4. 4

4

Kall e

T he storm brewing over the Atlantic brings in the wind and the rain and the fishermen; it's never good to be on the water during a summer storm like the one moving into place over Battle Harbour. The warnings have gone out, so only a few of the most die-hard or idiotic will head out like usual at dawn in such weather. I hope not many, because if boats go out when it's like this, people die.

I don't like it when people die.

Having the bar filled like this on a Wednesday is both good and bad—it brings in money but often brings in trouble as well. There are generations of fishermen and women working from the docks in Battle Harbour and most are friendly with each other; a lot are related. There's a few that come from away, but there's a big group of local men whose families have been fishing and lobstering for longer than Laandia has been a country.

They may be friendly, but they see fishing as a competition. And with four or five pints in their belly, some of the unfriendly competition always rears its head.

The way Jubblie Mark and Ken McKibbon are trash-talking over the pool table has my fight radar on full alert .

And that's fine with me. In this mood, I'd like nothing more than to bounce some idiots out of here tonight.

Along with picking up dirty dishes, I never pictured myself as the owner of a bar.

I never really pictured myself as anything—I had the sports; the hockey first, moving on to a short career in baseball before my shoulder took me out, and then an attempt at curling that went so much better than I expected. I knew my sports career wouldn't last forever but I'm not a planner. I didn't have an idea of what to do after I gave up curling.

There was always a blank space between that and when I became king. The unknown; a fuzzy gray space of uncertainty.

And then I decided to buy a bar.

The King's Hat, pre-me, was a different sort of place.

Bruce, the former head of Dad's security team, opened it after he retired and had some idea for it to be some sort of upscale gentlemen's club. He reno-ed his house, a beautiful building right in the town square, and opened his club.

Unfortunately, there aren't a lot of upscale gentlemen in Battle Harbour because it's a fishing village.

A fishing town now, with a variety of small businesses. There's a solid middle class, unfortunately a spreading lower economic class, but not a lot of upscale.

Bruce floundered on with his vision, and people came because they liked him, and because Dad was a common visitor. He even provided the reason for the name; on the wall opposite of the bar are four of Dad's gold records, and in a glass case between them is the hat that he wore on the band's last tour, a gold-and-black checked newsboy cap, faded and worn .

When we lost Bruce, I swooped in and bought the place without thinking too much about it. The place meant a lot to me: I'd had my first legal drink here, the same for Odin and Bo, and spent hours playing pool and darts with Jonathan McKibbon. I lost a lot of money playing poker, but I got really good at the game.

I talked to a lot of women here; waitresses, customers. Mothers of customers. Just because it was called a gentleman's club doesn't mean women were excluded. Maybe there were some nights when Bruce set up the temporary stage and brought in dancers from the next town over, but they were for stags and birthday parties, and women weren't really invited those nights anyway.

I always showed up the nights when there were dancers. I talked to a lot of them, too.

But just because it meant a lot to me didn't mean I didn't want to change things up.

I once dated an interior decorator who complained that the bar didn't have a theme . I didn't think it needed one. Once it was mine, I gutted the place, taking out the smaller rooms that Bruce preferred, and made one big space, creating circular tables around the load-bearing beams. I added a second pool table in the back corner, put in a few dart boards, and updated the bar with a fourteen-foot mahogany L-shaped beauty.

I liked the wood-panelled walls but added mounted televisions. My old hockey stick is on the wall, the one I used when we won the World Juniors', as well as the bat that I used for my first home run. There's another glass box with three baseballs in it—my second year playing, I missed hitting for the cycle by a double and the team gave me the balls just to rub it in—and a curling rock that I acquired from a not-to-be-named club.

And I stuck framed pictures everywhere: Dad in the band, him and Mom on their wedding day, me and my teams, along with Odin sword-fighting, Bo when he won his first lumberjack competition, and so many of Gunnar doing his Gunnar things.

One of my favourites is one of Lyra in her first and only dance recital. I think she was twelve and the expression on her face is pure disgust.

I coach hockey in the winter, baseball in the summer, and every season, I take a picture of the kids and put it on the wall.

There's no theme—it's British gastropub mixed with sports bar with a family living room flair—but it's mine.

It's the first thing that I've had that is solely mine, something that will succeed or fail because of me. I took a big leap opening the place, and there were a lot of sleepless nights.

There were more conversations with Edie with her trying to convince me that I could do it. And I did it.

I do a great job running The King's Hat with Edie helping.

For now, it fills the hazy gray space until my future is set. If I am going to take over as king or not.

Until then, I have my bar.

