7. 7

7

Edie

I wasn't sure how the night would end but I did not see that coming.

After Mathias says goodnight—no kissing this time—I head upstairs to my apartment. I hang up the dress, wipe off the makeup and pull on the battered sweatshirt and old gym shorts I sleep in and then crawl into bed.

Ernie climbs in after me, settling at my side.

It's not long before the rain starts driving against my window as hard as hailstones, the wind whistling through the cracks. The storm will empty the bar quicker than ringing the last-call bell can, and Kalle will be able to close early.

I lie awake in my dark bedroom and wait for Kalle's light to come on.

His apartment next door is twice the size of mine and lacks the curry scent that drifts up from the Indian place below, but both of us agree mine is much more comfortable. Our bedrooms are in the same spot, the windows both looking over the alley.

Kalle got into a fight tonight.

Or maybe he was trying to break one up. I wasn't there, I didn't see the cause .

I hope he didn't start it.

The thing with Kalle is that there's always been an undercurrent of bad temper simmering under his surface. Sometimes it boils over into anger but most of the time it's a mild annoyance at the world around him. I've learned long ago not to take it personally, and I've mastered some skills to head off a really bad mood.

Kalle hates having no choice about his future.

He's never come right out and said it, but I can read him pretty well. I know him pretty well. He lives with the uncertainty of when , of how he will follow in his father's footsteps. Of why it has to be him.

And whether it should be. I know that keeps him up at night.

The order of his birth has put him in this position and there's nothing he can do about it.

But learning from Mathias that there might have been a different path for Kalle sets my thoughts spinning.

What would Kalle be if he wasn't a prince of Laandia set to inherit the throne? Would he even stay in Battle Harbour?

He had been happy when he was playing sports—it's amazing that he could be so successful in three different sports. Kalle is a natural athlete and I knew, seeing him in the midst of a drunken brawl last night, he wouldn't be hurt.

Seeing him holding Jubblie Mark, with his T-shirt pulled up to show a few inches of toned, tanned skin…

I'm not blind. I know how attractive Kalle is. Even with his grunts and growls and monosyllabic answers to important questions, Kalle Erickson is hot . He's the second tallest with shoulders and biceps that strain the best of cotton T-shirts, darker than Odin and Gunnar with his dark blond hair with streaks of red and brown, and perma-tan. The haughty slash of a nose that somehow remained unbroken despite the fights and hockey pucks during his short career on the ice, and five-day scruff covering a strong jaw. Those eyes that can make you feel—sometimes at once—both like a tiny bug and his favourite person ever, and mirror the ocean on a calm day.

It's amazing how many different shades of blue eyes there are in that family.

If I were a painter, I could commit Kalle to paper by memory alone. But I don't, because there's not a creative bone in my body.

Kalle is attractive despite his temper—

Or, some women might be more attracted to the bad-tempered, brooding type.

Not me. I've always tried to stay away from men who remind of Kalle. It's easier that way. Because Kalle is in my face every day.

And he is a nice face.

He smiles at a lot of women with that face, and every time he does more than smile, I'm forced to talk myself through the sensation that something just isn't right in the world. It never lasts for long, though, because they never last for long. The architect working on Odin's Viking exhibit. The Sports Illustrated model who got a chance to interview anyone for the magazine and picked him. The city councillor who won't give us a permit for a patio after Kalle stopped seeing her.

Fenella seems different.

She's the type of woman he should be with: the strong, smart type who can help lead him through the pitfalls of celebrity life. When Kalle becomes king, he'll be known throughout the world for more than being a three-sport professional athlete with killer abs and a fine backside. People will watch and question and make comments on what he does for Laandia and what he can't. He needs someone beside him to shoulder the scrutiny.

And Fenella, with her background and family could help him.

Plus, she's so incredibly gorgeous, that he's probably not even thinking of the other positives.

It takes a while before I finally manage to fall asleep.

I'm not awake to see Kalle's light turn on.

The next morning, I wake up to a full-fledged summer storm. Rain pours down in curtains, and thunder rumbles in the dark clouds hanging low. The wind is almost as loud, and outside everything that's not held down has taken flight.

Kalle must have opened early; when I go down for twelve, it's clear the fishermen of last night and more have chosen to hunker down and wait it out here. Skywalker, our chef who rules the kitchen with teasing and good temper, mans the grill while Leah, his wife, smiles good morning as she carries plates of eggs and bacon to a table.

My father sits at the bar beside Dillon.

"Hello, sweetheart," he says. Even the tubes up his nose pumping oxygen to clogged lungs can't mask his cheerful smile.

"Mom kick you out because of the rain? "

Bob England kept the grounds at the castle immaculate for almost fifty years, taking over as a young man after his father passed. Under my father's care, the lawns were always lush and green and free from crabgrass and skunks digging for grubs, the gravel drive and paths raked and clear of weeds. But it was the gardens that were his crowning glory, and where I have so many happy memories learning about the plants. I had lessons in what can handle the shade and what does best in the sun. He taught me how to deal with pests, possums and persistent weeds but would never let me touch the roses for pruning, because he wouldn't trust anyone else with the Queen's favourite flowers.

