I’m a nervous wreck.

I can’t remember the last time I was ever this nervous.

I’ve changed outfits enough times to make anyone crazy. I’ve gone from the black dress to jeans and a blousy top, to a long sundress, to black pants and a tank top and all the way back to the black dress again.

Now I’m pacing my bedroom, both trying to break in these three-inch heels I picked up in New York but never wore and trying to dispel all the nervous energy that’s been building up inside me to dangerous levels.

A knock at my door.

I pause and then run over to my window that looks out onto the street. No cab yet. I glance at the clock on my wall. It’s five to seven. He could be here at any minute.

I’m going to be sick.

“Maggie,” Pike says from the other side of the door. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready.”

“Still? He’s going to be here any minute.”

I sigh, shaking out my hands as if that will dissolve my nerves, and go over, opening the door a crack.

“I’m busy.”

Pike frowns at me. “Nice makeup.”

I glare at him. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“No,” he says. “I’ve just never seen you wear it before.”

He’s right. I rarely wear makeup, certainly not the whole shebang like I’m doing right now. Apparently I’m a bit sensitive on how I look at the moment.

“Are you naked?”

“No.” I grimace, wishing my brother wouldn’t use the word naked around me.

He puts his hand on the door and shoves it open, causing me to take a step back and almost bail in these damn heels.

“Jesus, Mags,” he says with wide eyes. “Just where are you going again?”

“The Bullshed,” I tell him, my vulnerability morphing into defensiveness. “Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“You just look a little dressed up, that’s all. I mean, heels. When have you ever worn heels?” He looks completely confused and flabbergasted.

“When I lived in Manhattan,” I snipe, hands on my hips. “You know in other parts of the world, people actually dress up when they go out for dinner.”

“Yeah and this ain’t those parts of the world.”

“Pike, do I look nice or not?”

“You look nice. Jesus, you’re touchy.”

Was that so hard? I snatch my purse off the bed and head out of the room.

“He’s here!” Rosemary yells from downstairs.

Oh god.

I practically keel over, my hand going to my stomach as I lean hunched against the doorway.

“Are you okay?” Pike asks.

I nod frantically, my eyes pinched shut. My nerves are so razor sharp it feels like I’m being sliced in half. “Bad case of nerves,” I manage to say.

“Why?”

God, brothers are so fucking dense. “Never mind.”

Next to my room the door to April’s room opens and she pokes her head out to see what the commotion is. Sees me, goes “Uggggh,” rolls her eyes and then slams the door shut.

“Don’t worry about her,” Pike says putting one hand on my back and shoving me out into the hall. “Don’t worry about anything.”

“Yeah right.”

“You’re nervous about going on a date with this guy? He’s just a guy,” he says, ushering me toward the stairs. “A tall fucker with a funny accent who beat up Tito Jones. But still, a guy.”

Is he just a guy?

Even if he’s not the prince of Sweden, he’s definitely not “just a guy.”

My heart feels like it’s literally lodged in my throat as I walk toward the front door, sweat breaking out on my palms. Shit, what if he tries to hold my hand? I frantically start wiping my palms on my dress then take the deepest breath possible before I open the door and step outside into the fading sun.

There the cab is waiting, and I see the Swede climb out of the back seat and hold the door open for me like a true gentleman.

He’s smiling, that movie star smile with those perfect white teeth, the cocky twinkle in his eyes.

And I know in my heart of hearts that there is no wondering or questioning or dreaming anymore.

This is him.

He might still be Mr. Sverige by default but he’s not Johan Andersson at all.

He’s His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Sweden, Viktor of House Nordin.

And he just rolled up to my house in a yellow cab.

“Hey,” he says to me, gesturing to the cab with his arm. “Your chariot awaits.”

I grin at that. A nervous grin. A stupid grin.

I can’t believe this is happening.

Viktor–Viktor, god how he suits the name Viktor–isn’t as dressed up as me, but he still looks amazing. Leather jacket, a rust-colored V-neck tee that makes his blue eyes pop, dark jeans, dark boots.

Sam isn’t going to believe this.

I barely believe it myself.

A knocking sound comes from behind me and I whirl around to see Pike, Rosemary, Thyme and Callum at the large, kitchen picture window, waving and motioning me to get in the damn cab.

My eyes then trail up to April’s bedroom window.

She’s there, watching.

Gives me the finger.

I roll my eyes at her, turn around and hurry toward Viktor before anything else happens.

“You look beautiful,” he says to me as I approach him, and I’m so mesmerized by the way he’s staring at me, like he’s stripping the clothes right off me with his gaze, that my left heel wobbles and suddenly I’m pitching over like a tree, my fall to the ground inevitable.