I take a bag of garbage out to the alley around nine just for a breather. The rain is still a steady drizzle but thunder rumbles overhead with the odd flash of lightning over the Atlantic. The temperature has already dropped and I should send Dillon out to pick up Edie. I know she didn't take a coat. The storm is coming, and it's coming fast and I'd hate to see her stuck in it, especially in that dress.

But as I step out into the alley between the buildings, I see shadows .

Two people are in the alley, and one is wearing that dress.

I freeze, half in the kitchen and half in the cool, rain-soaked air, black plastic bag clutched in my hand.

Edie and Mathias are in the alley.

The King's Hat is next door to an Indian takeout place that makes great butter chicken but I suspect won't last the year. There's been four businesses there in the last five years, none able to get out of the red.

I know this because I bought the building next door.

Edie lives over the Indian place in one of the two apartments. I live over the pub, so I'm well aware of Edie's comings and goings.

I've never seen her coming in like this.

The door to her apartment is at the back of the alley, close enough for the light in the laneway to illuminate the couple. I get there just in time to see Mathias lean down and kiss her.

One hand at her waist, the other holding an umbrella, so at least there's that. He'll keep her dry as well as keep his hands to himself.

Edie kind of leans in and up, folding her hands against his jacket.

My finger stabs through the black plastic.

I know Edie dates; she's a good-looking woman and she meets men… wherever. And she'll go out with these men for a few dates now and again. For a few weeks. I'm sure she kisses them. There's been a couple she's been serious about, like thinking-of-the-future serious.

She got engaged once. It didn't work out .

I've never asked her why. Our friendship isn't like that. I can tell her just about anything except details of the women I date. She's the same way.

It's better that way.

But Mathias?

I get what she sees in him—what any woman would see in him. He's a prince, and he looks like a clone of Odin, so he's a good-looking one. Plus, he's polite and smiles instead of growls like me.

But Mathias?

They're still kissing. If I go back inside, they'll hear me. If I drop the bag into the bins, they'll definitely hear me. I sink into the shadows by the wall and wait because there's nothing else to do if I don't want them to know I've seen them.

It would be nice to interrupt though. Get Mathias's hands off her.

He probably smells like garlic if they went to Nonna's.

Is the cat out here watching?

After the mouse incident a month or so ago—which might have actually been a rat, but I'm not telling Edie that—I left out some cat-friendly food to persuade a few of the strays to stop and eradicate whatever rodents were out there. Now there's been no sign of anything but a skinny tabby that lurks even more than I am right now, waiting for his dinner of tuna and leftover fish pie.

It seems wrong to have the cat watching Edie kiss my cousin.

Or anyone at all.

Not that Edie kissing anyone is a problem for me. We're not friends like that. We're friends , nothing more .

I toss the bag of garbage before I think twice; broken glass tinkles as it lands with a soft thud . The door to the kitchen shuts behind me before Edie can turn to check who it is.

Maybe she doesn't care. Maybe she's so into kissing him that she doesn't even notice any ruckus.

Good for her.

My face twists into a scowl and that knot in my stomach gives a sharp yank to remind me there's something about Edie and Mathias that I don't like.

Like I need reminding.

"Did you get rid of the big bad with that bag of garbage?" Chase asks as I brush past him on the way back out to the bar area.

My security number two stands at the sink washing martini glasses and Chef's good knives while Tyler, the regular dishwasher, helps out at the bar during the rush. Chase says doing the dishes relaxes him, and considering he used to work for the Directorate-General of France as one of their top spies, he's due for a little relaxation.

He's the best-paid dishwasher in all of Laandia, but it works for me since it lets Tyler learn more about manning the bar.

"There's no one out there," I lie.

"No? Are you sure? That was an aggressive toss."

"I feel aggressive," I growl.

"That's never a good thing," he calls after me.

It would be easier to deal with this mood if I were still playing sports. Baseball, hockey, even curling—I've done it all. And I wasn't nearly as angry when I had something to focus on.

Not that I have an anger problem but things often irritate me.

Apparently, Edie kissing Mathias is one of those things .

The two families aren't close. There were times in my childhood when Mom made an effort to pull Uncle Dante and his family into our orbit, but it's difficult when it's obvious they didn't want to be a part of our orbit—they wanted our orbit.

They still want it all.

My uncle Dante has never forgiven my father for being the first-born son and not abdicating his role in the succession like Odin just did.

Dante has always wanted to be king and if he can't have it, he wants his children to rule Laandia. And Odin stepping down makes it that much closer for him.

Because if I say no—which Dad, unlike other monarchies, has always given as an option for me—without Odin, the crown would go to Bo.

That would be a hard no. Bo would back out of that idea quicker than Edie jumped back into the kitchen that time when she saw that "mouse" by the garbage bins.