He instilled a love of plants, and I would like to have my own garden, but I need a house for that. And while Kalle does pay me enough, living right beside the bar is too convenient to make a change.

Dad had to retire two years ago because of the disease that has corroded his lungs. I think telling the king he could no longer do the work he loved did more damage to my father than the scar tissue slowly filling his lungs.

Still, he's kept his cheerful good nature and does his best to keep busy puttering in the gardens at home, but the storm would drive him indoors and under my mother's feet, and so he's here instead.

Dad taps the newspaper folded on the bar. "I figured I'd help Dillon with his crossword."

A fun fact about the king of Laandia—each morning, he has a plane fly into St Johns to pick up the New York, Washington, Toronto, and Ottawa newspapers, as well as a large Double Double coffee from Tim Horton's. Technology has advanced enough so King Magnus can read the news from a tablet instead of actual newspapers, but he's not ready to give up his favourite coffee. Battle Harbour doesn't do franchises, the one thing in recent times the king has argued for.

"The plane got through the storm this morning?" I ask Dillon, but he shakes his head.

"It's a bad one out there, worst I've seen since I got this gig. This is yesterday's paper."

"You know there's apps and online sites where you can do crosswords and sudoku and your puzzles, right?" I ask him.

"I like being old school."

"There's something to be said about putting pencil to paper," Dad says. "Coronary. Eight down." He taps the page and Dillon prints the answer.

"Wordle in three," Dillon tells me as I pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot behind the bar. I'd rather have a large latte from Coffee for the Sole but I'm not committed enough to brave the rain to get it.

"Did you help him?" I ask Dad. The way he keeps his head down gives me my answer. I laugh as I take the pot around to the tables, greeting the regulars and topping up cups.

It's a far cry from what I walked into last night. The broken chair is gone but that's the only evidence of the fight, save a few guilty expressions and muttered apologies. And Ken McKibbon asks me under his breath not to say anything to his wife.

Managing The King's Hat means I do a bit of everything, from ordering kegs and scheduling shifts to waitressing and keeping the peace. Both Kalle and I share the office jobs, taking turns in the cramped space beside the kitchen because there isn't enough room for both of us in there at once.

We work well together.

Chase is missing, so I suspect Kalle went back upstairs but I don't ask about where he is because…

It feels strange to say his name this morning. I don't know why.

"How was your date last night?" Dad asks when I return to the bar. When I raise my eyebrows in a wordless question, he smiles sheepishly. "Your sister told me."

Thanks, Ella. "I wondered because I don't remember saying anything to you or Mom about it."

If I told my mother Mathias had asked me to dinner, she would have been excited, to say the least. Coronary—that was eight down in the crossword puzzle. My mother might have had a coronary. She might be the biggest royal supporter in all of Battle Harbour.

She named my sisters Ella, Enid and Eloise, and me Edwina, because she thought double E's would look great for a queen's initials. She's been planning our weddings to the princes since we were born, and every time one of my sisters gets married—Enid and Eloise both found their happily ever after with non-royals—she cries with disappointment.

I didn't want to tell her until there was something to talk about and I'm not the type to discuss goodnight kisses with either of my parents.

"How was it?" Dad repeats, and just from those few words, I know he's not as excited about Mathias as my mother probably is.

"It was dinner," I say noncommittally. "I had the pesto penne and some nice wine."

"Prince Mathias. "

"Would you like to know what he had?" Dad shakes his head. "You don't like that I went out with him?"

"Sorry, pet, just finding it hard to wrap my head around it," he admits.

"You don't think your girl deserves a prince?" Dillon looks up from the crossword. He's spent many hours with my father at the bar, and I would say they're friends.

"My girl—all my girls—deserve the king of the world. But I worked for that king for years, and while he's a good man, it's difficult to see my girl with one of his sons."

"Sorry, Bob." Dillon gives Dad's shoulder a friendly slap. "That's a you problem."

"You've said it yourself," Dad says to me. "With Kalle. You can't see yourself with him."

"That's different," I protest. "We're friends."

And because if I started picturing myself with Kalle, that would be the beginning of the end.

I know there have been times Kalle has been tempted to cross the line. I know him well enough to see that. And some of those times, it would have been easy for me to lean in and let things go where they wanted to go.

But I didn't, because if Kalle and I moved past being just friends, it would put an end to our friendship. It would put an end to everything, because Kalle would never want to end up with me.

He'll be king someday. And the woman he ends up with will be queen.

And that won't be the daughter of the former groundskeeper and manager of his bar.

"About that… How long have you and Maj been friends?" Dillon says, looking up from the paper.

