“It sounds like it,” she says. “If I wasn’t so good at reading you, I would have thought the whole thing was made up.”
“What?”
“First you walk in on what sounds like an impossibly tall, hunky Scandinavian god naked, then you see him at the bar, when, by the way, you never go out, then you proceed to take him home, so he can sober up. The next day he wakes up and gets in a fist fight with that loser your sister is dating, knocks him out, you fix him up and then he asks you out on a date.” She pauses to brush her hair out of her eyes. “All the while he’s exceedingly rich.”
“I never said he was exceedingly rich,” I tell her, although when I told Pike about the kind of car he had, he’d told me it was worth a hell of a lot of money. Plus, there’s that whole heir to a pharmaceutical company thing.
“I’m going to assume he is,” she says. “If you don’t have sex with him Maggie, I’m going to be so mad at you.”
“Whoa,” I say, laughing, my cheeks flaming. “Who said anything about having sex with him?”
“Oh give me a break. You want to pretend that this isn’t where it’s going?”
I shake my head, but my mouth keeps wanting to creep up into a smile. Sam is usually the first one to call me on my bullshit. Not only have I been thinking about it since I first saw him–I mean, who can blame me–but all those thoughts and feelings and urges have been put through the ringer ever since he insinuated it.
Because he did insinuate it, didn’t he?
He looked right at me with heat in his eyes and talked about taking me back to his hotel room. If that wasn’t a hint that he was planning to seduce me after dinner, I don’t know what is.
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
And yet it’s so damn hard not to.
“Wow,” Sam says. “You are a smitten kitten.”
I roll my eyes, making sure my face isn’t betraying me with any longing looks. “Oh I am not.”
“Fuck, dude. You can be a smitten kitten all you want. When was the last time you went on a date? Here, right? And when was the last time you were going gaga over someone? Never. Never, Maggie, I’ve never seen you get this look in your eyes before.”
I frown, trying to make my eyes turn to hardened steel. “What look?”
“Maggie, it’s okay to want this guy. I think you should get dressed up and make yourself feel sexy. Shave your legs. Shave your lady bits. Put on makeup. Wear a dress. Heels. Go out with this Viking god and have a wonderful date. Forget about your brothers and sisters. Forget about April and all her shit. Forget about everything except that you’re out with this guy that you want to fuck and then you go back to that La Quinta and you fucking fuck him.”
I swallow hard. “It’s not that easy.”
“Oh my god.” She sighs and does a mock fall back away from the phone.
“What? I just…I just met this guy.”
“You’ve already seen him naked,” she points out.
“I know but that wasn’t sexual.”
“It doesn’t matter. You saw him naked, you rescued him drunk, you bandaged up his wounds like Florence Fucking Nightingale. Go and get those Swedish meatballs, girl!”
I burst out laughing. “Stop!”
She’s laughing too. “I’m sorry, I was waiting this whole conversation to sneak that in there. Believe me, I’ve got a joke about his Swedish berries as well.”
“Sam.”
“I know, I know. I can’t help it.” She sighs happily. “Anyway, I’m just saying. Stop worrying and just enjoy it. You know he’s not going to stick around forever.”
“I know. I think that’s what’s putting a damper on this whole thing. Here is this hot as fuck, sexy, rich, funny, smart, exotic beast of a man and he’s only here because his car broke down. Soon, maybe even tomorrow, he’ll be off to LA and then home. And I’ll still be here.”
“At least you would have gotten some food and orgasms out of it.”
“And a broken heart.”
“Oh please. This is all about your vagina, there’s no need for your heart to join the party.”
I giggle. Apparently, I’m immature. “I miss talking to you, you know.”
“Well call me more often and not just when you’re about to get laid, okay?”
“I’m still not sure about that.”
“Either way, you should at least prepare like you’re going to get his cock. None of this Bridget Jones reverse psychology bullshit. Put on your sexiest bra and underwear. Shave.”
“You already told me to shave.”
“Well shave again because I have a feeling you’re in for a lot of yard work.”
I sigh. “God, if I do sleep with him, it’s going to suck when he leaves.”
“So, just follow him to Sweden. You can get a Swedish travel article out of it and sell it.”
“Yeah right. Do you remember what my life is like now? Even if I could go, I couldn’t. And I can’t even convince the local newspaper here to hire me. I don’t get it. I’m a good writer. What I did at NYU was good shit.”
“It was, but they probably just can’t hire anyone right now. Your best bet is to stick to freelancing. Are you doing that?”
“I can’t even write,” I mumble. “I have zero inspiration. Zero time. Zero motivation.”
“Make time.”
“Sam,” I say, feeling a hit of anger cut through me. “You have no idea what kind of pressure I’m under over here with everything.”
She pouts. “I know. I’m sorry. I just want you to succeed that’s all. You shouldn’t have to give up on any of your dreams or hopes just because of what happened.”
“Yeah, well, I have.” I exhale, feeling sorrow dampen me. Funny how you can go from excited and elated to defeated in second’s flat. Welcome to my world now.
“Speaking of hot Swedish men, have you seen the prince of Sweden?” she asks.
