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Prince Sigurd has the wildest hair and beard I have ever seen on someone dressed in a fine suit. But he has kind eyes and a shy grimace hinting that he dislikes being photographed.
The second oldest, Etienne, seldom appears in group family photos. His scruffy chin and devilish eyes remind me of that Damon character fromVampire Diaries.
The oldest, Torben, is…astonishing. I suck in a breath when I land on a close-up photo of him, smiling and laughing with one of the other princes. In official photos, Torben’s face is kind but practiced and reserved. In the laughing snapshot, he’s breathtaking, with a wide Jake-Gyllenhaal smile that reaches his cool blue-green eyes.
And did I say I thought his brothers had sexy lips? Torben has the kind of mouth that makes a person stare for a creepily long time. If I said out loud what I’m thinking about when I zoom in on those lips— yes, I did that—it would get me banned from church if our family hadn’t been kinda-sorta ostracized already.
I fan myself and look out at the winding, quiet turnpike. I need a distraction. Something to turn me off, and fast.
I’ve got it.
Quickly, I dial up my brother on FaceTime. Yep, that’ll do it, and yep, Toad’s awake at 2 a.m. since he’s in between swing shifts at the sheet metal factory. Yesterday he worked three to eleven, and he’ll return at 8 a.m. today after picking me up from work because my stupid car is busted again. He should be sleeping, but he’s a dumbass.
“If this requires me to Google something, forget it,” Toad says without a greeting, his attention focused elsewhere. From what I can tell, the phone sits beside him on the sofa, with only part of his face visible in the frame. Judging by the sounds in the background, he’s playingGod of Waragain.
“That’s not why I’m calling. Just bored,” I lie. I’m not bored; I need to escape what could become a royal rabbit hole time-suck, as internet stalking tends to become.
“Slow night?”
“Sorta. Hey, have you ever heard of the country called Gravenland?”
Toad snorts. “Yeah, of course. Don’t they make beer?”
“You know about their beer?”
“We have some in the fridge right now, dumb-dumb.”
“We do?” If that’s true, I don’t remember seeing any. But then, I’m not a big drinker.
“Yeah, it’s a dope-ass pale ale with a hot chick on the label.”
Ah. Of course.
“I’m wondering, has everyone heard about this place except for me?”
Toad grimaces at the TV, battle cries echoing in the background.
“You do live under a rock.”
“Rude.”
“Prove it,” I say.
“Prove what?”
“Get your ass up off the sofa and show me a beer.”
With a low curse, my brother pauses the game and picks up the phone, the movements on the camera making me nauseous as he goes to the fridge and opens the door.
“See?”
All I see is white light blinding me for a second, but then I see the brown bottles and the label with a pretty, feminine silhouette in a crown and a dress. The label reads “Princess Honey Blonde” in swooping letters inside the shape of a tiara. Underneath that is a stylized banner with the branding “Reckless Royals.” Toad turns the bottle, and sure enough, it’s bottled in Arenhammer, a city in Gravenland, the obscure country I had not heard of until an hour ago.
“That’s so odd,” I say.
“What is?”
“That you would ever buy imported beer.”