Gunnar would be next after Bo, and I… I don't know what he would want. Six months ago, I would have said his response would be a big hell no , but now? He asked for a role in Dad's advisory council. He's planning on taking on an ambassadorship role when he and Stella go to Taiwan next month.

I don't know what Gunnar would do if he had the option to become king. But if he says no, that leaves Lyra and…

Still lurking by the back door, I shake my head at the thought of my little sister as queen of Laandia. She'd do a bang-up job, but the drama…

This line of thought, as common as it's become lately, does nothing to take my mind off what's going on in the alley right now .

I brush past Chase and head back into the pub to find Fenella Carrington sitting at the bar, taking a sip of her French 75 cocktail, which means Tyler had to open a new bottle of prosecco.

"Hiya, cowboy." She waves slim fingers tipped with a pearly white polish. "Thought you might be hiding from me."

I met Fenella at Odin's wedding; I had been paired up with Edie—she was one of the bridesmaids, me a groomsman—but both of us knew it wasn't a date. Once we got the pictures and the dancing done, we were there solo.

Edie made that perfectly clear when she started dancing with my cousin Mathias.

Gunnar had invited Fenella Carrington, and enlisted her help to keep the focus off whatever news story was about to break about Camille. I'm not sure anyone thought pictures of me and Fenella would show up all over the internet the next day, almost overshadowing the bride and groom.

Fenella is used to getting attention. Being the daughter of a billionaire does that.

We have that in common—not the billionaire father but the getting attention wherever we go. But unlike Fenella, I don't enjoy it.

I'm also not as pretty as she is.

"Taking out the garbage," I grunt. Even the sight of Fenella's violet eyes and smiling face that graces countless magazines and gossip sites doesn't appease me.

I had fun with her the night of the wedding. There were dances. A kiss.

Okay, maybe a few .

There might have been more, but I had been reminded—like a bucket of cold water being thrown over my head—that Fenella was an ex-girlfriend of Gunnar's. My brother has had his share of exes—almost as many as me—and he stayed friends with Fenella. They're almost as close as Edie and me.

There is nothing between her and Gunnar—I made sure of that before any kissing took place.

But still, Fenella's past with my brother doused most of my interest, but I can't help the intrigue.

Or maybe it's the intrigue of knowing that a woman like Fenella Carrington wants to spend time with me.

"Is that code for something or were you actually taking out the trash?" I raise an eyebrow at Fenella's question. "Wow," she muses. "You certainly are a full-service bar owner. I bet you're the only crown prince who does that."

"Should be a mandatory rule."

I knew Fenella was still in town, because she's been staying in one of the guest suites at the castle since the wedding. Despite her past with my brother, I've been toying with the idea of seeing if she wants to hang out but haven't done anything about it yet.

Taking my time. Still toying because Fenella Carrington is a very beautiful woman and I like beautiful women.

Who aren't kissing my cousin.

"What are you up to tonight?" I ask even as I check out the action by the pool table. Fight radar is on full alert now because things seem tense. Coy Schmidt has wandered over and now leaning on the table as Jubblie Mark takes a shot.

They had a falling-out over some lobster traps last season and I don't think it's been resolved .

"I thought I'd stop in for a fond farewell," Fenella is saying and I pull my attention back to her since she's far more interesting than the grudges of the two grizzled old-timers.

"You're leaving?" My surprise sharpens my tone.

Fenella smiles as she sips her drink, clearly pleased with the reaction. "That usually predicates a farewell. I had planned on a few more days but Gunnar is completely besotted with Stella Laz and practically ignoring me."

I can tell Fenella isn't a woman who likes to be ignored.

"At least Gunny's flying me to New York tomorrow," she continues." Are you going to miss me?"

That question is not getting a response. "Gunny's not flying anywhere tomorrow," I tell her instead. "Bad storm's coming in."

"Does your brother not know this?"

"Is he with Stella tonight?"

Fenella nods. "They're at the shelter with a couple of new dogs."

"Then no, he has no idea what's going on in the rest of the world. You'll be here another day, maybe two."

She hums under her breath and pulls out her phone. "Looks like you're right." She shows me the Weather Network update.

"Did you doubt me?"

"Of course. I'd like to get home."

"Got a hot date?"

"Now why would that be any of your business?" Fenella asks in a flirtatious voice.

"If you're around tomorrow, I'll take you on a hot date," I offer.

Because—why not ?

She purses her lips. "I've been here for a week you know."

"I've been busy."

She looks like she's mulling it over but I wouldn't have asked her if I didn't know what the answer would be. "Fine," she concedes. "It's a good a reason as any to stay another day. But I have to tell you, Your Highness, you've got horrible timing."

I glance toward the kitchen and wonder if Edie is still out in the alley. "You're not the first one to tell me that."