I was tossing and turning all night long, my mind racing, latching onto Korkort Sverige in my parent’s bedroom and then running wild with loose and erratic thoughts that didn’t make much sense at all. At one point I got up to pee and spent a good five minutes standing in the dim light of the hallway, staring at my parent’s door, daring myself to open it and see if the stranger was still in there. Maybe the whole thing had just been a dream, my underused imagination having concocted this mysterious man out of thin air.

It was probably an hour before my alarm went off that I finally did fall asleep, so that when I woke up again, I had that sticky panic that I didn’t know where I was or what had happened.

I groan and look at my phone as everything comes flooding back to me again. It’s six a.m., the sun is moments from rising, the dark-gray light of dawn starting to brighten before my eyes. It’s also Saturday, which means the house will be silent until around eight or nine when the first bleary-eyed kids make an appearance. I’m not even working today and normally sleep in for another hour before I get started on the day’s chores, but suddenly I’m all too aware of the foreigner in the house.

I get up, slip on my robe and slippers and silently open my door, padding down the hall. Pike’s door is still closed–so much for him spending the night outside his door with a gun–and I have no idea what to expect if I open the stranger’s door. Should I wake up Pike just in case? Do I need a knife?

I quickly duck into the bathroom and grab one of my razors, the closest thing to a weapon, and holding it in one hand like I’m about to brandish someone with it, I put my hand on the knob and gently open the door.

It doesn’t creak. Everything creaks in this old house but for once the door opens silently and I’m able to take a few cautious steps inside the room.

It’s completely dark inside, so I keep the door open so the light from the hall is able to flow in, a spotlight on his legs that barely illuminates the rest of him.

He’s sleeping, I think. He’s motionless anyway, though I can see the rise and fall of his chest. He’s on his back, which in hindsight wasn’t the best place to leave him since he might have gotten sick in the night and choked.

I realize I’m staring at him like a total creeper, mesmerized by his face even in the low light, the way that the shadows catch the hollows of his cheeks, the depth of his brows, the sharp angles of his jaw.

Then he stirs, just a little.

“Korkort?” I whisper, not wanting to startle him. “Mr. Sverige?”

He mumbles something in some language, his eyes still closed.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” I continue. “Just know that you’re safe and sound.”

God, do I ever sound like a moron.

I reach out and touch his foot.

His very long, very large foot. It sticks straight up off the bed like an Easter Island monolith.

He twitches.

I should probably stop touching his foot.

“Who is that?”

The voice makes me yelp, jump off my feet.

I whip around to see Callum in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and staring at the man.

Then I whip right back in time to see the man wake up.

Sit up.

Startled.

Sees me.

Sees Callum.

Starts yelling.

I don’t understand him, but he is pissed and being pissed in a foreign language always sounds worse.

“Callum go back to your room!” I yell at him, waving him away frantically before I approach the guy, my hands raised, but of course one of my hands is holding the razor and it’s gleaming in the light from the hallway like a guillotine blade about to fall.

The man’s eyes widen and he moves back, rattling the headboard and somewhere down the hall I can hear doors open.

Oh crap. So much for keeping this under wraps.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I say, trying to sound assuring though my voice is cracking like thin ice.

“Then why do you have a razor?” he says, speaking English now. That same perfect English from yesterday, his accent seeming to melt away though his voice is booming.

I stare at the razor for a moment while he keeps talking, “Where am I? Did I have an accident?”

I shake my head. “No. No you’re fine. You’re safe.”

“I’d feel safer if you dropped that weapon,” he says, nodding at the razor, his words sounding more polished as he calms down.

I nod and can’t figure out where to put it. I don’t want to put it in the bathroom because I feel like he’ll make a run for it when I do and the last thing I want is for this stranger to come barrelling down the hallway into everyone else, and I don’t want to put it on the bedside table behind him in case this was a tactic on his behalf and then he’ll be the one armed with the razor. And I’m definitely not giving it to Callum who I can tell is still standing right behind me.

So I chuck it across the room where it hits the window and drops to the floor.

“Callum don’t walk over there,” I tell him, still keeping my eyes on Korkort.

“Where am I?” Korkort repeats.

“You’re in our house,” Callum says.

“What is going on in here?” Now it’s Thyme behind me. “Who is he?” she gasps.

