The Swedish Prince (Royal Romance 1)

“This is a beautiful town,” Viktor says, and he says it with such earnestness that I have to look at him, my brows raised to the roof.

“Are you poking fun? Do you Swedes have a word for that like the Brits do, like taking the piss?”

“I’m not taking the piss,” he says. “It’s pretty here. This light. These hills. We don’t have hills like this in Sweden. We barely have any hills at all.”

I look out the window at the houses we’re passing by, the rolling hills in the distance beyond the town that are catching the last rays of the sun. I force myself to see the town through his eyes. Maybe it would look more promising to me if such awful things hadn’t happened here.

“Actually, it’s beautiful if you drive in from Bako,” I concede. “That’s Bakersfield, to the west. You’re driving on this ugly highway and it’s just desert, but not the kind of romantic desert like you get in the Mohave with all the Joshua trees, but this dry, dirty, broken-down kind of land. And then these hills appear in the distance, like brown and tan velvet and the highway starts winding up through them. When the sun hits it just right, it feels like you’re driving up to heaven.”

“That sounds beautiful,” he says softly.

“Yeah and then your heaven quickly turns to hell.”

“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks. “Moving? Seeing the world?”

I laugh dryly. “Every second of every day. But I can’t.”

“I’m sure it’s not impossible though.”

I give him a sad smile. “But, it is. It is. And you know what…I might think about it, but I also try not to spend too much time complaining either. It is what it is.”

He nods. “It is what it is.”

With our conversation taking a rather serious turn, by the time the cab pulls up to The Bullshed, a steak house around the corner from the hotel, at the edges of “downtown,” I’ve nearly forgotten all about the new development.

You know, that I’m going on a fucking date with the prince of Sweden.

No big deal.

Still, I know that I’m going to need some kind of proof. I need Sam to tell me I’m not crazy and I need to prove to her I’m not.

I need a picture of him.

We walk into the restaurant and even though it’s Saturday night, the place doesn’t look too busy. As Viktor requests a table for two and the hostess disappears around the corner to check, I bring out my phone.

“Here, let’s take a selfie,” I tell him, sidling up to him and holding the phone out in front of us.

He balks, seeming visibly uncomfortable.

“What?” I ask him, but I don’t lower the phone. “You don’t like having your picture taken?”

I press the shutter, subtly taking one anyway even though it will be a pic of us looking at each other, both frowning.

“No, it’s fine,” he says and flashes the camera a forced smile.

I take another one and hope that it didn’t make things weird.

“Sorry,” I tell him, slipping the phone in my purse. “I figured after this you’ll be on your way and I’ll look back on this as if it were a dream. I’ll need proof that it was all real.”

Lame, Maggie.

But he nods, seeming to buy that cheesy justification.

The hostess comes back and leads us to the table. As we walk through a row of booths, Viktor puts his hand on the small of my back. It’s possessive, letting everyone here know that we’re together, and it causes heat to tingle in the pit of my stomach.

It says, I’m his, even if just for tonight.

We’re seated at the end of the row, which thankfully gives us a lot of privacy. A small candle is lit between us, the lights overhead dimmed and warm.

“This is very nice,” he says, giving the restaurant an appreciative glance.

“Well it’s not Manhattan,” I tell him. “And it’s still too good for me.” Before I can get settled, I get up, grabbing my purse. “I’m just going to quickly use the restrooms. Order me anything you wish.”

He cocks his brow. “Anything? You know in Sweden, we’re rather fond of Aquavit.”

That must be some type of water. “That’s fine,” I say brightly. I can always order some alcohol after.

I steal away from him and head into the restrooms at the opposite end of the restaurant, go straight into a stall, lower the lid, sit down and bring out my phone.

My heart is going so fast it’s making my fingers fumble and I’m barely able to send the two pics of us through to Sam.

I add: CALL ME NOW. Right now. Not on FaceTime.

I see the pics get delivered and seconds later, the phone rings.

“Sam,” I whisper, answering it.

I hear a choked sound on the other end, then, “Fuck. FUCK!”

“It’s him, isn’t it? It’s him,” I say, getting more convinced by the second.

