Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
She gives me a weak smile. “That includes any funny business through the walls.”
“I promise,” I tell her again.
I mean it too. I just know keeping that promise isn’t going to be easy.
Eleven
JAMES
“Pack your bag, James, we’re going on a trip!” Magnus announces, hands held high in the air as he appears in the kitchen doorway.
I put my coffee down, my mind immediately racing to all the possibilities. Paris? London? Somewhere hot, like the Maldives? I’m usually briefed on Magnus’s schedule ahead of time, and being so close to Christmas, I hadn’t seen anything other than a few public events this week.
“Where to, sir?” I ask, thrilled to be getting out of the house. Today marks three weeks since I got here, and even though I’ve been to Oslo on duty a few times (and of course that fateful last Sunday with Laila), I’ve been getting a bit of cabin fever.
“The kikut!” he exclaims, and then walks away.
From beside me, Lady Jane sighs.
I eye her, watching her dejectedly spread butter on her knäckebröd. “What? Where’s kikut? Or what’s kikut?”
“Kikut is a cabin,” she says tiredly. “Up the side of a mountain. That will no doubt be covered in a load of bloody snow. Magnus loves to drag us all up there around the holidays. Last year he had a New Year’s Eve party for all his royal friends up there—King Aksel of Denmark, Prince Viktor of Sweden, and the likes of them. Thankfully that meant I didn’t have to go.”
“A cabin…in Norway?” I’m already disappointed.
“Yes,” she says, munching on her bread, trying to keep the crumbs in. “And cabin is a stretch. It’s a hut. Thank god they built another addition, but still. There’s no indoor plumbing. You know what that means? That means having to dig a tunnel through the bloody snow to the outhouse in order to take a whiz.”
“And we’re all going?” I ask, finishing the dregs of my coffee.
She nods. “Yep. Just for a couple of days. Me, you, Einar, Ottar, the boys, Ella…Laila.”
I don’t appreciate the way she says Laila’s name. Or the rather pointed way she’s looking at me.
“What?” I ask warily.
“Nothing,” she says. “You know I have a theory about you two.”
Oh fuck.
“About who?” I ask, feigning ignorance. The blank mask slips on with ease.
“You know who. Laila,” she says.
I automatically glance at the hallway, expecting either Magnus or Laila to be there. I haven’t seen Laila all that much since I went for dinner with her. Since our little tryst in the wine bar bathroom. I’ve thought about her a lot. Every damn night as I’m falling asleep, I can’t help but try to listen to her. Even when she’s snoring. But I’ve been trying to respect her wishes to keep things professional again.
In some ways it’s been easy. She’s busy with the boys, and even though I’m their PPO, I go with Magnus everywhere. I never see her at breakfast or lunch, only at dinner, and then we’re surrounded by this one big chaotic family. The only time I’m ever alone with her is if one of us is in the library at night having a drink and no one else has shown up yet. But even then, she doesn’t stick around.
In other ways, it’s been hard because, fuck, I like being around her. I’m still finding my footing with this household, still trying to navigate this royal family and the twists and turns of this job. It should be straightforward, but when it comes to Magnus, nothing is straightforward. Laila is the only thing that’s grounding me at the moment, a tie to a time when things felt more solid, and reliable. I crave that sense of stability.
And to be honest, I crave her. That taste of her that I had did nothing to get her out of my system. Instead it acted like a drug, the slow-release kind that keeps you coming back for more. She’s in my system now, whether she wants to be or not. And I know she doesn’t want to be.
“You’re rather paranoid, you know that?” Lady Jane muses, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
“It’s my job to be paranoid,” I tell her.
She squints at me. “Perhaps. But don’t think I haven’t noticed how you look at Ms. Bruset.”
“I don’t look at her any differently than I look at you,” I say, reaching across the table for the French press and pouring myself another cup. I make the gesture to fill up hers, but she briefly puts her hand over her mug, laughing.
“Yes. You do,” she says. “And it’s not how any other young man, or old man for that matter, would look at her. You’re not just seeing her as a beautiful woman, you’re seeing her as someone who means something to you.”
I swallow. “She’s my friend, if that’s what you mean.”