I turn to look at her standing there in her pajamas. “Thyme, take Callum to the kitchen now. Please. And wake up Pike while you’re at it.”

“I’m already up,” Pike says, not sounding impressed, not looking impressed. He comes into the room, arms crossed, eyes fixed dangerously on the stranger, Rosemary right behind him.

That doesn’t put the stranger at ease. He immediately gets to his feet and everyone kind of goes whoa and takes a step back. Even though I know he’s tall, he’s just such a looming, formidable presence, he commands the entire room

“I need someone to tell me what the…” Sverige pauses, looks at Callum, “heck is going on here before I call the police.”

“You should be grateful I didn’t call the police on you last night,” I can’t help but retort.

The man flinches slightly, a cloudy look coming across his eyes.

“Now, if everyone will just calm down and I’ll explain,” I go on. “This is Mr. Sverige,” I announce to everyone behind me, gesturing to him. “Mr. Sverige is staying at my hotel.” And at that, a look of realization washes over his face, slowly at first, then like he’s been doused in cold water. I clear my throat. “I was with Annette at the bar last night and recognized him. He wasn’t feeling very well, to put it mildly, so I decided the best bet would be to bring him back here so he could, well, sleep it off.”

I’m pretty sure my mother would have sugar-coated this whole situation to everyone, maybe to spare potential embarrassment on his behalf, but I’ve never been good at sugar-coating.

“Why didn’t you take him back to his hotel?” Rosemary asks.

I lock eyes with him. Even in the dim light, they’re the kind of eyes you get lost in.

Not here, I remind myself. Stay on task.

“Because,” I say carefully. “The hotel doesn’t like the staff and the guests to mingle outside of work hours. I could have gotten in trouble.”

The guy nods, swallowing thickly. I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his neck and feel a low hum in my core.

“Everyone up to speed now?” I ask in such a way that’s basically telling everyone to get out.

I turn to look at them with wild eyes to coax them on their way. Rosemary and Thyme and Callum are still staring at Sverige, both fascinated and scared by him. With a grumble, Pike goes in front of them and attempts to make them backup, ushering them into the hallway.

“You might as well wake up April too,” I call after them.

“April never came home last night,” Rosemary informs me as she disappears into the hall.

“What?!”

“I think I should go,” the guy says, quickly grabbing his leather jacket from the chair, though he wobbles on his feet just enough to make him quickly sit back down on the bed.

I stare at him in confusion trying to make sense of two things at once. “No, I’ll drive you,” I tell him absently while my mind goes over what Rosemary said. April didn’t come home last night? Why is no one more worried about this? Why am I the last to hear of it?

“I can get a cab,” he says, searching his leather jacket pockets for his phone. When he finally locates it, he swears. “Shit.” It looks dead.

“It’s not a problem,” I tell him. “I brought you here, it’s only fair I take you back.”

He looks up at me, his forehead creasing, and for the first time I feel like I’m really looking at him and he’s really looking at me. We see each other, not in some awkward naked encounter or drunken mishap, but actually as two people, two strangers brought together in the strangest of circumstances.

“Is this your house?” he asks after a moment, breaking his gaze to glance at his blank phone again.

“Well I live here, so yeah,” I tell him.

“And those are your…kids?”

“Siblings,” I tell him, not wanting to get into it. “I’m the oldest.”

He nods. “I see.” He’s staring at his hands now, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I’m really sorry for what happened last night. If I…if I hurt anyone, if I did anything, I can make it right.”

“Hurt anyone?” His words make me stand up straighter.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember any of it and I was at a bar…”

“Well I can’t tell you if that was your first bar of the night or not but from what the bartender said, you took a seat at the bar, ordered a drink and that was that. You passed out. Then my friend and I got there and I can confirm that you didn’t hurt anyone, you were out cold. And when the bar was closing, well it was either I bring you here or the bartender was going to call the cops to put you in a drunk tank.”

His eyes widen somewhat fearfully at that. “It would have been easier for you.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess because I’d seen you earlier in the day…” Pause for awkwardness. “It just didn’t feel right. Look, about that, I’m sorry I walked in on you naked.”

“You are?” he asks, tilting his head ever so slightly to study me through his long lashes. “I could have sworn you enjoyed that.”

Now my brows are raised.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

He’s fucking with me.

