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)
It’s like that.
Except everyone is a lot more modestly dressed.
And by that, I mean it’s all very sleek and Scandinavian and understated.
And I’ve just walked in the room in the world’s poufiest prom dress.
Heads turn.
People whisper.
“Who is that?”
“Is that the nanny?”
“Who does she think she is, a princess?”
Okay, well I can’t really hear or understand them from where I am, but I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re saying.
It doesn’t matter though. I hold my head high, ignoring the looks, and scan the room for Aksel.
I don’t see him at first, so, while still holding the girls’ hands with an iron grip, I slowly walk through the crowd, nodding my head at some of the staff that I know. But even they are giving me a look, you know, the one that says, aren’t you working too? Probably followed by, how on earth did she afford that dress on our wages?
The latter I don’t know. The label said Valentino and I really hope it doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass, because I don’t have those kind of funds.
And then, like the sea parting for Moses, the crowd disintegrates in front of me and I see Aksel, standing with the Danish Prime Minister.
The Prime Minister spots me first, nods and says something to Aksel.
Aksel’s head pivots toward me.
His jaw practically drops. At least it seems that way to me since it’s usually held in such a tense manner.
That was the reaction I was hoping for.
I smile at him, knowing my smile makes him weak at the knees, and then glide toward him.
“Good evening, Your Majesty,” I say to him sweetly. “I have your children here.” You know, to remind him that I’m the nanny and we haven’t been secretly screwing for several months.
Clara and Freja are incredibly quiet at the moment and Aksel says to the Prime Minister, “Warnekros, may I introduce to you my nanny, Aurora James.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Prime Minister,” I say, holding out my hand.
Warnekros is an older man with a shock of white hair and glasses and he seems a little befuddled at the moment. Still, he shakes my hand with a firm grip then looks at Aksel. “She’s much prettier in person.”
He said that in Danish but I’m certain that’s what he said.
Not sure if I should be insulted or not. I guess the tabloids never do publish my good side.
“I’ll let you two be,” the Prime Minister says, placing a hand on Aksel’s shoulder before walking away to the champagne.
“Lovely party,” I say to Aksel.
“It just got a lot lovelier,” he says, his voice awed and rough. He’s getting a look in his eyes, a look he can’t show in public. “You…” his eyes slowly rake over me, up and down. “You’re more than a goddess.”
I grin, wishing I could reach out and adjust his bowtie. “Well you look like a Nordic god in that tux, so I guess we make quiet the pair.”
It’s only then that I realize both Clara and Freja are staring up at us, watching.
“Okay girls,” I say to them, overly cheery. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
“Give them to Maja,” he says, reaching out and touching my shoulder.
“Why?”
“I want to dance with you,” he says. His eyes are intense and commanding, I can feel them all the way to my toes. They possess me in ways that nothing else does.
I look around. A lot of people are staring at us. Actually, I think everyone is. They’re watching our every interaction, our every look.
I feel like I’m at the zoo.
The most glamorous zoo in the world.
“You want to dance with me?” I ask. “What happened to you not being able to dance?”
“Perhaps I’ve improved.” He turns and waves at Maja nearby then smiles at his girls. “Go to your Tante Maja. I’ll bring Aurora back.”
They nod and Clara grabs Freja’s hand and they cross the ballroom to Maja, all while I hear Clara start to sing, “I know you, I danced with you once upon a dream.”
Once upon a dream is right.
Aksel holds out his arm for me to take. “If you will, Miss James.”
I do a small curtsey and then take his arm as he leads me to the middle of the floor.
Everyone who was dancing there suddenly scatters, leaving it open for just us.
He won’t stop smiling at me, not as I put my other hand on his shoulder, not as he puts his other hand at the small of my waist.
“Aren’t you afraid people will get the wrong idea?” I whisper, keeping focused on the strong, chiseled lines of his handsome face. From a scar across this nose where he broke it during his rally driving crash, to the sprinkles of grey at his temple and the permanent crease between his arched brows, I’ve memorized his face like a map that leads me home.