Fall Hard by J. L. Merrow Page A

my pulse jumping uncomfortably.
    It was Viggo, and his voice was warm. “Paul? I’m glad you called. Can I see you? I need to explain.”
    I hesitated. This was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it?
    Viggo pressed on. “I can come to you, okay? I’m not far away.”
    “You know where I am?”
    There was a pause, time enough for my suspicions to bloom again.
    “You live in Reykjavik, right? To be near the institute,” Viggo said at last.
    “Good catch,” I said dryly.
    “I don’t understand. You tell me your address, and I’ll come to you?” I could almost see his face, his brow creased in puzzlement. God, was I just being paranoid again? Was it safe to give him my address? But damn it, if my suspicions were right, he knew it already. And if he didn’t, I was just making a fuss about nothing. My mind was going round in circles, but one thing I knew—I wanted to see him. Wanted it rather desperately, in fact.
    I gave him my address.
    It took him nearly half an hour to get to me—or at least, that’s how long it was before I heard him pounding on the door. I limped over to open it and was struck once more by how tall he was, how broad-shouldered, how muscular. My memory had painted him as smaller. Less…vivid.
    The reality, standing on my doorstep, his blond hair ruffled by the breeze, almost took my breath away.
    He gave a wide, slow smile. “It’s good to see you again, Paul. Can I come in?”
    I realised I’d just been standing there, gawking at him like an idiot, and shifted hastily to allow him to enter. Putting too much weight on my bad leg, I winced.
    “Your leg hurts you?” Viggo was all concern. “Come, you must sit down.” He slid an arm around my waist, and my breath caught for real this time.
    I tried to hide my reaction as he helped me to the sofa. “I’m fine, really,” I protested. “I just trod awkwardly, that’s all.”
    “It was a bad break.” It wasn’t quite a question, and my temper flared.
    “Why do you keep pretending you know less about me than you obviously do?” I demanded, pulling away from him.
    Viggo froze for an instant, then made a broad gesture with both hands. “It’s not easy to have people know more of your time here than you do, am I right? So I try to make this a new start for both of us. I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable. So now I’ll make coffee, and we can talk, okay?”
    He didn’t wait for an answer, just ambled off towards the kitchen. Half exasperated and half amused at his presumption—but at any rate, unable to stay angry with him—I took a moment before I levered myself back up off the sofa, grabbed my stick and followed. By the time I reached the kitchen, he’d already put the kettle on and located the jar of instant coffee, which he was spooning into two mugs.
    I fetched the milk from the fridge and handed it to him as a sort of conciliatory gesture.
    Viggo’s smile in response seemed to start with his eyes—a stark contrast to Alex. “Just a drop of milk,” he said, putting the barest splash of milk in one mug and considerably more in the other. “You see, I remember.”
    “I wish I did.” I took the mug he proffered with a rueful smile in return, to show it wasn’t a dig.
    Mug in one hand, Viggo shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. We have a new start.”
    It was the second time he’d said it, and this time it was like a light going on or a window opening in my head. “Easy for you to say,” I grumbled, but I felt he’d lifted a great weight off my back that I hadn’t even known until now I’d been carrying. It was just so good to find someone who wasn’t obsessed with my bloody memory. I wrapped my hands around the mug and leaned back on the kitchen counter, my stick hooked over the handle of one of the cupboards.
    “Okay, so tell me about yourself,” I challenged.
    “What is there to tell? You know who I am, what I do.”
    I couldn’t help laughing. “I know your name and your job. That’s hardly an in-depth