“Sweden has a monarchy?” I ask but even as I do so I remember Johan’s story about ABBA and the queen.
“Yeah and the prince is fucking hot. There were actually two of them but the other one died a few months ago or something. Sad. He was young too, only in his mid-thirties.”
God, I haven’t been keeping up with the news at all. Not that I’d take any notice of anything happening in Sweden of all places.
“How do you know all this?”
“Dude, I’m like a royal junkie. Harry and Meghan, Will and Kate. Those sexy ass Casigrahis of Monaco. I am on it.” She adds, “I guess all Swedes are exceptionally tall. Your guy. The prince. Alexander Skarsgard.”
“Looks like I was born in the wrong country.”
“Crown Prince Viktor of House Nordin,” she says as she gets up from where she was sitting at her desk. “Here I think I have the magazine.”
“Magazine?” I repeat. “Oh jeez, Sam. You need a hobby.”
I hear the rustle of papers as she rummages through something and then returns to the screen holding up a magazine. Through the grainy video I can make out Royalty Monthly with Harry and Meghan on the cover.
“Hold on,” she says while she flips through the pages. “I was thinking of starting, like, a royalty blog, you know.”
“Well it would at least put this obsession to use, though I can’t say it’s good use.”
“Here,” she says and then opens the magazine so I’m staring at one of the pages.
The headline says Prince Alexander and Prince Viktor visit the Stockholm Children’s Hospital with a picture of the princes below it.
Both are tall, about as tall as my Swede. One has dark hair and a paler complexion while the other’s hair is lighter and skin more tanned and…
Wow.
Though the picture isn’t clear, this guy looks a lot like Johan.
Sam takes the magazine away from my view. “See, they’re hot.”
“Hey, put it back,” I tell her.
She smiles. “I knew you’d like it.”
The picture comes back onto my screen. It’s so
grainy because of the low light of Sam’s room so I can’t make out the details, but fuck, it really, really looks like Johan. Obviously, it’s not, but it’s striking the resemblance.
“Happy?” she asks.
I shake my head. “It’s weird. Johan looks exactly like the prince.”
“Which one? The dead one or the not dead one?”
“The one with the lighter hair.”
“That’s Viktor. He was always the one who kept to himself. He wasn’t heir apparent until Alexander died.”
“How did he die?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Something to do with the wrong prescription maybe? Or he had some heart defect? I’ve read a lot of different things.”
“Hmmm,” I muse.
“What?”
“I don’t know.” There’s something about all of this that’s making me feel off-balance. It’s not just that they look the same but it’s that…it’s that they really look the same. There’s something here not right. “Hold on Sam, I’m going to put you in the background.”
“Looking them up are you?”
“Yeah well the picture is really grainy and blurry,” I say absently as I open up the Google app and enter in Prince Viktor of Sweden.
The first thing I see in the search results is the Wikipedia entry and the headshot of Prince Viktor to the side.
My heart stills. Pins and needles rush up and down my body as I stare at it in disbelief.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
Oh my god.
It’s Johan. Sverige. Mr. Swedish Driver’s License.
“What? What’s happening?”
“It’s him,” I say breathlessly. “It’s him.”
“Who?”
I quickly click the images and suddenly I’m bombarded by a whole grid of him. I click through and through and through, staring closely at the photos but I don’t have to. I know it’s him.
How the fuck is this possible?
“He told me his name was…”
“Johan,” she fills in quickly.
“Yeah, Johan Andersson. That’s what his ID said. I saw it.”
“You think…wait…you think that the rich big-dicked Swede you’re going on a date with is the actual prince of Sweden?” She starts laughing. “Maggie! You’re crazy!”
“I know, I know it’s crazy but fuck. This is him.”
“It can’t be.”
“I’ll get a picture tonight of him and I’ll show you.”
But she’s also right because how can it be him? How could this be true?
“You’re seeing what you want to,” she says. “I put the idea in your head and now you’re thinking it’s him. Your mind is warping your image of him to fit this Viktor’s. But it’s not him. It can’t be. He’s in fucking Sweden right now.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know, but I do. Look, come back to me. Let me look you in the eyes and tell you how nuts you are.”
I sigh and close the Google app and come back to Sam’s face. She’s earnest, I’ll give her that. “You’re nuts, Mags.”
I shake my head, unable to get rid of that feeling that I’m right. “It’s him.”
“It’s so not. Come on. You know I’m your biggest supporter and I think you’re one fine hot piece of ass, but I can guarantee you that if the Swedish prince were in your town for some fucking reason, you wouldn’t be walking in on him naked. Staying at the fucking La Quinta!” She barks out a laugh. “And then he wouldn’t be alone and drunk and drugged at a bar and he wouldn’t, I repeat, he wouldn’t fight your sister’s thug ass boyfriend. You’re hot but you’re poor in small-town America and he’s a fucking prince from Europe. Okay? Think about everything I just said.”
I know what she said and it all makes perfect sense.
But…
“What if it’s him?” I ask hopefully. I hate sounding hopeful but there it is.
“It’s not.”
“But what if it is? What if I take a picture of him and then send it to you and then you’re all like, shit it is him. Then what?”