“It was an accident,” I tell him. “You oughta lock your door if you’re going to be strutting around your room naked like that and can’t hear if someone’s knocking.”

“But then I would have never met you, would I have?”

“That was scarcely a meeting.”

“Sure, but then you never would have seen me later and felt bad enough about the whole thing to actually take me to your house to sleep off the drugs.”

“Drugs?” I repeat. God, I should have figured it was drugs.

He frowns, getting back to his feet. “Prescription drugs,” he says emphatically. “I, uh, took a pill or two I probably shouldn’t have and then had something to drink, which I most definitely shouldn’t have. The combination has been known to knock me out before. I’m not sure what I was thinking.”

He stares past me at the wall and for a moment I think he’s judging the stained and peeling wallpaper of my parent’s neglected old bedroom but then I realize he’s lost in his thoughts, his gorgeous eyes running through an array of emotions I can’t sort through.

“Well don’t worry too much about it,” I reassure him. “You weren’t much of a problem at all.”

I don’t want to tell him that I felt strangely compelled to take care of him all night. That even though our encounter previously was anything but sexual and romantic, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Even now, with him standing here in this room, pulling on that worn, butter-soft leather jacket over those thick arms, those broad shoulders, I wish there was something I could do to make him stay longer. I’m no longer holding onto a razor blade, he no longer seems like a dangerous stranger. I actually want to get to know him because even from this brief time I can tell there’s a lot more to this man. Behind the movie star good looks, there’s a man with a story, the kind you want to pull up a chair and get lost in.

I cough awkwardly, suddenly aware of how I’ve been staring at him. “Well, Mr. Sverige, I guess I’ll take you on your way.”

“Thank you, Miss America,” he answers.

I give him a funny look. “Where are you from anyway?”

“You don’t know?” he asks.

“I couldn’t figure it out,” I tell him. Then my expression turns sheepish. “Which reminds me, I better go get your wallet.”

“My wallet?” he asks in surprise.

I point to his boots at the foot of the bed before I head out of the room. “Your boots are there. Let me just grab it.”

He starts to sit down at the end of the bed and I quickly scamper to my room to grab his wallet.

Pike reaches out to grab me just as I curl my hands around the leather and come back into the hall.

“What are you doing, Maggie?” he asks in a hush, pulling me toward him.

“I’m taking him to the hotel, chill out.” I shrug myself out of his grasp.

“I’m coming with you.”

I look him over. He’s always been protective, but this is on another level. “I’ll be fine. He’s not going to murder me.”

Not the best choice of words. They hang in the air between us.

“Don’t joke about shit like that,” he grumbles, his dark brows knit together. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never be without me,” I tell him. “I promise you that. I promised mom and dad that when I agreed to be the guardian. I’m never leaving you guys, got that?”

He sighs, running his hands down his face. Then he stares at the wallet. “How much money does he have in there?” he asks quietly.

“Why?” I ask suspiciously.

“Maybe he won’t miss it.”

My jaw nearly drops. “Are you suggesting we rob him?”

“Actually it was Callum’s suggestion.”

“What is wrong with you two? I’m helping someone and you’re suggesting I rob him while I’m at it?”

“We need the money.”

“Doesn’t mean we take money from someone else. And what the hell is wrong with that kid to suggest that? Didn’t our parents raise him better than that?”

Pike shrugs. “We’ll find out at the teacher meeting.”

“Everything okay?” comes Sverige’s deep voice as he turns the corner, staring at us openly.

“Fine,” I say quickly, glaring at Pike and his audacity before whirling around to hand Sverige his wallet. “Here you go. I was only holding onto it as collateral. In case you turned out to be a psychopath or something.”

He takes the wallet from me, our fingers brushing against each other for a second that seemed extra-long and drawn out in my head.

Yeesh.

“It’s all in there,” I tell him, nodding at it.

He holds it in his hands for a moment before he says, “I trust you” and slips it into his jacket pocket.

“We better go,” I say, eyeing Pike to step out of the way.

“Are you going to get changed or drive him in that robe?” Pike asks.

I sigh. “Hold on. Stay there. Pike, be nice.”

I turn and run into the room and pull on pajama pants and a sweater in seconds flat, returning to the hall to see them both where I left them, staring at each other awkwardly.

Pike looks at me. “Any idea where April is anyway?”

I shake my head with a groan. This isn’t the first time April hasn’t come home but even so, we’re going to have to find her soon. “Have you texted her?”

