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Or so she thought.

He discovered her address and left cryptic letters inviting her to meet him, which she tossed. At a café two months later in November, the waiter handed her a rose and said it was from the gentleman waiting in the black Saab across the street. She launched the flower in the gutter and marched in the opposite direction. Fredrik finally dropped the keys to a 911L Porsche onto the steps outside her apartment building one frigid morning in January at the turn of the New Year, 1968.

Ronja scrunched her brow and parted her mouth in disbelief. “Where did you get this?”

With his arms crossed in his leather bomber jacket, Fredrik lounged against it with a confident smirk. “I thought I’d take the old-fashioned route. Impress you with a cool, fast car.”

“You want me to steal this so you can officially arrest me?” she asked, and then added, “I’m with someone, you know.”

“Is he better than a prince?”

Instead of being offended by his arrogance, she found it charming. “You know nothing about me,” she argued, though her smile betrayed her.

“Are you sure about that?” He cocked his brow. “You’re resourceful, clever⁠—”

“I’m a thief,” she said.

“No one’s perfect.”

“One drive.” She snatched the key off the ground. “And this better not be a setup.”

She drove him all the way to Mora.

“You’re kidnapping me,” he said.

“You look terrified.” She pushed the car to its limits, rapidly shifting gears, crossing lines, jetting past cars. Memories flashed of her Uncle Shorty dissecting this beauty of a machine when he allowed her to drive an early model. She’d been twelve.

“Kidnapping royalty is much more serious than pick-pocketing and auto theft,” he said. “You’re going to have to serve at least ten years. Maybe even a life sentence.”

He rented a cabin under one of his own aliases. They made love, and she never expected to see him again, convincing her saturated heart it was simply a one-time affair, that he’d gotten what he wanted. Fredrik had other plans, it seemed.

“Ronja,” he said to her now with dawn pouring inside the room.

She tied her thick, blonde curls into a topknot and faced his adoring eyes. What was he even thinking, offering her a future together?

The fantasy stung.

Fredrik went to his satchel by the door and reached inside. He pulled out a figurine of a wooden horse, painted in brilliant vermillion, varnished to a glowing shine, and studded with diamonds. She gasped. “It’s the most beautiful Dalahäst I’ve ever seen.”

“My father says it’s a relic from Fälttåget mot Norge. It’s been in the royal family for over a hundred years. Apparently, it was part of the peace treaty between Sweden and Norway. Christian Frederik had to abdicate his throne—and—return this horse that had been held captive after the collapse of the Swedish Empire.”

She covered her emotion with a tease. “All those years of history in boarding school—you’re quite the expert.” She frowned. “Shouldn’t this be locked up somewhere?”

“I was granted special permission.” He came close to her.

“I don’t want it,” she said, flattening her expression and stepping back.

“Do you want to know why it’s worth so much?”

She shook her head, continuing to retreat as he narrowed their distance. His mouth was upon hers when he said, “Because of its magic. It will always give you what your heart wants.”

Ronja concealed her longing with doubt. “Who wouldn’t know what their heart wants?”

Fredrik caught her eyes. “You.”

She laughed to further stall the tears, turning away. “What a lovely fairy tale.”

He caught her hand, unfurled it, and rested the horse into her palm. “Keep it,” he whispered and placed a lingering kiss on her cheek.