.
He hasn’t said as much, but I do believe he’s aware of the subject of our conversation two days ago, and I expect he sees himself as responsible for the welfare of my child as well.
Good man, Viktor.
He’s getting a raise.
I knock again, wait, and after a third knock, I test Gracie’s door. If it’s not locked, I have a problem.
It easily turns.
Which means the mother of my child is leaving herself open to heaven only knows what.
I push the door open. “Gracie? Are you about?”
“Your Highness—” Viktor starts, only to be interrupted by the plaintive wail of an animal.
Can’t have an animal suffering, can we? “Gracie?” I call out again as I step into her house.
She doesn’t answer. An orange and black feline fluffball waltzes across the brown carpet of the living room, around scattered piles of laundry, a three-foot-long stuffed zebra beside an ancient console television, and various cups and saucers. It yowls again and flops onto its back at my feet, where it silently dares me to touch its furry belly.
“Viktor, I smell a trap,” I say.
“Please do not touch the animal, Your Highness.”
“You know how much I love to do things I’m told not to.”
“Suit yourself, Your Highness. But do remember your game tomorrow would be most uncomfortable if you were sporting swollen eyes and wearing bandages beneath your gloves.”
“Whatever would I do without you?”
“Undoubtedly drive another man to drink.”
I chuckle and step over the cat. “Gracie? Are you home? You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked, love.”
“Your Highness, we need to be off to the airport.”
I hate it when he’s right.
Still, I can’t leave without mentioning to Gracie the importance of locking her door. If she can’t find her keys, I’ll order a locksmith out tomorrow. I’m reaching for my phone to text her when it buzzes with an incoming call.
Gunnar.
Rather late for a Friday night in Stölland.
“Just a moment, Viktor.” I step over the cat and toward a back doorway that apparently leads to Gracie’s bedroom. “Ah, the king-in-training finally has time for his brother?” I say.
“Why are you gallivanting across America chasing a woman?”
Quite annoying how quickly word travels in the digital age. “You believe everything you read on the internet?”
“I believe in phone-tracking apps,” my brother replies dryly. “Go home. Now.”
Bloody fucker. “I’m doing charity work.”
“Go home, Manning,” he repeats. “If you fuck up your engagement to Elin, our family will owe Austling six times what you’re being paid to dance around with a stick and a puck on the ice. Grandpappa mismanaged the estates and left us flat broke. Austling bailed us out in exchange for you marrying Elin upon her coming of age.”
A glacier presses up from my stomach and into my breastbone. Despite Colden basically saying as much the other day, hearing it confirmed by my eldest brother makes it real. “Connection must be bad,” I say, “because it sounded like you just said—”
“Interest-free loan to refill the royal coffers in exchange for your hand in marriage,” Gunnar repeats.
I grip the old metal doorknob to Gracie’s bedroom and squeeze it hard enough to leave etchings on my palm.
And not the good kind of ice. “Why was I never told of this?”
Gunnar’s voice carries across the Atlantic with the weight of the world in it. “I believe our father thought that the earl would come to his senses and wish for a love match for his daughter instead once she came of an age to have fanciful notions of love and devotion.”
“Not too late,” I say with a cheer I don’t feel, ignoring the silent jab about me being an unlovable rapscallion.
Broke.
Sold to save the kingdom.
My betrothal isn’t about a dukedom or a family friendship.
It’s about money.
“Go home,” Gunnar repeats a third time. “The earl is getting twitchy with all your extracurricular activities, and I suspect he’s more interested in causing us heartburn than he is in getting out of the arrangement. Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he’s planning on going to Parliament with a proposal to oust us anyway. If you wish to end your betrothal, you’ll have to find another way beyond scandalous behavior. Preferably a way that involves a rather large bank account for you or Elin.”
My fingers are going numb, as are my toes.
Being traded for land, for peace, for economic advantage all seem so much more gentlemanly than being traded for a pile of cash. “How did he lose it?” I ask.
As if how our grandfather squandered the family’s riches is the most important question.
How the fuck do I get out of this? is more pressing.
“Gambling and poor investments, I believe. Including half the money Austling gave him before Pappa inherited the crown. I wasn’t given specifics, and I honestly don’t give a damn. If you cry off, we may as well hand the kingdom to Austling.”
“We still owe him money?”
“It was quite the loan. Took several years for our holdings to become profitable enough again to begin making a small dent.”
“Fuck.”
“I’ve a call in to Willow,” Gunnar tells me. “Her otherwise useless fiancé has rich friends. Perhaps you could make a personal plea to her as well. If she could offer Elin a few introductions to New York society, perhaps we could appeal to Austling’s greed. A New Yorker wouldn’t be titled, but money talks. I’ve met your betrothed one too many times to wish to share Christmas dinner with her.”
“I’ve met her one too many times to wish to share anything with her,” I grumble. Gunnar’s arranged wife hadn’t been his best match either, but at least she hadn’t been a screecher.
“Chin up. And do your bloody best to annoy the shit out of Elin while she’s in town without making it obvious you’re trying to annoy her.”
“She brought the monkey with her.”
“I know too many of your hockey friends. You’ve lost the right to complain about a monkey.”
The cat swishes itself against my legs and meows. I can already picture the hives breaking out.
Felines and I have a special relationship. They have a primal recognition of my sneezing and wheezing talents, and generally go out of their way to inflict as much cat dander on my person as possible at any opportunity.
Gunnar lets out a muffled curse.
“More bad news? Jolly good Friday night, isn’t it?” I say.
“Stepped on a Lego,” he grunts.
Now that is good news. Serves him right. I make a mental note to send Viggo ten more Lego sets.
Fuck. Can I afford to buy more Lego sets? I’ve honestly no idea. Money’s never been something I’ve worried about.
Apparently I’ve been a fool.
“Speaking of my nephew, if you sell his hand in marriage to anyone I’ll have your bloody head.” If he dares sell my child in marriage, I’ll do far worse.
Fuck again.
“No need,” Gunnar says dryly. “The earl overpaid for you. Once you’re married to Elin, the debt is forgiven, and we’ll be fine.”
Bloody fucking fuck.
“If you’re not headed home in the next three minutes, I’m waking Pappa.” Gunnar sighs. “I’m doing what I can, Manning. But the more trouble you create for yourself, the less time any of us have to find an alternate solution.”
“Your Highness,” Viktor says again. Which translates to We need to remove ourselves from this house before Joey Diamonte catches word that we’re snooping about her sister’s residence and calls the local law enforcement for the sheer joy of watching a shoot-out.
He’s right, of course. He usually is.
I study the cat again, the chair in the corner of Gracie’s bedroom piled with laundry, the lack of space for a baby in the small, cluttered home. Breathe in vanilla and peaches and something reminiscent of fresh detergent. Note the rusty hum of the refrigerator in the next room as it cycles on, the insects still audible inside the house.
Such a small life she lives. But such a large impact she’s had on mine in so few minutes together.
A roar wells up deep within me.
It has nothing to do with this house, nothing to do with the feline, nothing to do with Viktor, and quite honestly, nothing to do with me.
Because very little in my life is for me.
Even hockey isn’t just for me.
Gracie could be. My child could be.
But only at the expense of my family and my country. Austling might have money, but that doesn’t mean he has the soul necessary to protect the people.
Which means I have very little choice in what I must do. Because the needs of the many will always outweigh the needs of the few.
I hang up with my brother, shove my fists into my pockets and force a smile that’s probably more of a snarl. “To the airport then, Viktor. ‘Tis time.”
Past time, I suspect.
A lesson two months too late.
