Chapter 13
Visit Bergen, Norway
Fall in Love
“Where are we going?”
Christian’s face is unreadable. This morning we drove about five hours north, talking about nothing and everything, but what really matters…our relationship. The conversation is light, as if neither of us wants to snap the thin line that’s still connecting us. That line that was tested last night at the club. A line I almost broke.
It might be frayed…but it’s still there and I feel it more keenly than ever.
Last night, sex with him had been frantic, almost desperate. I’d awoken feeling vulnerable and somewhat lost. I close my eyes, taking in a deep, steadying breath. I’d felt things I have no right feeling, for a guy I have no right to want.
When I’d told Heidi that Christian wanted to take me on an overnight surprise, she’d handed me a bag, already packed. Apparently she’d helped him plan. Traitor. I feel guilty about leaving my cousin, but Audrey has the day off and is going to take her site-seeing. Besides, Heidi can’t be mad, after ditching me in Copenhagen.
Christian turns the car down a side road, driving uphill by homes and apartments. There’s so much greenery, that you barely notice the buildings. Man-made construction seems to blend into nature-made as if they’re one.
“You’ll see.”
Despite the unease between us, I find being trapped in the car with him surprisingly comfortable. The soft, plush seats, the low sound of classical music, and the scent of his aftershave permeate the air. His presence melts me. Turns me into mush.
There’s a part of me, a sad and pathetic little part that dreams about a relationship with Christian. At the least, maybe, just maybe we can still be friends when this is over, because the thought of never seeing him is unbearable. Never hearing his voice. His laugh.
“So mysterious,” I say with a forced grin. I don’t want things to be weird. I want these last few days to be happy memories. No regrets. I pick nervously at a loose thread on the hem of my skirt. “Have I mentioned I hate surprises?”
“You hate surprises and ice cream? What’s next…kittens?”
I shrug. “What can I say…I like being different.” We turn right, heading up another hill, rolling by cute houses overlooking the lake. “How did you get the car?”
“Stole it.”
It’s a silver BMW with all the upgrades. “Of course. I expect nothing less of you. I do have a thing for bad boys.”
He slides me a glance. Damn, he looks good behind the wheel. He’s placed his suit jacket in the back seat and drives in a white dress shirt and black trousers that stretch against his muscles. He looks relaxed, as if he belongs in such elegance. Is used to it, while I’m used to flip-flops and tank-tops.
“Do you really have a thing for bad boys?”
I laugh. “No. We have a certain amount of time on earth, I don’t really want to spend it in jail for accessory. Or worrying if the guy I love is cheating.”
I don’t realize what my comment implies until I notice his fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. Shit. Did I just imply I’m in love with him? Aghast, I jerk my head toward the windows and stare unblinkingly at the passing trees.
“Good to know,” he murmurs.
Awesome. I’ve made things weird again.
Lighten the mood, lighten the mood, the wind seems to beat against the windows.
I clear my throat. “I do have it on good authority that you used to be a bad boy.”
He continues to stare straight ahead; he’s barely looked at me this entire trip. He’s lost in his own world. I can tell he’s trying to decide how much to divulge; how much of his past he wants to share. “I wasn’t a bad boy. I was a spoiled, arrogant ass, doing my best to become another version of my father.”
His harsh words make me cringe. Perhaps it would be better if I keep my mouth shut. But keeping my mouth shut doesn’t keep my mind from wondering: is he being hard on himself or just honest? I can’t imagine him as an arrogant ass. But at the museum benefit in Copenhagen…well, perhaps I saw a peek of that cold man.
I frown. Who is the real Christian? As selfish as it sounds, I admit it bothers me that he still hasn’t mentioned his sister. Last night he pried into my emotions, demanded I tell him the truth about my feelings. Yet, he hasn’t been completely honest with me. He’s holding back too. I felt it on our first date, I feel it now.
“I don’t know. I bet you were a nice kid, a sweet boy. Maybe you lost your way for a few years, but you’re back to your true nature now.”
