Chapter 9

Stasi

The water feels fantastic after a morning spent lounging in the sun.

I dog paddle, tread water, lie on my back and float, my buoyant tits like two happy little islands. Who needs a life vest when I've got these girlies to keep my head above water?

This is my mermaid era, I decide. This week, I will teach myself how to swim.

Or maybe I won't. Perhaps I'll just do this all day, every day. Floating on my back is pretty damn relaxing, even in chilly lake water in September. We Gravenlandian women are made of hearty stuff.

Hm. I should have splurged on a giant float. One with a cup holder and shit. Maybe I'll find something in town, or perhaps the cabin has something I can use. I'll snoop around the place later.

I'm deciding whether to get a plain one or a huge tacky unicorn float when a shadow passes over my face. Probably just a cloud, I think. But then, the shadow is followed by the splash of a huge fish. Not huge. Gigantic.

I know I shouldn't panic. I know that fish are more afraid of us humans than we are of them, blah, blah, blah. That sounds great, but in practice? No. Loch Ness has wrecked my entire vibe.

"Nope, nope, nope!" I shout, splashing and kicking around like a lunatic.

I'm not sticking around to find out what type of fish it is that just swam by me.

I twist around and swim toward the deck. Well, I sort of swim. I paddle and manage to keep my head above water this time.

"Stasi. Grab the oar."

I shriek with fright before my brain registers that it's Sigurd in the rowboat, crouching down and leaning out over the water with one of the paddles.

I can't quite decide what emotion I'm feeling right now. Happy that he came back? Relieved he's not the Gravenlandian's version of the Loch Ness monster? Annoyed that he scared the absolute shit out of me?

Yeah, I'm going to go with annoyed.

I slap the oar out of my way and keep paddling.

"I've…got it."

"Stasi," he repeats, this time lower, and with more grit. I will not focus on how sexy he sounds when he's cross with me. I will not focus on the gravelly voice that somehow registers in all the wrong places in my body.

"I'm…fine," I say, despite struggling. But I've got my pride, and I'm at the ladder now.

"Why don't you jump in then and teach me how to swim if I suck at it so badly, Your Highness?"

"You are not dressed," he grumbles, averting his gaze as he ties the rowboat to the dock.

"I'll stay under the water from the neck down," I insist. "You won't see anything."

"I would have to touch your…nakedness."

I try not to take offense at the fact that he finds the idea of touching my "nakedness" repulsive.

"No, you wouldn't. Just give me pointers, and I'll do exactly as you say. I'll be a good girl, I promise. I'm very good at following instructions," I say, catching my breath as I rest my head against the metal ladder.

I'm sure I hear a quiet groan and a curse along the lines of "gods help me."

I watch him gather his fishing things and enjoy the view while it lasts. "I thought you'd left," I say to the handsome princely bubble butt bent over his fishing bucket, tackle box, and other sundry items.

"I went fishing."

"Oh," I say, biting my lip. I'm starting to shiver in the water, and I'd really like to hop out and grab my towel now, but I don't want to disturb the prince by asking him to hand it to me.

"You didn't say anything, and I didn't see your things anywhere, so I just assumed."

Sigurd clears his throat. "I stashed my stuff in the woodshed. To keep it out of your way."

I can barely keep my teeth chattering when I reply, "You're not in my way."

I don't know what I expect him to say next, but it sure is not, "I have to clean these fish."

And with that, Sigurd grabs the bucket and practically sprints away from me.

I spooked the prince with my nudity and scared him off. Wonder where he'll turn up next.

As I dry off, my body remembers how solid and steady Sigurd's arms were as he pulled me from the water yesterday. And how confidently he carried me as I slept.

And this girl? Does not weigh nothing. Especially compared to other women I know. Gravenland isn't precisely a home for wispy fashion models. Most of us are born with some Viking genes that swing toward the tall, sturdy side. I've got all that plus a healthy layer of what the group home mom called "baby fat."

The problem is, the "baby fat" never wore off after puberty. It migrated to other places, like my hips, thighs, breasts, and tummy. Even my knees look a little chubby compared to the average woman.

It's not anything I'm ashamed of, but I'm also aware that not everyone finds the way I look attractive.

