“If you must.” I lift my chin and prepare myself.
“Let me think.” She taps her forefinger to her chin, her eyes lifting to the ceiling. She looks utterly adorable, and I have to resist the urge to slip a hand around her waist, pull her against me, and kiss those full lips of hers.
What?!
What am I thinking? I can’t complicate this arrangement with feelings. This is a straightforward transaction: an arranged marriage for the betterment of our two countries.
I can’t go kissing a woman who so obviously thinks I’m ridiculous, trying to make me smile with her childish jokes. As sweet as she is, she’d probably reject me in an instant, and then I’d be humiliated.
“How about this one? What’s a goat’s favorite type of math?” she asks.
I think for a moment before I reply, “Goat-ometry?”
Her jaw drops, her eyes growing to the size of saucers. “How did you know, Fred?”
“Because it seemed silly enough to be the answer.”
Despite my crotchety response, her face morphs into a beautiful smile, and I can’t help smiling back at her, this woman who tells silly jokes purely to make me smile.
I’m vaguely aware of the clicking of a camera in the background, and it takes me a moment to realize that the photographer is snapping shots of us as we grin at one another like a couple of… well, like a couple. A real couple.
Immediately, my back stiffens.
“Oh, that was a lovely moment, but we seem to have lost it,” Josef says. “Let’s try something else. Put your arm around your fiancée, sir, and smile at her, just as you did a moment ago.”
Put my arm around my fiancée? Is he mad?
“I don’t think that’s necessary—” I begin.
“Oh, it’sverynecessary, sir. You’re engaged, and engaged people like to touch each other. Let’s show the nation how you feel about this beautiful northern princess of yours.”
I glance at Astrid. She’s pressed her lips together, clearly biting back a smile.
She’s enjoying my awkwardness. My humiliation.
Everyone in the room watches me. I have no choice but to do as the photographer instructs. This is meant to look like a love match to the media. I can’t risk it looking anything but.
Slowly, with my heart thudding against my ribs, I reach for her. I rest my hand on her shoulder. She’s warm beneath my touch, and I can feel her breathing, which means she can probably feel my heart beating right out of my chest.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine.
“Good. Now, Princess Astrid, please lean a little closer to your prince.”
Astrid doesn’t hesitate. She moves so that her body angles toward mine, her shoulder fitting perfectly beneath my arm. It’s like we slot together, two pieces of a puzzle snapping into place. Her scent fills the air around me, and my entire left side becomes acutely aware of her in a way that is entirely inappropriate for a man trying to maintain his distance.
“Well done! Now, Prince Frederic, why don’t you look at the Princess?”
I tighten my jaw.
I’ve got this.
I turn my gaze to Astrid to see her smiling up at me as though we’re engaged because we’re in love, not because it’s the sensible political move for two struggling nations.
“Now, how about you lean in for a kiss?” the photographer suggests.
“A… a kiss?” I stutter, my belly doing an almighty flip that has me gasping for air.
Has he completely lost his mind now?