He laughs, a wry breath of air but doesn’t respond. I swallow my sigh. Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut and not pry? Why can’t I accept things how they are? Because…because he makes me yearn for the impossible.
He slows the car as we make it to a parking lot tucked between homes. “Or maybe you give me too much credit.” He parks the BMW and finally looks at me. “The car is my mom’s. Ready?”
Apparently we’re changing the subject. The mysterious mother I’ve never met. He left this morning on his motorcycle, only to return with the car. I haven’t pried, mostly because I’m still feeling vulnerable after what happened at the club last night. Prying into his life, leads to him prying into mine.
However, knowing he went to his mother’s house makes me curious. Maybe we aren’t as close as I fear. After all, he could have taken me on the motorcycle with him. I’m not sure how to feel about the realization that he had no issue introducing me to his monster of a father, but won’t introduce me to his saint of a mother. I shouldn’t feel anything but relieved.
This is just a fling, after all. Right?
“Ready for what?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, just steps out of the car. I’m wearing my black dress again with my little pearl necklace. Christian pulls on his suit jacket. And he looks good. Really good. It’s obvious his dress clothes are tailor made. You don’t get a jacket that fits so well off the rack. He comes around to my side and helps me out like the gentleman he is. He’s being quiet and mysterious, frustrating and intriguing.
His fingers wrap around mine as we move up a paved trail. We checked into a sweet little cottage across the lake hours ago, changed and started to our mystery destination. We’ve been together for hours. Hours when he could have brought up his family, his past…his sister. But maybe it’s better this way. The story of his sister’s death is the last secret he holds between us. We’re even. One to one.
“About last night,” he says.
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about last night.”
He pauses and looks at me, his gaze unnerving. “Why?”
Shit. A shiver of unease whispers down my spine. Talking leads to feelings. Feelings lead to bonding. I can’t bond with him, but part of me fears it’s too little too late. “Because we should just enjoy this…the few more days we have together.”
That crease appears between his brows, and a tic pulses to life in his jaw. He’s annoyed. Maybe even angry. “And then that’s it, right? We don’t ever talk again? Vacation romance over.”
My own irritation flares, and I ask him the same question he asked me yesterday. “What do you want?”
“I want to know you.” He lets go of my hand and rakes his fingers through his hair, leaving it mussed. “But you won’t let me, will you?”
My irritation turns to anger. “I won’t let you know me? Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister?”
The words slip from my lips before I can draw them back in. I’m not sure who is more shocked by my blunt question. He stiffens. I suck in a breath, fearing I’ve gone too far. The silence between us grows heavy.
What was I thinking? Maybe I’m angry that he continues to push me, yet isn’t opening himself. Or maybe I just want to change the subject before we talk about something neither of us needs to discuss. Or maybe, just maybe, I need a reason for him to hate me.
“It never came up.”
His voice is tight with exasperation. Now I’m back to being annoyed. Never came up? Obviously Kirstin knows. Max knows. Audrey knows. I’m sleeping with him and he doesn’t think it’s necessary for me to know about his past, yet he has no problem dragging mine out in the open?
“Christian, I asked you if you had any siblings.” I cross my arms over my chest. Yes, I’m angry he lied. But angrier that he’s demanded so much from me when he’s held back. “I told you about my father’s death.”
“Yes, but you weren’t responsible for your father’s death.”
Shocked, I blink up at him. Surely, I misunderstood. “Christian, I…”
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. The very air between us feels charged. Trees shade his face, making his eyes almost unreadable, but I can feel his sadness, his pain. “Tonight. Okay? We’ll talk about it tonight.”
Part of me wishes I’d never brought up the subject. He takes my hand and we continue up the trail, both of us stiff and quiet. Tension crackles like static electricity, and I’m not sure how to make it better. Christian was not responsible for his sister’s death. I won’t believe it. No matter what he thinks…I know the truth. But it doesn’t matter what I believe, it only matters how he sees the past.
“Christian, I don’t—”
“There,” he interrupts. “Just ahead.”
