“I know I have some shortcomings, Asti, shortcomings you don’t seem to share. I think—” He trails off.
“You think what?” I prompt, suddenly breathless. Is he about to say something important? Something that will show me he has actual feelings for me?
He lifts his chin and swallows, the muscles in his throat working. “I enjoy my time with you.”
If I weren’t sitting down, I might have fallen over.
“You do?”
I’m completely blindsided.
“In what way, Fred?” I ask gently, not wanting this moment of unexpected connection and honesty to end.
“I can’t really put it into words. It’s more of a feeling, I suppose.”
“What do you feel exactly?” I don’t take my eyes from his face.
Slowly, he shifts his gaze to mine, and when our eyes lock, something pulls tight in my chest. A spark, a recognition I’ve been aching for.
And that’s when I know.
He feels it, too. It’s not just me hoping he does.
This could be the beginning of something new between us. I can see it, right there in his eyes.
Chapter Twelve
Dolphins, Divas, and Deltoids: A Newfound Respect for Our Ice Prince
By Penelope Pemberley-Price forThe Ledonian Gazette
Stop the presses. Cancel your appointments. Sit down, preferably with a stiff drink. Ledonia has just experienced something truly historic.
Prince Frederic. In. A. Wetsuit.
Yes, our very own Ice Prince, known for his ability to drain the joy from a room simply by entering it, hasemerged from the waters of the Lysoria Aquarium positively glistening and flexing. I am speaking, of course, of muscles. Muscles for days. Muscles we were never warned about. Muscles that appear to have been hidden beneath years of impeccably tailored suits and emotional repression.
Fresh from a dolphin encounter (the dolphins, I’m told, were equally impressed), His Royal Highness surfaced looking less like a beige heir to the throne and more like a man who could single-handedly rescue a nation, preferably while lifting something rather heavy.
His bride-to-be appeared equally impressed, her pretty face appearing as though it might crack from her broad smile.
One can’t help but wonder if we’ve misjudged him. Perhaps the solution to his woes was in front of us all along. Perhaps we should spend our time simply admiring the biceps, and encourage him to remain silent.
Ledonia, I am recalibrating my expectations, and I strongly suspect Princess Astrid is, too.
Frederic
We traveled inland earlythis morning, and now we’re standing in a muddy field after a night of relentless rain, the humid air around us growing sticky. Both Astridand I are wearing rubber Wellington boots, but only one of us is remotely comfortable.
Spoiler alert: it isn’t me.
Astrid, meanwhile, appears perfectly at home. She’s chatting animatedly with Miss Singh, the head gardener at the Ravelle Botanical Gardens, firing off questions about planting schedules, soil composition, and maintenance programs. She listens with interest, nodding as though this is the most fascinating conversation she’s had all week.
“This is the garden bed we’d like to focus on today,” Miss Singh says, gesturing to the stretch of churned earth beneath our feet. “We have an array of indigenous plants ready to go. It would be wonderful if Your Highnesses could plant a few for us.”
Astrid doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, I would love that!” she says, clasping her hands together. “I haven’t been able to get my hands dirty since I arrived in Ledonia, and I do miss it. There’s something so real and wonderful about getting your hands into the earth.”
Miss Singh beams. “I couldn’t agree more.”