“Of course,” he says. “Called her too. No answer. And the messages are getting delivered.”

“She’s probably sleeping,” I say. And I hate that I think I know where.

I head down the stairs with the foreigner right behind me, his footsteps surprisingly light on the steps. Now that he’s up and about, not drugged, not naked, he moves with a regal kind of elegance. His body seems to glide effortlessly through the space in front of it with a kind of confidence I can only dream of.

I bet he’s a fantastic lay, the thought flits through my head. I don’t bat it away.

“Nice house,” he says as we head down the hall toward the kitchen. I glance at him over my shoulder to see him looking over the walls, the crooked paintings, the old photos in broken frames.

“It’s really not,” I tell him, hoping if we move fast enough past the kitchen no one will stop us.

No luck.

“Hey,” Callum practically yells at us as I pass by the kitchen and the foreigner decides to stop in the doorway and peer inside at the scene.

“Callum, be polite,” I warn, trying to glare at him over the guy’s massive frame and failing miserably, even on my tip toes.

The guy moves over so it’s the both of us in the doorway now and Callum, Thyme and Rosemary are sitting around the kitchen table with bowls of No Name Flakes of Corn. Callum is holding the container of sugar like a weapon, poised over the cereal and ready to let loose.

“What’s your name?” Callum asks him, ignoring me.

“It’s Mr. Sverige and I’m afraid we have to go,” I get in quickly. “Thyme, don’t let him put that sugar in his cereal, do you understand?” I place my hand gently on Sverige’s bicep. It’s hard. So hard. “It’s a trap. We should go.”

“A trap?” he asks, glancing down at me and there’s such intimate curiosity in his eyes that I suddenly feel hot under my skin, realizing the two of us are standing rather close to each other, and I’m touching him.

I have trouble swallowing, my eyes focused on his lips. “Yeah,” I say softly, knowing I should take my hand away.

“She thinks we’re going to say something embarrassing,” Thyme says, almost proudly. It’s enough to tear my eyes away from him and fix them on her, warning. My hand drops to my side.

“She’ll have an aneurysm,” Callum adds, and I know I have to get this guy out of here before my brother starts talking about the other words he learned.

“Come on,” I tell him, nodding down the hall.

“Okay, Miss America,” he says and I’m both flattered and confused by the nickname. “Very nice to meet you all,” he says to them in his polished voice. “I bid thee farewell.”

I give him an odd look at that one and as we continue down the hall I can hear Rosemary repeat to the others, mimicking his accent, “I bid thee farewell?”

“So, where are you from again?” I ask him as we head out to the minivan. I don’t think he ever told me.

“I thought you knew,” he says and stops in front of the van. “Is this your vehicle?”

I can’t tell if he’s being judgey or not, his damn poise and accent are making it difficult, as well as the fact that he said vehicle instead of car. “Yes, get in, your highness.”

His face goes white. He blinks at me. Is he having a seizure? The drugs kicking in again?

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He nods slowly, goes around to the side of the van and opens the passenger door.

“Why did you call me that?” he asks evenly as he sits down.

I shrug as I get in my seat and buckle up. “Because you looked like you were judging my ride, just as you were probably judging my house.”

“Your ride?” He frowns at me. “I would never do that. I wasn’t judging. I was interested in your house, that’s all. I like it. It’s charming. It’s got life.”

He’s so sincere I can’t help but believe him.

Good lord, he’s so gorgeous and yet so, so odd.

“Okay, good.” I sigh, turn the key and the van gives a bit of a cough and rumble before it purrs to life. “Sorry. I get defensive sometimes.”

He presses his lips together, frowning. Those eyes of his skirt over every inch of my face, studying me. My stomach does a backflip. I can’t remember the last time a man–hell, anyone–looked at me this way. “You know, it was really nice of you to do what you did,” he finally says.

“No worries. I guess I felt guilty for seeing you, uh, vulnerable and stuff,” I tell him as I bring the van onto the road, not comfortable with all this sincerity.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch a small smile on his mouth. “I didn’t mind at all.”

Nor should you, I think to myself, trying not to smile in return. “Anyway, so what are you doing here in ol’ Tehachapi? It’s not exactly the forefront of culture and civilization.”