He’s trying to change the subject. Grudgingly, I oblige and follow his line of vision. A modern building with sharp angles stands at the end of the path. It looks vaguely familiar although I can’t place it. Something I saw on the internet while at home researching my trip. “Where are we?”
I can feel him studying me closely. “Edvard Grieg Museum.”
I jerk my attention toward him. “Are you serious?”
He nods, his gaze watchful, as if he’s trying to decipher my reaction. Steps from the modern visitor center is a quaint performance hall nestled into the side of a hill, complete with a Scandinavian grass roof. And beyond, I can see the peaks of the small, historical house that was his cottage.
“How…” I clasp his hand to my chest. “He’s my favorite.”
His music got me through my chemo, not that he would know. The nurses assumed I was listening to hard rock, rap, or pop like any girl my age. But it was always classical for me, thanks to my Dad. Sudden tears sting my eyes.
“How…I didn’t...”
He’s smiling now, looking amused and a little more than pleased with himself. The Christian I have come to know, come to care about, is back. I want to see him happy like this always. “It was on your playlist. Edvard Grieg.”
I vaguely remember him going through my music one evening when we were in bed, discussing our favorites. He planned this days ago. A sudden rush of affection washes over me. He’s too good. Too good for me. Certainly too good for Kirstin. Too good for this world.
“And then I saw your bucket list.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” he says quite calmly.
With a squeal, I throw my arms around his neck. He laughs, hugging me back. I’m not sure which makes me happier, that I’m here, or that he has done something so thoughtful for me. I pull back and mold my mouth to his.
Kissing him feels right. So very, very right. Like coming home. Like finally finding someone you’ve been searching for, yet didn’t even know was missing. Why does it feel so natural to be in his arms? Touching him? Him…touching me.
When I pull away, we’re both breathless. “I wanted to come here, but Heidi refused.”
He takes my hand. “I know. Now, come on, we’ll be late.”
What else does he know? And late for what? I don’t ask, I’m too excited to care. My slippered feet whisper over the path as I scurry to keep up with him. We move by the information center and toward the performance hall nestled in the hillside. Suddenly, I adore surprises.
Large bushes of pink and purple rhododendron grow in abundance, giving color to the otherwise green and gray landscape. And down below, at the bottom of the hill, is a large lake. The same lake where our rental cottage waits. I try to take it all in at once, to file away every detail.
“It’s beautiful here,” I whisper.
The historical house beyond the music hall is a small summer cottage of yellows and greens. Much smaller than I expected for a man like Grieg, who was so famous. But the view is to die for. And as I look out over the lake, I realize how incredibly lucky I am. Christian did this for me. Just me.
Here, now, I feel closer to him than I have to any other person. I turn to face him. On tip-toe, I press my lips to his again. This time the kiss is slower, more thorough. When I pull back we’re both flushed, unsteady.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He squeezes my hands. “Shall we go into the concert hall?”
The sign on the easel out front shows an older, smiling man in a tux, his hair a cloud of white. We’re going to a concert. At my nod, he slides his arm around my waist and leads me through the door.
Rows of chairs run down to a small stage where a piano waits. But it’s the large windows behind the stage with a view of the lake and a tiny red cottage near the shore that really draws a person’s attention. It’s getting dark and lights twinkle along the lake from other homes. It’s magical. Completely magical.
“That’s where he used to write his music, in that little red shed by the water,” Christian explains.
A man in a tux spots Christian and meets us near the stage. There’s a familiarity between the two as they hug. I have a feeling they’ve known each other for a long time. They speak in Norwegian and I understand nothing of what they say. As the older man glances at me, I realize he’s the pianist for the evening, the man on the poster outside.
“Hope, this is Mr. Bartosz.”
“Victor, my dear.” His sparkling blue eyes hold a happiness and mirth that pulls a person in and makes you feel at ease. I love him already. “Christian tells me you’re an Edvard Grieg fan?”
