“You’re being overdramatic,” I said, giving him a dismissive wave. “This isn’t the eighteen hundreds, Father. And you’re not Marie Antoinette.”
“I’m speaking figuratively,” he said. He closed his eyes and inhaled the cold night air. “Rebellion is in the air, my son, and nothing quells a rebellion like a royal marriage and a royal baby. The Brits have known this for years. Each time the public demands abdication, one of their lot gets married or has a baby and the public laps it up like kittens sucking their mother’s teat.”
“Father, please…”
He turned to face me. He put his hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes. “You are our last hope, Nikolay. You must find a wife and produce an heir as quickly as possible. And it must be an American woman.”
I scoffed at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“If you take an American bride and produce an heir, the American people will flock to support our right to rule. The Americans are a shallow people. It’s all about reality television and the internet. Perhaps we could film your quest and put it on Facebook!”
I smiled. “How do you even know what Facebook is?”
“I’m old, but I’m not uninformed,” he said, looking at me with a smile beneath the thick moustache. He held up a finger. “Perhaps you could wed a Kardashian! Even an ugly one.”
“I don’t think there are any ugly Kardashians,” I said, smiling, rolling my eyes at him. After a moment, I let the smile fade away and then turned to face him.
I asked, “And if I don’t kidnap a wife and produce an heir while I’m in America?”
He shook his head as a tear came to his eye. “If you do not, then I’m afraid life as we know it will be lost forever.”
CHAPTER FOUR: Rebecca
“Storms getting worse, Becca Boo,” Carl said, nodding out the window at the heavy snow that was coming down sideways.
“Then I reckon you’d better drink up and get home,” I said, setting Carl’s third mug of beer in front of him. I picked up a rag to dry my hands and glanced around the bar. Everyone had gone but Carl, who didn’t seem concerned in the least about the snow falling outside. I was concerned, not because I didn’t think Carl could make it home, but because I didn’t want to be snowed in with him. I loved old Carl, but I didn’t want to have a sleepover with him.
“Are those lights?” Carl asked, squinting at the window.
“What fool would be out on a night like this other than you?” I asked with a grin. I went to the window and cupped my hands over my eyes to peer out. My breath fogged the glass in front of my face. I wiped it off with the back of my hand.
Sure enough, a small car had pulled into the lot. It slid to a stop next to Carl’s truck. The door opened and a tall man wearing a leather jacket that was suited for much warmer weather emerged. He stomped through the snow, heading to the front door.
I beat him to the door. I tugged it open and moved aside so he could come in. He was preceded by a gust of wind that blew snow into the bar all the way to the pool table.
“Thank goodness you’re open,” he said, stumbling inside with his jacket pulled over his ears. I gave him the eye for a minute. He was wearing an expensive suit under the leather jacket. His pant legs were soaked to the knees.
“Hurry and get in here,” I said, pushing the door shut against the wind. He stomped his feet on the floor to get the snow off his shoes and shook the snow off his coat. He leaned forward and brushed snowflakes from his hair. Then he looked up and smiled.
He was quite possibly the most handsome man I’d ever seen. He was tall and broad shouldered, with short blond hair and brown eyes and a smile so white it put the snow to shame.
I was a little dumbstruck. I didn’t say anything, because my brain seemed to have momentarily disconnected itself from my lips. I just gave him a smile in return and handed him the rag to dry the snow from his face.
“Thank you, madam,” he said, giving me a little bow as he took the towel and dabbed it to his face. “I was afraid I was quite literally going to die out there. In a Ford Focus, no less.”
He spoke with an accent of some kind. Not exactly British. Russian maybe. European. Listen to me. What the heck did I know about accents? I’d barely been out of Snowcap, although I had binge-watched Downton Abbey last winter while the roads had been closed.
“You are open, aren’t you?” He smiled again, this time with a hopeful look in his eyes. I felt my knees tremble and didn’t think it was because of the cold.
“Yes, of course,” I finally said, shaking my head in the hope that my brain would reconnect. It did. I nodded at the pegs on the wall and gestured toward the bar, where Carl sat watching us with a look of wonder on his craggy face.
“Hang your coat on a peg to dry and come sit at the bar,” I said. “I’ll get you something hot to drink.”
CHAPTER FIVE: Nick