He licks his lips, just enough that I see the tip of his pink tongue, then turns his attention out the window. “I was just passing through when my car broke down on the highway. About thirty minutes east of here. Middle of the desert. That was a day.”

“What’s wrong with it? You know my brother works as a mechanic, he could help you out. You know, if you need it.”

“We’ll see. I’ve been trying to fix it myself for the last few days,” he says with a shrug. “I think I need a new carburetor.”

“You can fix cars too?”

“What? I don’t look like I can?”

Well, no. Not with his elegant mannerisms, the way he holds himself, the fit of his clothes. It looks like he pays people to do everything for him and yet there’s not an arrogant thing about him. A bit of cockiness from the way he bites his lip, a confidence that comes in knowing he looks like a god, but arrogance, no.

I end up shrugging. “I don’t know, I don’t know a thing about cars to be honest.”

“Well I do,” he says, almost defensively. “Been working on cars ever since I was a child, helping, uh, my father’s friends with them. The problem with this car is it’s an old car, a mustang, 1965. Those parts take time, yes. Might be here for a bit longer.”

Is it crazy that I’m relieved that he’s staying in this town for longer? It is crazy.

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be? Where were you headed?”

“Los Angeles,” he says. “And no, I have nowhere I need to be. I’m…on vacation. For another week. Then I fly out of Los Angeles and back to Stockholm.”

“Stockholm? So you’re Swedish!” I knew it.

“Is that a surprise, Miss America?” he says, adjusting his seat to give his long legs more room. “You’ve been calling me Mr. Sweden this whole time.”

“Huh?”

“Korkort Sverige,” he says.

“Isn’t that your name?”

He breaks into a grin, a movie star smile that shows off perfect white teeth, making him look simultaneously younger and even more handsome. My body is reacting to this faster than my brain can, my breath catching in my throat, my heart thumps harder in my chest.

“Sverige means Sweden in Swedish,” he says. “Korkort means driver’s license. I’m afraid you’ve been calling me Mr. Swedish driver’s license.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not,” he says. “I quite enjoy it.”

“So what is your name?”

“It’s…,” he pauses, “Johan. Johan Andersson.”

Just like it said on his license, I just thought that was where he lived or something. He’s also pronouncing the “J” like a “Y.”

“Well don’t I look like the horse’s ass,” I remark.

He frowns quizzically. “You have a very nice ass. Not at all like a horse.”

I’m laughing again. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“I would never joke about a nice ass,” he says, straight-faced though his eyes have a mischievous slant. “Miss America.”

“You can stop calling me that now.”

“Let me think about it. What is your real name?”

“Maggie. Maggie McPherson.”

“Is that so?”

He extends his hand to me. I stare at it in surprise for a moment before I take my hand off the wheel and give him mine. My hand is so damn tiny in his and when he envelopes it with his strong, warm fingers, it practically disappears. “It’s an honor to meet you, Maggie McPherson.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Johan Andersson. Though I must admit, I got used to calling you Korkort Sverige.”

“You can call me anything you want,” he says.

And, oh, dear god, is he flirting with me? Maybe. I feel like he’s holding onto my hand for longer than he maybe should, even though I also want him to never let go.

As if he senses this, he lets go of my hand and brings it back to his lap, looking almost chagrined as he stares out the window at the town as it passes us by.

I’m about to ask what kind of business he’s in when a text on my phone beeps in. I quickly glance at it. It’s Pike. Says: Still no sign of her.

Meaning April.

“What is it?” Sverige–sorry, Johan–says, watching me.

My jaw feels like it’s been clamped together. I wiggle it open and try to give him a smile. “My sister. April. She’s fourteen and she didn’t come home last night.”

“Fuck,” he swears, his accent seeming to thicken as he does so. “That can’t be good.”

“She’s done this before,” I tell him, just so he doesn’t suggest we go to the police or something. “Once she was at a girlfriend’s house after partying all night, or so she says. I’ve always thought differently though.”

He looks at me expectantly. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

I nod. “Yes,” I say grimly. “And he’s the biggest douchebag on the planet. In fact, he lives just over there.” I nod up ahead at a long dusty road that leads into the hills.

I was planning on dropping off the Swede and then cruising past the dickhead’s house on the way back home, hoping to find April but suddenly I’ve flipped on my indicator and I’m making a turn.

This is either going to be a good idea or a very, very bad one.