He has an accent and a smile I adore. I want to sit down and drink tea with this man, pick his brain. Get a hint of what he knows, what he’s experienced. I want to take a picture of him with his sparkling eyes. “Yes. My father used to play his music.”
“Wonderful memories, then,” he says, taking my hands in his. His palms are strong and warm, comforting in some way. “Music always provides such wonderful memories.”
I nod, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the emotions roaring through me. As he releases my hands, Christian is there, his palm at my back, providing support as if he knows I’m close to losing it.
“My father used to play In the Hall of the Mountain King and chase us,” I explain. “Pretending he was a giant troll. He said you’re not a real Norwegian if you don’t love Grieg.”
“True. Very true.” He laughs, a delighted chuckle. “The wonders of classical music. They are like plays, they tell stories, bring up such emotion. And your favorite composition?”
“Morning.”
He shares a glance with Christian, a silent communication I don’t understand. But it makes me suspicious. More and more people are filling the hall, the murmur of conversation growing in volume. A few important-looking people wait off to the side for Victor, but he continues to speak to us.
“And why do you like it so very much?”
I hesitate. Why did I fall in love with the composition? “Because it’s full of light. Of happiness. Of hope.”
Christian stands quietly and stoically beside me, watching our interaction as if trying to commit it to memory. Victor smiles at me, the sort of smile shared between two people who understand something others just might not get.
“You are lovely.” He takes my hands again and kisses the back of each. “Enjoy the performance.”
There’s a strange gleam in his eyes as he bows. But before I can decipher its meaning, he turns and heads toward the stage, appeasing the important people waiting impatiently for him. All around us visitors are taking their seats. Christian leads me to a row up front.
“How do you know him?” I ask.
“He used to teach me piano a long, long time ago.”
I’ve never heard him play. I wonder why. Does he still practice? It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I don’t want to bring up bad memories again. Maybe it was just a hobby for him. Or maybe his sister’s death squashed the joy. Maybe it’s too hard to experience something so pure, so beautiful anymore. I’m not about to ask and ruin this moment. I learned my lesson.
“Here.” He indicates a chair. “I’ll be back soon.”
Before I even realize he’s abandoning me, he’s gone. Bemused, I settle in my chair. Around me the hall is filling up, seats being claimed. So many people in fancy clothes that I feel like I’m back at that museum benefit where I met Christian’s dad. But these people are happy, smiling, excited, far from the aloof, dreary society of the upper crust. These are people who appreciate beauty and art, not status and money. These are my people.
Christian heads toward the front of the hall with a natural ease, as if he belongs there. What is he up to? He walks onto the stage, pausing next to Victor. His eyes meet mine. The world grows small. Although I’m surrounded by others, it seems as if it’s just me and Christian.
Christian, who is so handsome it hurts. Who is so kind, he doesn’t deserve my lies and half-truths. He stands confidently next to his mentor, that suit molded to his muscled form. I don’t need to look to see if other women notice, I know they do. Hell, those tiny claws of affection are piercing, clinging, digging into me and not letting go. My chest grows tight. It’s hard to breathe when I look at him.
“Welcome, my friends,” Victor says, momentarily drawing my attention to him. “How very happy I am to see you all, and to experience this night of music and magic together.”
There’s excited clapping, but I barely notice. My attention is back on Christian. He is the only one of importance in this room. That connection between us has tightened. I feel the pull as if he’s actually drawing me closer. Feelings that I’ve been trying to keep locked away, ease through my barriers.
“However, before I begin,” Victor says. “I have a special guest to start the night. One of my former students…Christian Lund.”
Everyone applauds again. I’m too stunned to move. Christian gives a shallow bow, then settles at the piano bench while Victor moves to the side of the stage. It happens so fast that I barely have enough time to understand. Christian pauses for a moment, his fingers over the keys. Tingles of apprehension tiptoe through my body. Audrey said he hasn’t played in a long, long while.
Please, please let him remember how to play.
He glances my way. Our eyes connect and he shatters me. Completely shatters. The emotions I’ve been trying to keep buried burst to the forefront, leaving me breathless, aching.