“Oh my god, I can’t…it looks just like him. He is fucking fine, Maggie, holy fuck, if you don’t tap that ass, prince or not, I will come over there and tap it myself and I don’t give a damn if he doesn’t like it.”

“But it’s him right? You agree?”

“It looks like him. I’ve never seen him in a leather jacket but yeah it’s him.”

“I know it’s him.”

“Where are you now? Are you with him?”

“I’m in the bathroom of a restaurant. We’re on our date. That’s why I don’t want to FaceTime, pretty sure that’s illegal if someone is sitting on the can.”

“Listen, listen,” she says, “you have to interview him. You have to. Oh my god, Maggie, this could end all your problems.”

“How?”

“How would you interview him or how would it end all your problems?”

“Both.”

“Well for one, if you got an interview then you could sell it like we discussed.”

“I don’t think that’s legal.”

“Of course, it is! Didn’t you learn anything in school?”

“It’s…unscrupulous.”

“Not many things in life are scrupulous,” she says. “Even if you don’t feel comfortable writing an article, you could at least do it all as an anonymous source. Seriously you can make big, big money.”

I ponder that, though I’m disappointed in what the idea of having more money does to me. “How much money?”

“I don’t know. Enough to make you and your family’s lives easier for a few months. Don’t you have a toilet that needs fixing? Look, he’s the heir apparent now. He will be king one day. The king of Sweden! And you have the inside track right now. My god, Maggie, don’t you see the possibilities?”

I do see them. I just wish my moral compass wasn’t spinning so wildly right now. “How would I interview him? I can’t remember anything and he’s going to notice I’m taking notes.”

“Don’t you have a voice recorder on your phone?”

“It’s an old iPhone.”

“You should still have it. It comes with the phone. Open it, then press record and have it out while you’re having dinner. Just don’t let him see. Easy peasy.”

I can tell it’s not going to be easy peasy.

But it’s worth a shot.

“I’ll do that now,” I tell her. “I’ll text you later.”

“Wait, wait,” she says. “Can I just tell you one thing?”

“What?”

“You two make a damn good-looking couple.”

I sigh, hating how my heart just glowed at those words. “Don’t tell me that.”

“It’s true. Maggie, he wants you.”

“You can tell that from a picture?”

“Yes. The way he’s looking at you, my god. He wants, no, craves you.”

“I’m the only person he knows here, and he barely knows me at all.”

“Maggie. He wants in your pants. Okay? Now go get that interview and go get those Swedish berries!”

I hang up and I think I hear her swearing in awe as I do so.

Shit. Now I feel like dry-heaving again.

Can I do this? Am I okay with doing this? Is this the kind of person my mother raised me to be?

Then again, my mother also raised me to put family first. And if I have a chance to put food on the table and buy things we really need for my brothers and sisters, then I don’t think I have much choice.

I quickly find the voice memos app, open it and then press record. I hold the phone close to my side and step out of the stall, grateful that there was no one in the restroom to hear all of that.

Chapter Nine

Maggie

When I get back to the table I notice two glasses of water out for us as well as what looks like highballs of vodka. I slide into the booth, ever so careful of keeping my purse at the end of the table and my phone, face down, on top of my purse, recording in secrecy.

“I ordered an appetizer for us,” Viktor says. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m afraid I’ve taken quite a liking to your onion rings in this country.”

“I can’t blame you.” I clear my throat and jerk my chin to the drink. “Vodka?”

“Aquavit,” he says. “Didn’t you know?”

“Of course,” I say, taking the glass in my hand.

“Cheers then,” he says, raising his. “Or as we say skål!”

“Skål!” I say, noticing the way that his eyes never leave mine, even as he sips his drink. I guess he takes the seven year’s bad sex superstition seriously, I think to myself as I take a drink and… ah –

Oh god!

The burning!

The aquavit is fucking acid on my tongue.

I start coughing, choking. Dying.

“It’s strong,” he says, trying not to smile.

I just keep coughing, reaching for my water. Shit. I thought with all the tequila shots I did in college I would be able to handle this, but that drink is on another level.