Without even moving much, Viktor’s hand shoots out and he grabs hold of my arm with a grip so strong he could probably break my bones if he wanted to.

“Falling for me already,” he says, waiting patiently until I get my footing again.

I giggle mumble “Sorry” and “thank you” in response. Then add, “Johan!” A little too loud.

He frowns at me. He thinks I’m nuts. “I think I liked it better when you called me Mr. Swedish Driver’s License.”

I slide in the back of the cab, conscious of the fact that my dress is riding up higher and higher on my thighs as I do so. Viktor gives my legs a burning glance and then shuts the door, coming around to the other side and getting in.

“Where to?” the cab driver asks. He eyes me in the mirror, does a double take and then turns around to look at me. “Maggie McPherson?”

“Yeah,” I say cautiously.

“I forgot this is where you lived,” the cabbie says. “I’m Earl. Earl White? I used to know your father. Anyway, real sorry about what happened. Such a tragedy. You poor kids. All on your own. Man, I hope they execute the punk that murdered them, give him a taste of his own medicine.”

I nod and smile politely, trying to work down the lump in my throat. Well, that’s one way to have my nerves disappear–have someone bring up not only my parents being murdered but the monster who did it.

I don’t look at Viktor. I don’t want him to read my face.

But he does reach out and puts his hand on top of my hand.

Wraps his long, strong fingers around mine.

Gives it a comforting squeeze.

Thank god my palms aren’t sweating anymore.

“So where to?” Earl says again.

Viktor lets go and my hand now feels naked and alone without his.

I clear my throat. “The Bullshed. Please.”

“You got it,” Earl says and drives us off.

Viktor chuckles.

I glance at him quickly out of the corner of my eye. “What?”

“I thought you said The Bullshit,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “And I thought that was a brilliant name for a restaurant.”

His comment makes me relax, just a little. Despite who he is, he’s really good at putting me at ease. Or at least trying.

The thing is, my body was already tight and jittery around him before I figured out who he was. Just being in his presence, in the backseat of this cab with his massive frame and long legs and those large hands and that strong jaw and those eyes, those eyes that hold so much in them, hold back so many layers that keep touching the surface, I am nervous. Nervous. He is so much, larger than life, worldly, and fuck, he’s noble. Not just as a characteristic but in a literal sense.

And then there’s me, who could barely get a date in New York, who is chained to tragedy, drowning in responsibilities I’ll never live up to, stuck forever in this town and…

“This is a beautiful town,” Viktor says, and he says it with such earnestness that I have to look at him, my brows raised to the roof.

“Are you poking fun? Do you Swedes have a word for that like the Brits do, like taking the piss?”

“I’m not taking the piss,” he says. “It’s pretty here. This light. These hills. We don’t have hills like this in Sweden. We barely have any hills at all.”

I look out the window at the houses we’re passing by, the rolling hills in the distance beyond the town that are catching the last rays of the sun. I force myself to see the town through his eyes. Maybe it would look more promising to me if such awful things hadn’t happened here.

“Actually, it’s beautiful if you drive in from Bako,” I concede. “That’s Bakersfield, to the west. You’re driving on this ugly highway and it’s just desert, but not the kind of romantic desert like you get in the Mohave with all the Joshua trees, but this dry, dirty, broken-down kind of land. And then these hills appear in the distance, like brown and tan velvet and the highway starts winding up through them. When the sun hits it just right, it feels like you’re driving up to heaven.”

“That sounds beautiful,” he says softly.

“Yeah and then your heaven quickly turns to hell.”

“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks. “Moving? Seeing the world?”

I laugh dryly. “Every second of every day. But I can’t.”

“I’m sure it’s not impossible though.”

I give him a sad smile. “But, it is. It is. And you know what…I might think about it, but I also try not to spend too much time complaining either. It is what it is.”

He nods. “It is what it is.”

With our conversation taking a rather serious turn, by the time the cab pulls up to The Bullshed, a steak house around the corner from the hotel, at the edges of “downtown,” I’ve nearly forgotten all about the new development.

You know, that I’m going on a fucking date with the prince of Sweden.

No big deal.

Still, I know that I’m going to need some kind of proof. I need Sam to tell me I’m not crazy and I need to prove to her I’m not.

I need a picture of him.

We walk into the restaurant and even though it’s Saturday night, the place doesn’t look too busy. As Viktor requests a table for two and the hostess disappears around the corner to check, I bring out my phone.

“Here, let’s take a selfie,” I tell him, sidling up to him and holding the phone out in front of us.

He balks, seeming visibly uncomfortable.

“What?” I ask him, but I don’t lower the phone. “You don’t like having your picture taken?”

I press the shutter, subtly taking one anyway even though it will be a pic of us looking at each other, both frowning.