For you, his gaze seems to say.
He’s doing this for me. And I’m terrified and amazed all at once. I clasp my hands tightly together in my lap, my back ramrod straight. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my chest starts to burn. And then he looks away and lowers his fingers to the keys. A variety of notes clang through the air, coming together in perfect harmony. My heart expands. I feel those notes all the way to my soul. It’s as if the music draws me into its arms, holding me close. Just the two of us.
Morning starts, and I still get that same thrill I felt the first time I heard it…like something wonderful is about to happen. And I know it’s stupid. But for now, for this evening, I imagine that maybe, just maybe it’s true.
****
Christian has rented a small cottage on the lake, across from where Edvard Grieg lived. For me. All of it for me.
In two days I’ll be gone. I shouldn’t be having feelings, inexplicable feelings, for him. But he’s playing pianos for me, offering me cottages and moonlight, more importantly…offering himself, and I can’t seem to say no. How can I possibly say no?
I take in a deep, shaky breath. From the small stone patio where I sit, I can see Grieg’s cottage, nestled in the darkness beyond the lake. I think about the man and his wife, and their love story. I think about how quiet and still it must have been back then. How much time they must have spent here, alone together. He wrote his music for her, or so I’ve heard.
And Christian played the piano for me tonight. Perfectly. Wonderfully. Boldly. The stirrings of pleasure whisper through me. No one has ever done anything like that for me. How will I possibly leave him?
Tears sting my eyes. I squeeze them closed. A drop escapes, trailing down my cheek before dropping to the bodice of my dress. How stupid of me to think I could keep him at arm’s length. How reckless of me to travel with him to Norway. How naïve of me to think that this could be a fling, each of us going our merry way at the end of my vacation.
But as much as my heart aches, I don’t regret what I’ve done. How can I when I’ve experienced so much? I brush away the tears, and I picture Christian playing the piano, the way those strong, wonderful hands moved over the keys, producing magic. He’s more than talented, he’s gifted.
No, I can’t regret what I’ve done. I can’t regret opening my heart. Taking a leap. I can’t regret falling for him, not when he’s given me a taste of life. Outside, the wind is cold but I’m not ready to go indoors. It’s just me and the cancer marinating in my body, slowly killing me.
“Damn you,” I whisper.
I want Christian.
I want a life.
I want a life with him.
For how long? Two years? Three? Four? I can’t ask him to give up college and move to Florida. I can’t move here, and expect him to take care of me when I’m ill. This is it. This night. These next two days. This is all we have, and I will be grateful, even while my heart is shattering.
It starts to rain, a cold, hissing, bitter drizzle that pierces my clothing, chills my already cold skin, but I don’t move. Moving means facing reality. I’m not ready for that. Besides, the cold rain is fitting for this night, this moment.
It’s time.
It’s time to leave. Leave Christian. I’ve known for a few days now. Hell, I probably knew it back in Copenhagen. But I would have done anything for a few more moments with him. How do I break things off? How do I say goodbye?
I hear Christian open the door. His scent teases me right before he leans over, enveloping me in his heat. I sigh. My rational mind knows it’s time to leave, but my body wants to stay. Stay with him. Sink into him.
He presses a kiss to my neck. Chills race down my spine. Desperate, I tilt my head back and his hot mouth finds mine, searing. It’s raining, but I don’t care. We could be in the middle of a thunder storm and I probably wouldn’t notice.
He tears his mouth from mine, and scoops me up. As the rain thickens, pattering in earnest, drops trailing down the hard angles of his face, he holds me tight to his muscled chest. His desire pulses around me, mixing with my own in an irresistible combination. It’s too much. I press my head to his shoulder and breathe in his scent, savor the feel of him.
The door is only a few steps away, but by the time we reach the safety of the living room, we’re soaked. My ballet flats fall off. Slowly, he releases me. As I slide down his hard, wet body, his hands grasp the hem of my dress and he pulls it over my head, leaving me in my bra and underwear. I feel dizzy with passion, with need. We don’t touch but I can still feel the connection between us.
