Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 117920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“Aurora did very well with the girls,” Maja says, helping Clara and Freja down from his arms.
He makes a dismissive sound and manages to tear his eyes away from my legs to look at Maja. There’s something about the arrogant set of his jaw that makes him look like he’s perpetually seething. “Where’s Karla?”
Maja nods at the kitchen. “In there. There are a lot of leftovers,” she adds, then gives me a knowing look. I suppose that’s my fault.
Aksel walks toward me and I quickly step out of the way as he brushes past me to the kitchen and starts talking to Karla in Danish. I can’t help but breathe in deep through my nose. He smells like salt air and pine and things that are bracing and invigorating, and my god, I need to stop this right now.
“I’ll take the girls upstairs,” Maja says, and for a moment I feel like she’s trying to leave me alone with King Aksel. Then she adds, “I’ll be sure to print out the schedule for you. After dinner, you get some private time of your own. It’s very important to reflect on the day and recharge, at least in the beginning.”
Right. Why do I feel like the “reflecting” thing is akin to sitting in the corner and thinking about what I’ve done, AKA turning the children into vegetarians? I watch as they leave the dining room and figure I should probably head out into the streets of Copenhagen to see the city and get my bearings before it gets too dark. Or maybe just go upstairs, read the nanny handbook, and get my room properly organized.
“Where did they go?” Aksel says from behind me, and I whirl around to see him standing there and eating cranberry apple pie from a plate in his hand, leaning against the doorframe. Again, I’m struck by how casual this seems. He keeps vacillating between being an all-powerful king and a regular guy. One that eats pie for dinner.
“She’s taking them upstairs. Apparently, I get private time right now.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, just calmly forks a piece of pie into his mouth and chews, his eyes never leaving my face.
I swallow, feeling extra awkward. “So, uh, I think I’ll go to my room and get myself organized.”
He nods and I turn to leave, not wanting to get trapped in his vibe, when he says, “Perhaps you should think of having a uniform.”
I stop and look at him over my shoulder. “A uniform?”
“Yes,” he says, his eyes dropping to my legs again and back up. “I’ll have Maja give you some money—we’ll cover the expense. I know the nannies from Norwood wear a uniform, you know, the book you’re reading.” His voice drops as he spears his pie again. “And hopefully learning from.”
I ignore that last remark. “What sort of uniform?”
“Something … tasteful. At least so there’s consistency. We do have a reputation to uphold here at the palace and a nanny in uniform would help.”
I try not to narrow my eyes at him. I know what he’s saying. That I look tawdry in my short skirt. If he were anyone else I would have told him about my stuck zipper and that I was wearing the skirt by mistake. But he’s King Asshole and now? Now I’m going to do the opposite.
“Of course,” I say, a wicked smile spreading across my face. “Something consistent. Got it.”
I know he doesn’t quite trust my expression, nor should he. But I walk away, calling out to him, “Good night, Your Majesty,” before I disappear from his view, leaving him alone with his pie.
Chapter 6
Aksel
That short fucking skirt.
It’s been a week since the nanny’s first day on the job, when she wore that ridiculously short black skirt, and I absolutely hate the fact that I still can’t get the image of her in it out of my head. It should have helped that the skirt in question was paired with the kind of coarse, itchy sweater my father used to wear, but it didn’t.
Now I think she’s trying to kill me.
In fact, I know she is. That woman has spite coming out of her pores. When I saw her the next day after her shopping spree on Copenhagen’s Strøget, she proudly showed me her array of solid-colored miniskirts and patterned blouses. “The skirt and the top may change color,” she’d said with a bright smile, “but the overall look will be consistent.”
And of course I couldn’t quite come out and tell her that her legs were distracting. So now, I’m just trying to deal with it the best way I can. By completely avoiding her.
“And how was the Prime Minister?” Nicklas asks from the front seat where he sits beside Johan, my driver. I’d just come out of the weekly meeting I have with the prime minister, and while there’s been nothing new or substantial about our meetings lately, Nicklas always has to know. I’ve brought it up a few times that some things are none of his business, especially when he meddles too much, but he always plays up the part of being the dutiful assistant, always trying to help.