“No, it’s fine,” he says and flashes the camera a forced smile.

I take another one and hope that it didn’t make things weird.

“Sorry,” I tell him, slipping the phone in my purse. “I figured after this you’ll be on your way and I’ll look back on this as if it were a dream. I’ll need proof that it was all real.”

Lame, Maggie.

But he nods, seeming to buy that cheesy justification.

The hostess comes back and leads us to the table. As we walk through a row of booths, Viktor puts his hand on the small of my back. It’s possessive, letting everyone here know that we’re together, and it causes heat to tingle in the pit of my stomach.

It says, I’m his, even if just for tonight.

We’re seated at the end of the row, which thankfully gives us a lot of privacy. A small candle is lit between us, the lights overhead dimmed and warm.

“This is very nice,” he says, giving the restaurant an appreciative glance.

“Well it’s not Manhattan,” I tell him. “And it’s still too good for me.” Before I can get settled, I get up, grabbing my purse. “I’m just going to quickly use the restrooms. Order me anything you wish.”

He cocks his brow. “Anything? You know in Sweden, we’re rather fond of Aquavit.”

That must be some type of water. “That’s fine,” I say brightly. I can always order some alcohol after.

I steal away from him and head into the restrooms at the opposite end of the restaurant, go straight into a stall, lower the lid, sit down and bring out my phone.

My heart is going so fast it’s making my fingers fumble and I’m barely able to send the two pics of us through to Sam.

I add: CALL ME NOW. Right now. Not on FaceTime.

I see the pics get delivered and seconds later, the phone rings.

“Sam,” I whisper, answering it.

I hear a choked sound on the other end, then, “Fuck. FUCK!”

“It’s him, isn’t it? It’s him,” I say, getting more convinced by the second.

“Oh my god, I can’t…it looks just like him. He is fucking fine, Maggie, holy fuck, if you don’t tap that ass, prince or not, I will come over there and tap it myself and I don’t give a damn if he doesn’t like it.”

“But it’s him right? You agree?”

“It looks like him. I’ve never seen him in a leather jacket but yeah it’s him.”

“I know it’s him.”

“Where are you now? Are you with him?”

“I’m in the bathroom of a restaurant. We’re on our date. That’s why I don’t want to FaceTime, pretty sure that’s illegal if someone is sitting on the can.”

“Listen, listen,” she says, “you have to interview him. You have to. Oh my god, Maggie, this could end all your problems.”

“How?”

“How would you interview him or how would it end all your problems?”

“Both.”

“Well for one, if you got an interview then you could sell it like we discussed.”

“I don’t think that’s legal.”

“Of course, it is! Didn’t you learn anything in school?”

“It’s…unscrupulous.”

“Not many things in life are scrupulous,” she says. “Even if you don’t feel comfortable writing an article, you could at least do it all as an anonymous source. Seriously you can make big, big money.”

I ponder that, though I’m disappointed in what the idea of having more money does to me. “How much money?”

“I don’t know. Enough to make you and your family’s lives easier for a few months. Don’t you have a toilet that needs fixing? Look, he’s the heir apparent now. He will be king one day. The king of Sweden! And you have the inside track right now. My god, Maggie, don’t you see the possibilities?”

I do see them. I just wish my moral compass wasn’t spinning so wildly right now. “How would I interview him? I can’t remember anything and he’s going to notice I’m taking notes.”

“Don’t you have a voice recorder on your phone?”

“It’s an old iPhone.”

“You should still have it. It comes with the phone. Open it, then press record and have it out while you’re having dinner. Just don’t let him see. Easy peasy.”

I can tell it’s not going to be easy peasy.

But it’s worth a shot.

“I’ll do that now,” I tell her. “I’ll text you later.”

“Wait, wait,” she says. “Can I just tell you one thing?”

“What?”

“You two make a damn good-looking couple.”

I sigh, hating how my heart just glowed at those words. “Don’t tell me that.”

“It’s true. Maggie, he wants you.”

“You can tell that from a picture?”

“Yes. The way he’s looking at you, my god. He wants, no, craves you.”

“I’m the only person he knows here, and he barely knows me at all.”

“Maggie. He wants in your pants. Okay? Now go get that interview and go get those Swedish berries!”

I hang up and I think I hear her swearing in awe as I do so.

Shit. Now I feel like dry-heaving again.

Can I do this? Am I okay with doing this? Is this the kind of person my mother raised me to be?

Then again, my mother also raised me to put family first. And if I have a chance to put food on the table and buy things we really need for my brothers and sisters, then I don’t think I have much choice.

I quickly find the voice memos app, open it and then press record. I hold the phone close to my side and step out of the stall, grateful that there was no one in the restroom to hear all of that.