“Then don’t tell him that you know. Keep that shit to yourself. And write a fucking article and sell it to the gossip mags. Sell it to Royalty Monthly. Forget the, whatever your town is called, forget the paper there and go big. You could get a fucking ass-load of money for an article or interview with the prince of Sweden, the heir to the throne.” She pauses. “But it’s not him. K?”
I nod slowly. My brain refuses to accept it, but I’m just going to have to wait and see. I’m sure the moment I see his face I’ll realize that I’ve been mistaken.
“So forget all of that and just go have fun tonight? Get laid. Be loud. Make him go down on you and don’t you dare get Rick-Rolled. And then call me tomorrow and tell me all about it.”
I laugh softly. “I will. Bye Sam.”
I hang up the phone, watching her face disappear, and stare at my closet full of second hand clothes. Luckily men don’t notice the brand of a dress and I have a couple that look fairly new.
I sort through the rack, pull out a simple black sleeveless one with lace overlay, put it down on the bed and start getting ready for my date.
He’s not the prince, he’s not the prince, he’s not the prince, I tell myself.
But, god.
What if he is?
Chapter Eight
Maggie
I’m a nervous wreck.
I can’t remember the last time I was ever this nervous.
I’ve changed outfits enough times to make anyone crazy. I’ve gone from the black dress to jeans and a blousy top, to a long sundress, to black pants and a tank top and all the way back to the black dress again.
Now I’m pacing my bedroom, both trying to break in these three-inch heels I picked up in New York but never wore and trying to dispel all the nervous energy that’s been building up inside me to dangerous levels.
A knock at my door.
I pause and then run over to my window that looks out onto the street. No cab yet. I glance at the clock on my wall. It’s five to seven. He could be here at any minute.
I’m going to be sick.
“Maggie,” Pike says from the other side of the door. “What are you doing?”
“Getting ready.”
“Still? He’s going to be here any minute.”
I sigh, shaking out my hands as if that will dissolve my nerves, and go over, opening the door a crack.
“I’m busy.”
Pike frowns at me. “Nice makeup.”
I glare at him. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“No,” he says. “I’ve just never seen you wear it before.”
He’s right. I rarely wear makeup, certainly not the whole shebang like I’m doing right now. Apparently I’m a bit sensitive on how I look at the moment.
“Are you naked?”
“No.” I grimace, wishing my brother wouldn’t use the word naked around me.
He puts his hand on the door and shoves it open, causing me to take a step back and almost bail in these damn heels.
“Jesus, Mags,” he says with wide eyes. “Just where are you going again?”
“The Bullshed,” I tell him, my vulnerability morphing into defensiveness. “Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“You just look a little dressed up, that’s all. I mean, heels. When have you ever worn heels?” He looks completely confused and flabbergasted.
“When I lived in Manhattan,” I snipe, hands on my hips. “You know in other parts of the world, people actually dress up when they go out for dinner.”
“Yeah and this ain’t those parts of the world.”
“Pike, do I look nice or not?”
“You look nice. Jesus, you’re touchy.”
Was that so hard? I snatch my purse off the bed and head out of the room.
“He’s here!” Rosemary yells from downstairs.
Oh god.
I practically keel over, my hand going to my stomac
h as I lean hunched against the doorway.
“Are you okay?” Pike asks.
I nod frantically, my eyes pinched shut. My nerves are so razor sharp it feels like I’m being sliced in half. “Bad case of nerves,” I manage to say.
“Why?”
God, brothers are so fucking dense. “Never mind.”
Next to my room the door to April’s room opens and she pokes her head out to see what the commotion is. Sees me, goes “Uggggh,” rolls her eyes and then slams the door shut.
“Don’t worry about her,” Pike says putting one hand on my back and shoving me out into the hall. “Don’t worry about anything.”
“Yeah right.”
“You’re nervous about going on a date with this guy? He’s just a guy,” he says, ushering me toward the stairs. “A tall fucker with a funny accent who beat up Tito Jones. But still, a guy.”
Is he just a guy?
Even if he’s not the prince of Sweden, he’s definitely not “just a guy.”
My heart feels like it’s literally lodged in my throat as I walk toward the front door, sweat breaking out on my palms. Shit, what if he tries to hold my hand? I frantically start wiping my palms on my dress then take the deepest breath possible before I open the door and step outside into the fading sun.
There the cab is waiting, and I see the Swede climb out of the back seat and hold the door open for me like a true gentleman.
He’s smiling, that movie star smile with those perfect white teeth, the cocky twinkle in his eyes.
And I know in my heart of hearts that there is no wondering or questioning or dreaming anymore.
This is him.
He might still be Mr. Sverige by default but he’s not Johan Andersson at all.
He’s His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Sweden, Viktor of House Nordin.
And he just rolled up to my house in a yellow cab.
“Hey,” he says to me, gesturing to the cab with his arm. “Your chariot awaits.”
I grin at that. A nervous grin. A stupid grin.
I can’t believe this is happening.
Viktor–Viktor, god how he suits the name Viktor–isn’t as dressed up as me, but he still looks amazing. Leather jacket, a rust-colored V-neck tee that makes his blue eyes pop, dark jeans, dark boots.