As Alexander De la Grip, Swedish count, international playboy, most eligible man under thirty (according to gossip rags), and no-good lazy-ass (according to his father), slowly came to life, he had absolutely no idea where he was.

He blinked, trying to assess his surroundings. It was early morning, at least judging by the light that came through a window at the other side of the room. He was naked and in a strange bed, which in itself was nothing out of the ordinary. But where he was—on which continent, in which country or city—well, that was all a blur.

Not that this was unusual either.

He made a quick assessment of his state of being.

He was hungover, obviously, but not brutally so. He seemed to have all his limbs and nothing ached. Splendid.

He reached for his cell on the unfamiliar nightstand. It was only eight in the morning; he usually slept much longer. But he felt okay despite the early hour. That was the plus side of regular drinking and partying—you built up a tolerance. Even though, as the previous night started to come back to him, he did remember a lot of drinking before winding up here.

Wherever here was.

Alexander racked his brain, vaguely recalling champagne, vodka, music, women—plenty of it all. He scratched his stubble. At some point there had also been a cab drive through Stockholm. Yes! Stockholm. Sweden. Home.

He turned his head. A young woman was sleeping soundly beside him. Her long hair was spread out on the pillow, her smooth skin lightly tanned. Alexander’s gaze lingered on her bare back. Yes, her he remembered, he thought with a grin. She’d been pretty last night, when they’d started to flirt at the fourth or maybe fifth bar he visited. Sexy and energetic. Impressively determined, almost missile-like when she had spotted him. She had a lisp, too, and in his drunken state he’d found that sexy as hell. In all honesty, she was a bit too young for him, if he’d had those kinds of scruples, which he didn’t. Twentyish, wide-eyed and giggly. The occasional flash of ruthlessness in her pretty eyes. He had been too drunk to care about that yesterday, when they were flirting, and later fucking, but he remembered it now. Not that ruthlessness bothered him too much.

Few things did.

He climbed out of bed.

Her name was something super Swedish. Linda, or Jenny maybe, and she was … Alexander frowned as he searched for his scattered clothes. A journalist? No. He pulled on his underwear and his pants, and started to look for his shirt, leather jacket, and shoes. Student? Model? Nope, that wasn’t it either. Something that involved more than long legs and an eating disorder.

He shoved his cell into his pocket, pulled the blanket up over her back, and headed for the door. He opened it soundlessly and was soon out on the street, getting his bearings. Right, she lived in Södermalm, the hipster, boho part of Stockholm. He put on his sunglasses. Young men with beards and MacBooks crowded the streets. Parents with children in brightly colored clothes, and pale, young women with skinny dogs. He kind of liked Södermalm. He bought a coffee at a deli, then hailed a cab. As he hopped into it his cell phone rang.

Looking at the screen, he felt the familiar sense of unease when he saw the caller: his mother. He rejected the call. They would meet soon enough; no need to suffer more than necessary.

The next time his phone rang, Romeo Rozzi’s name flashed on the display. Alexander answered the call from his best friend with a cheerful “Talk to me, baby,” while the capitol passed outside the window. Spring had arrived in Stockholm, the morning traffic wasn’t too bad, and Alexander could feel the last of the previous night’s indulgences being driven out by the coffee.

“I just wanted to check if you were okay,” said Romeo. If it was eight in the morning in Sweden, it was two a.m. in New York. But Romeo, hard-working, world-renowned chef, never went to bed before dawn.

“And why wouldn’t I be okay?” Alexander asked, then finished the last of the strong black coffee. You couldn’t get coffee like this in New York.

Deep sigh. Clattering in the background. “Don’t you remember?” Romeo asked, his voice that of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“That’s right. I called you, didn’t I?” He didn’t remember why, though. It was a double-edged sword, this drinking-to-forget business.

“You were pretty wasted,” Romeo said, his voice filled with disapproval.

“But being drunk is one of my best states.”

Romeo sighed loudly on the other end of the line. “I Googled the girl.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” asked Alexander.

“She’s a blogger and Instagrammer,” Romeo said, ignoring his question. “I checked her out. She has a huge following, publishes gossip and vulgar pictures. You said you were going to give her something to write about. Did you? Did you sleep with her?”

Linda. That was her name. Lusty Linda. Alexander pieced together the remaining fragments of a rather uninhibited night, remembering Linda’s probing questions, wincing a little when some of the things they had tried out flashed before his eyes.

“I guess I did,” he replied, forcing cheer into his voice and at the same time trying to work out whether he really cared if he was hung out to dry by yet another fame-hungry Instagram account, or anywhere else for that matter. He was used to it. He was prey, no matter what he did.

Another deep sigh from Romeo. “Do you take anything seriously?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m dead serious about my partying.”

“You know what I mean.”

Alexander fell silent, because he did know what Romeo meant.

The past six months he’d partied harder than ever. Sometimes it actually felt like he was trying to gift the tabloids and social media with gossip. Not that he would ever admit to it.

“Alessandro. I worry about you,” Romeo continued.

“I’m a grown man and you worry too much,” he said lightly. Alexander considered that maybe this time he really was headed off the rails with the drinking and the partying and the women. But staying sober probably meant going crazy. He didn’t care much for going crazy. He glanced outside the car. Taxicabs, people, bikes passed by. Street after street after street. Alexander caught sight of glittering water.

“I’m almost home. Can I give you a call later?” he said, not sure he could keep up his show of bravado too much longer. Romeo was a nag and a mother hen. But he was Alexander’s best friend and he cared. Stupid thing that. Caring.

“Just tell me how it feels to be back in Sweden,” said Romeo.

Alexander looked at his watch. Almost nine. “I think I’m still drunk, I need a shave, I have a meeting with my bankers today, and I’m jet-lagged as hell, so it feels like I need a drink.” Not to mention he was going to have to meet his mom this weekend. He almost groaned.

“Yes, well, be careful with that. Being a drunk is not a good look on anyone.”

“Fuck off.”

“Yeah, yeah. By the way, that Swedish prince of yours, Carl Philip. Do you know him?”

“I’ve met him,” Alexander said dispassionately.

“He’s hot. I’d love to cook for him. Among other things.”

Alexander snorted. “If I see His Royal Highness, I’ll let him know,” he said. He disconnected at the same time that the taxi pulled up outside Hotel Diplomat, where he always stayed when he was in town. He looked up at the pristine white façade. No matter how hard he tried, and he did try, he couldn’t drink away the fact that he was back in Stockholm to do the one thing he hated most of all. To face his demons. Or, at least, to meet his family.

Fuck.