“Look at me,” he demands. “No more hiding.”
I peek up at him through my lashes. There is a fierceness to his gaze that frightens and excites me. He wants all. The good, the bad. No secrets. No holding back. I shiver, although more from the intensity of his presence than from cold.
His gaze is all warm concern as he cups the sides of my face. “You’re freezing.”
I don’t miss the bed of blankets he’s made by the fire. Determined to make the most of this night, I start to unbutton the damp dress shirt that clings to his muscled chest. I need to feel him against me. One more time, I tell myself. One more time together. “You’ll warm me.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely catch hold of my breath. When the shirt falls to the floor, I reach for his belt. His large hands cover mine. I peek up at him. He’s watching me closely. Curiously. Does he feel the desperation pulsing from me?
One more time.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my sister.” His breath is warm against my chilled skin as he leans over to kiss my temple. The fire in the hearth crackles, the pieces of wood popping. “It’s not something I talk about.”
“I understand.” And I do. And I feel like an ass for blurting it out. “I’m sorry I brought it up. You don’t owe me anything.”
He shakes his head as he unlatches his belt. “I want to tell you.”
I pull his belt free and toss it aside. With deft fingers, he unhooks my bra, and drops it to the sofa. His body is like stone that has been warmed in the sun. Carved marble. He unbuttons his trousers and undresses. We move slowly. A brush of fingertips here, a press of lips there. It’s as if we both realize this could be our last time. We savor every moment.
He’s completely naked as he helps me gently to the mound of blankets, pressing me back into the bed with his heavy, warm body. I wrap my arms around him, holding him so close I can feel the strong beat of his heart against my breast. His very heat seeps into me, every cell sighs with contentment, at peace for now.
He brushes back my hair, his fingers lingering along the shell of my ear. The light from the fire glows against his face, highlighting the sharp angles. “I want to tell you what happened.”
His touch makes me dazed. He’s so delicious, I could grow obsessed with him. His hands trail lightly over my body, soft as a feather, gentle and sweet. How strange that I can feel helpless and powerful at the same time when I’m in his arms.
“Max and I were drunk at a party. His sister and mine heard about it. They decided to take my dad’s car and come pick us up before we got in trouble. Neither of them were old enough to drive.” He smiles sadly. “I think they really just wanted an excuse to go to a party. On the way, they got into a crash and…they died.”
I release the air I didn’t even realize I held. Of course it wasn’t his fault but that doesn’t make the pain any less intense. I feel his heartache keenly, deeply. I draw my fingers down his six-pack, tracing the taut muscles. He’s braced himself upon his elbows so he doesn’t crush me. “I’m so sorry.”
He takes in a deep, shuddering breath. I have a feeling he needs to get this out in the open and off his chest. Has he ever truly talked to anyone about what happened? I hate the thought of leaving him here alone to deal with his past. Hate to think that his guilt might keep him from finding true happiness.
“If I hadn’t…If I…”
I trace the bridge of his nose, his lips, his square jaw, trying to memorize every detail. “It wasn’t your fault, Christian.”
His jaw clenches, and I can see him struggling for composure. He doesn’t agree with me. I smooth my hands down his back. It makes sense why he feels the need to save Kirstin. Why he has a hero complex. But I don’t want to be one of his charity projects. I want him to want me. Just me.
“I want you,” I whisper. “Kiss me.”
“Hope,” he groans.
No more depressing thoughts. I don’t want to dwell anymore on what tomorrow will bring. In this moment, I only need him. His firm lips brush softly against my neck, kissing the pulse that flutters there. Lower to that valley between my breasts. With a sigh, I relax into the blankets and close my eyes.
Under my breasts, down my belly, his mouth travels. Sensation flares through my body. His fingers and lips brush every inch of my burning skin as I lay there listening to the crackle of the fireplace and the patter of rain outside. It’s too good. Too much. The deep physical ache that pulses between my thighs, the way his body feels rubbing against mine, is almost too much.
