then.
I swipe my phone with my finger, telling it to hibernate, and set it on the nightstand. I have another date with Tor—a real one. No business, just… I don't even know what. Excitement threatens to scoop out my insides, and I dance over to my closet to look at outfits.
I think of my past and how I left Norway for an exclusive American girls’ boarding school in my teens. I didn’t sneak out with boys like a lot of the girls did. Sometimes, I think I am the most boring girl in the world.
Then the news came of my parentsʼ accident. I was already attending the University of Washington by that time.
Mum died instantly, and Father had lingered, as Tor mentioned—just long enough to feel like goodbye never came.
It was awful.
The attack happened so close to their deaths that I felt as though I’d drowned in a river of grief—for the loss of my parents and the robbery of my innocence.
I shove the memories aside for now. Gia would be so disappointed that I'm “ dwelling, ” as she calls it.
I give one last cursory glance to the dreamsicle outfit I chose. I suppress a giggle.
I'm all cream and peach. Good enough to eat.
I do a small whoop, wrapping myself in the newfound confidence of a sealed business deal.
I’ve found a man I might actually trust enough to like. Something I take a chance on might actually work. I hum an off-key tune as I leave the hotel room, feeling happy.
*
I glide down the hotel corridor, my mood unstoppable. My suite shares the entire floor with only one other. I briefly consider what it'd be like to own the entire top floor for my stay.
I briefly contemplate who's up there.
I reach the elevator and push the down button.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide apart with a whisper. I start to step inside as two men move to get out.
I don't believe in a physical reaction when meeting someone for the first time. I'm excited about the subtle chemistry that's going on between Tor and me—like a slow burn.
The man who stands in front of me is internal combustion.
An inferno.
Well over six feet, he wears clothes so sweat-soaked they cling to every sculpted bit of his body. I stand in the elevator's threshold stupidly, hanging onto my composure by the barest margin.
He seems as taken aback as I am, and he doesn't say anything, assessing me as I do him.
His eyes are the most arresting thing about him. Thickly lashed in black, they are so green, I'm certain he's wearing contacts.
Then he blinks.
No . There's just a man this gorgeous in existence. Who's breathing in the same space I occupy.
He commands the molecules of the moment.
His black hair is tied at his nape, giving the illusion of short hair, and his face is naked of distraction. His features are sculpted and masculine; a square jaw connects in a deep cleft at his chin.
The moment spins out as I sense a subtle tenderness from him in the same way I ignored the primitive warning my subconscious tried to give me the night of my attack. I don't know how I sense it but I do.
A woman should listen to her gut. Men do.
All these thoughts race through my head in seconds.
A strong sense of déjà vu has me stumbling deeper into awkward territory.
I jerk myself together. “Hello,” I say in Norwegian, though he looks exotic enough to possibly be… Spanish? The engrossing emerald of his eyes throws me, and that subtle sense of memory overlap washes through me again, though how would I ever forget him if we'd met?
I stick out my hand, and he envelopes it inside his own, giving it a slow handshake.
“Francisco.” His voice threads through me, pulling things down low.
I suppress the reaction then say hello again in English.
The second man says in the background, “Paco.”
I barely even notice him.
The name Paco suits the man in front of me. He has an easy but elegant casualness.
I inhale deeply.
“Hate to break this up, but in or out, guys,” the muscle-bound guy behind Paco says.
We both look at him
I swipe my phone with my finger, telling it to hibernate, and set it on the nightstand. I have another date with Tor—a real one. No business, just… I don't even know what. Excitement threatens to scoop out my insides, and I dance over to my closet to look at outfits.
I think of my past and how I left Norway for an exclusive American girls’ boarding school in my teens. I didn’t sneak out with boys like a lot of the girls did. Sometimes, I think I am the most boring girl in the world.
Then the news came of my parentsʼ accident. I was already attending the University of Washington by that time.
Mum died instantly, and Father had lingered, as Tor mentioned—just long enough to feel like goodbye never came.
It was awful.
The attack happened so close to their deaths that I felt as though I’d drowned in a river of grief—for the loss of my parents and the robbery of my innocence.
I shove the memories aside for now. Gia would be so disappointed that I'm “ dwelling, ” as she calls it.
I give one last cursory glance to the dreamsicle outfit I chose. I suppress a giggle.
I'm all cream and peach. Good enough to eat.
I do a small whoop, wrapping myself in the newfound confidence of a sealed business deal.
I’ve found a man I might actually trust enough to like. Something I take a chance on might actually work. I hum an off-key tune as I leave the hotel room, feeling happy.
*
I glide down the hotel corridor, my mood unstoppable. My suite shares the entire floor with only one other. I briefly consider what it'd be like to own the entire top floor for my stay.
I briefly contemplate who's up there.
I reach the elevator and push the down button.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide apart with a whisper. I start to step inside as two men move to get out.
I don't believe in a physical reaction when meeting someone for the first time. I'm excited about the subtle chemistry that's going on between Tor and me—like a slow burn.
The man who stands in front of me is internal combustion.
An inferno.
Well over six feet, he wears clothes so sweat-soaked they cling to every sculpted bit of his body. I stand in the elevator's threshold stupidly, hanging onto my composure by the barest margin.
He seems as taken aback as I am, and he doesn't say anything, assessing me as I do him.
His eyes are the most arresting thing about him. Thickly lashed in black, they are so green, I'm certain he's wearing contacts.
Then he blinks.
No . There's just a man this gorgeous in existence. Who's breathing in the same space I occupy.
He commands the molecules of the moment.
His black hair is tied at his nape, giving the illusion of short hair, and his face is naked of distraction. His features are sculpted and masculine; a square jaw connects in a deep cleft at his chin.
The moment spins out as I sense a subtle tenderness from him in the same way I ignored the primitive warning my subconscious tried to give me the night of my attack. I don't know how I sense it but I do.
A woman should listen to her gut. Men do.
All these thoughts race through my head in seconds.
A strong sense of déjà vu has me stumbling deeper into awkward territory.
I jerk myself together. “Hello,” I say in Norwegian, though he looks exotic enough to possibly be… Spanish? The engrossing emerald of his eyes throws me, and that subtle sense of memory overlap washes through me again, though how would I ever forget him if we'd met?
I stick out my hand, and he envelopes it inside his own, giving it a slow handshake.
“Francisco.” His voice threads through me, pulling things down low.
I suppress the reaction then say hello again in English.
The second man says in the background, “Paco.”
I barely even notice him.
The name Paco suits the man in front of me. He has an easy but elegant casualness.
I inhale deeply.
“Hate to break this up, but in or out, guys,” the muscle-bound guy behind Paco says.
We both look at him
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