So when a man like Sigurd—a freaking prince—feels so bold as to manhandle me multiple times, I assume he's comfortable with some harmless toplessness. After all, this man spends all his time in nature. The prince is known to swim naked in the North Sea every morning—something to do with circulation or something.

So, I'm surprised at his bashful reaction to me.

And that reaction makes me even more intrigued.

Maybe I'll bring up the idea of doing a morning plunge together and see what he says.

Back at the cabin, though, the man has again gone missing. I swear. This man is infuriating.

I take a moment to shower off the lake water, then pull on a pair of cozy lounge shorts and a fresh crop top before I resume my search for the prince.

A part of me tells me I should just lay low. Warm up and wait for him to return, but I don't want to sit around and wait. I'm not a sit-around-and-wait kind of girl.

I find a narrow trail in the weeds at the shore of the lake, and it leads back up through some dense trees and eventually to an odd little pavilion with a tall table.

"Hello," I say. "Need some help?"

Sigurd doesn't look up; he's in his element, that is clear. I approach and expect to be disgusted by the fish odor, but that doesn't happen.

Instead, he hands me an ancient, strange-looking knife.

The blade is straight with a weird curve on the end and two sharp points that I immediately touch with the tip of my finger.

"Don't touch it, it's extremely sharp. Here," he says.

Sigurd backs away from the table and points down to the ground, signaling that I should come forward and stand before him.

I do as he says because who wouldn't?

Standing at the table, his big arms come around my middle, and he gently holds my right hand, which grasps the knife.

"Now, grip the head like so."

I bite back the urge to gag and squirm. No, Stasi. This is dinner, so brave it out. After all, I like learning new things, and this prince is very kindly showing me how to clean a fish.

Strangely, it's not as disgusting as I thought. Of course, it helps that a large, adept fisherman is guiding my every move, but it's fun in a weird way.

By the time we finish, we've made a dozen filets, ready for the fire.

"I can't believe I did that. That's so cool!" I shout, washing my hands at the water pump.

He grunts, wrapping up the filets.

"Do you show all your first dates how to clean their dinners?" I tease, shooting him a wink when he snaps his gaze to mine.

The word "date" got his attention.

"Thanks for your help," he says, starting back on the short path to the cabin.

Pleased at the happy sound of a kettle boiling, I slide into a kitchen chair as I brush through my tangled mess.

I find I like watching the prince dominate my kitchen.

"So, explain to me again how this is your cabin?" I ask, working through a stubborn snarl of hair.

I watch as the prince pours two cups of tea, carries them to the table where I'm sitting, and slides one over to me. The opposite chair squeaks in protest as the prince sits across from me and pours an astonishing amount of sugar into his steaming mug.

"The house is owned by the palace. I use it for fishing weekends. I was planning on using this cabin as a base camp."

"Base camp?"

"A place to crash when the weather gets too rough for cold weather camping. In case of an emergency."

I sip my tea, deciding what tone to take when arguing with a Prince. Cold weather camping? A place to crash? This is not the behavior of royalty. This is bizarre even for Sigurd, the most eccentric of royals. He has to know that.

"With all due respect, Your Highness, I rented this cabin from a property management company, not the palace."

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "No one told me the palace was letting it out. And apparently, the rental company doesn't have to tell you who owns the property."

"Not that it matters. I rented it under a perfectly legal, binding contract," I say.

I wait for him to do the right thing—the chivalrous thing—and leave. Clear out and take up his grievance with his family. The very thing that I don't want him to do yet would be the proper and correct thing.

"You're really attached to the place," I say.

His mood seems to shift, then.

"I'll help you locate another rental," he grumbles.

"Incorrect," I say. "This is my vacation, and I earned it. I don't suppose you would know anything about that."

"What can I pay you to leave?" Sigurd asks. "To go to a bigger, better place?"

He wants me to be the one to decide to leave. The prince doesn't want to leave me alone. He absolutely dotes on me and can't stand not doing what he feels is his duty to protect me.

If he leaves, then he'll feel as if he's abandoning me.

Oh, this is fun.

"And why don't you go to someplace bigger? Some place more suited for royalty?" I press. I know I'm poking at him, pushing him to the brink of losing patience with me.

"Anastasia," he warms.

"One million dollars!"

The prince snorts a laugh. "What is it actually worth to you?"

"I don't know, Your Highness. What is it worth to you that I don't tell anyone where you are?"