"Sixteen years."

"Huh." Dillon banters and teases and complains, but that huh suggests he's got something deeper to say. "Do you know how many lady friends I've had for that long? A big fat zero. Do you know how many lady friends I have? Another, even bigger and fatter zero because when I get friendly with a woman, I want more than just to be friends."

Dad frowns but doesn't argue with Dillon.

I huff with exasperation. I've heard the arguments, the protests that Kalle and I "would be perfect together," "you'd make him a better man," and "it's not natural for a man and woman to be friends like that." "It's not like that with Kalle and me," I say.

Dillon smirks. "I wouldn't bet the boat on that. I saw how he looked at you last night."

Dad raises his hand. "Uh, father sitting right here," he points out. "Who would rather not imagine any man looking at my daughter in any way."

"You got to wonder though," Dillon says.

"Really don't, thanks," Dad argues.

"We're not talking about Kalle."

Why does it always come back to Kalle? Why can't people leave it alone?

Like I willed him, Kalle steps out of the office. He's wearing a brown T-shirt—same shirt as yesterday, only a different colour. He must own at least ten of them.

My eyes stray to the area right along the waistband of his jeans covering the patch of bare skin I saw last night .

Why…? I look away. "You opened early," I say.

"Lineup," Kalle confirms. "Even with the rain. Lots of guys looking for Skywalker's eggs this morning."

"I hope we don't run out." I laugh nervously. "We don't have another delivery for another few days."

A crack of thunder sounds, loud enough to be heard over the din, and I jump. Kalle puts his hand on my back and gives it a soothing rub.

"It's going to be a fun day," he says gruffly.

Customers still, cups and forks held aloft as the rumble continues like bowling balls running the length of Kalle's apartment and it's blessedly quiet for a moment before the chattering begins again. The storm will be discussed ad nauseam, comparisons to every other storm in Laandia's history, including hurricanes Igor and Fiona.

Fiona hit Newfoundland hard, but Laandia wasn't as affected. But I have memories of being trapped in my father's greenhouse as hurricane Igor swept across the area, the kind of memories that wake you from your dreams.

I don't like storms.

"I sent Tyler out to FoodMart just in case." Kalle leans over me to reach the coffeepot and I step back, but not before his scent hits me. Soothes me.

Somehow, the combination of Old Spice antiperspirant and Dove exfoliant body wash helps relieve the tightness of my shoulders caused by the crack of thunder. I know what products he uses because he stole mine a few months ago when his shower wasn't working .

I know what soap he uses in the shower but I've never seen him naked.

And why am I thinking of Kalle naked?

"I gotta run up to the castle," Kalle says, pulling me out of my thoughts about things I have no business thinking about. "You okay here? Call Bethie in early if you need more help."

"I'll be fine. Leah is here and Tyler. Worst thing, I can get Dad to start pulling pints."

"Works for me." Kalle gathers my ponytail in his hand and gives it a playful tug. "Later, dude."

"Not a dude," I call after him. Whatever was bothering him last night, Kalle seems to have shaken it off this morning.

Now I just have to shake off how two simple touches have unbalanced me, like I'm navigating the deck of a boat.

We're friends. We touch.

Dillon leaves his paper and follows Kalle into the kitchen. Dad watches them go, waiting until the door swings closed after them before he says anything. "Prince Mathias, huh?"

"He's nice." Why do I sound defensive? Mathias is nice. He's—

"You need more than nice, pet," Dad says, interrupting be beginning my list. "You deserve the best."

"As long as he's not part of the royal family," I remind him with a smile.

Dad shakes his head. "Your friend Dillon is right. That's a me problem. You deserve the best, and if that's one of Magnus's offspring—"

"Mathias is the king's nephew," I point out. "And I don't even know if anything will come of it. It's not like it would be convenient—Mathias lives across the country and I'm here."

"You know you don't have to stay here."

"Why would I leave? Everything I care about is here."

"We'll still be here, but there's a lot more in the world that you can care about. You got a big heart, Edie, my girl. I still haven't forgiven myself for you turning down that job a few years back."

I had started in hospitality, working at one of the two hotels in Battle Harbour. I had risen up to assistant manager when Kalle convinced me to come work for him. About a year after, a hotel chain in Newfoundland contacted me about a managerial position.

My dad had just been diagnosed with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, so there was no question of me leaving. I stayed in Battle Harbour. Only my parents knew about what the company offered me.

I don't let myself wonder how my life might have turned out if I had taken the job because I'm happy. My family is here.

Kalle is here.

"It was my decision, and one I didn't hesitate making," I tell Dad, wiping down the counter. "I'm needed here."

Dad glances over his shoulder, at the busy tables, the laughing customers tucking into eggs and pancakes. "What happens when Kalle sells the place?" he asks quietly. "When he becomes king and doesn't need you anymore?"

I don't know the answer to that.

8