“Christian, please.”
He cups my breasts in his warm palms, and the nipples instantly harden. I want to rock up into him, to become one. We aren’t frantic this time. We’re slow. Thorough. For the first time we are making love instead of having sex. His hands skim down my body and he slides his thumbs under the edges of my panties. I quiver underneath him. He pulls my panties down my legs. A variety of emotions tumble through me at once, an avalanche of feeling that leaves me panting for more.
“You are so beautiful,” Christian whispers.
My fingers curl into the blankets, as a rush of pleasure overwhelms me. It’s not the first time someone has called me beautiful, but it’s the first time I believe it. The sudden tears that burn my eyes are embarrassing and annoying. I haven’t cried in a long while, but my tears seem to be a common occurrence here. I try to will them away, but they only remain, welling up within my eyes like a toddler who refuses to go to bed. One falls, then another. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, and pray he doesn’t notice.
“Hope?” Christian hovers over me, concern written all over his handsome face. He might tease, he might demand, but he always seems to know when I need his compassion the most. “Are you alright?”
I swipe at my damp cheeks, but the tears keep coming. “What do you think happens when we die?”
He braces himself upon his elbows, his biceps flexing, and he looks adorably thoughtful. “I don’t know. We don’t talk about it much here. But…we’re made of energy, right? Everything is. And energy can’t be destroyed.”
Exactly what I said. I slide my hands up his chest and loop my arms around his neck. Impressions of him will remain with me until I die. This moment. Every moment we’ve shared together will be imprinted in my cells. From the scent of burning wood in the fireplace, to the weight of his heavenly body atop mine. “I suppose.”
“I’m not saying I believe an old white bearded man is sitting on clouds handing out punishments, but I think our energy goes on.” He cups the sides of my face in gentle hands, his thumbs brushing away my tears. “Scandinavians aren’t like Americans. We just believe that death is…a natural transition. Nothing to fear.”
“I think I like your way better.”
He leans down, his lips hovering over mine, tempting and taunting. He’s like a magnet. Unable to stop myself, I tilt my head and arch my back, straining up against him. I want to breathe him in. Soak in his very essence. I want all of him, forever, until my heart stops and I’m cold in the ground. Dare I tell him about the cancer? Dare I let him decide our fate?
“And who knows…” he murmurs. “Maybe we go to Hogwarts when we die.”
Startled, I push away from him. “What did you say?”
A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “Sorry, I don’t mean to joke.”
“No.” I throw my head back and laugh. Truly laugh. How very odd the world can be. How very strange and unexpected. Is it a sign? No, I don’t believe in signs. Do I? “It’s just that I said the same thing recently.”
His hand trails down my body, cupping the curve of my hip, and that charming, crooked grin is back in place. “Well, great minds do think alike, right?”
I press my lips to his shoulder, still smiling. My body is constantly aware of him. His touch. His smile, his scent. I could be blindfolded in a room with a hundred men and I’d recognize him. His mouth covers mine, his lips drugging me. And even as I kiss him back, my good sense rebels.
You’re leading him on, the wind seems to whisper against the windows. It’s not fair.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs. “Don’t go to Sweden.”
“I’m still thinking,” I lie.
Stay. There is a shiver of temptation I can’t deny. Temptation that teases, offers hope when I least expect it. Stay with him. But for how long? He’s already pushed my world off balance, made me believe in things I shouldn’t. I have to leave. And soon. This relationship is becoming too complicated. I’m becoming too attached. He’s becoming too attached.
“Don’t think,” he whispers, pressing his lips to my jawline. Then lower to that pulse in the side of my neck. “Just stay.”
Dare I? For a brief, wonderful moment I imagine staying, imagine telling him everything. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck and kiss him with all the passion that simmers within me. Somehow, at some point, he broke through my defenses.
I will not fall in love with him. I will not.
But I know deep down it’s already too late.
Much too late.
Because I’ve already fallen hard for Christian.