Chapter 3
Find a Scandinavian Hottie
Embarrass myself in front of Scandinavian Hottie
I’m starting to think I was right…and he is stalking me.
Spotting Scandinavian Hottie in the café steps from my apartment, I quickly avert my eyes and focus on the cashier, a pretty, young blonde who smiles at me in that reserved way Scandinavians do. Midwestern nice, I realize, not Southern. In other words, they’re polite, but they’re not going to ask what church you attend.
“Hej,” she says, proceeded by something in Danish I don’t understand.
I admit I get a secret little thrill when they automatically speak to me in Danish. It makes me feel like I belong here, it also makes me wish I had learned the language. Although that “going native” feeling is quickly ruined when I open my mouth to say Hej back, and she switches to English because I can’t even say hello without sounding like an American.
“What can I get for you?” she asks.
“The breakfast tea.”
It seems like everyone here speaks multiple languages. I wish I was so talented. I pay and shift over to the side, keeping my back to Hottie. He won’t remember me, right? He sees hundreds of people a day at his job and it’s been two days.
Exhausted, I spent yesterday resting, not even leaving the apartment, but appreciating Copenhagen from the windows. Gabrielle had come and gone, we’d shared some brief, stilted conversations, but I’d slept most of the time. Today I’d woken feeling refreshed and ready to go. But I hadn’t expected to run into him again.
No, he won’t remember me. Then again, how often does he have to pay for someone to use the toilet, be accosted by that person while walking to work, and have to reprimand that same person for touching royal walls? I nibble on my lower lip in indecision.
Maybe I’m feeling cocky, maybe I’m just screwed up from the meds, but I do something stupid. “And two of those, separate bags.”
I point to a pastry with icing and almonds. She rings me up and I take my two bags, my meager offering. There’s a small table right next to Hottie. Convenient. Maybe the universe has finally decided to give me a break and stop making my life a cosmic joke. I sit at the table, trying to be suave and elegant as I sink into my chair. He doesn’t even glance my way.
He’s focused on a book. It looks like math. He must be in college. I was good at math…once. The best in my class. Better, even, than the boys, which really pissed off my sexist eighth grade math teacher. At one time I’d loved school. I loved studying. Loved learning. Maybe he only likes smart girls. Women in college, studying fancy things like law.
If I hesitate, my courage will fade. He’s so damn good looking, surely he has a girlfriend. He’s not just hot, but he’s European hot. Sophisticated, worldly. Even though he’s not much older than me, he seems it. But I’m just saying thanks, right? It’s not like I’m asking him back to my apartment…yet.
It’s jump into the deep end, or stay on the shore. I take in a trembling breath. Now or never. I lean closer to his table, my chair tilts. There’s one frantic moment when I think I’ll fall and I throw my hands wide, knocking his book to the floor. It hits the ground with a loud thud that startles the entire café. The feet of my chair slam back to the ground as I regain my balance.
My breath is coming out in harsh, frantic pants that sound overly loud in the quiet café. He’s staring at me. Shocked. Confused. I’m not sure. The entire café is watching. I can feel their attention like spiders crawling up my back. So, apparently the universe isn’t done making a mockery of my life.
“Sorry,” I mutter, scooping up his book and setting it on the table. There’s that blush again, working its way up my neck and toward my face. “I mean…hi. I just…wanted to say thanks…”
His brows draw together. He looks completely confused. The heat makes it to my face and I know my cheeks are bright red. He doesn’t remember me. I could have bought my tea and pastry, eaten in peace without him even realizing I was there. But he’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer to his unspoken question.
“The bathroom…I mean…toilet…two days ago…you paid for me.”
Jesus. Mother of god! We’ve had three interactions. All horrifyingly embarrassing, but some less so than the others. Why the hell did I have to mention the toilet? Nothing says romance like bladder control.
“Oh. Right.”
He glances at the pastry I’m offering. He has really thick lashes. It’s ridiculous. And did I mention his blue eyes? Sharp cheekbones, chiseled chin. Lips firm, yet with the slightest hint of softness. Perfection. My heart hammers, my body growing warm. I haven’t felt attraction in so long it’s a strange and almost unfamiliar sensation. But I know it. You can’t forget that feeling.
“I greatly appreciate the gesture,” he hesitates. “But I’m allergic to almonds.”
I laugh, a burst of noise that takes us both by surprise. I’ve made a fool of myself so many times in front of this guy, what does it matter at this point? But it does matter because I realize I’ve become a complete moron when it comes to socializing. So much for making friends. “Of course you are.”
He’s watching me curiously, as if I’m a scientific specimen and he a biologist, or maybe like a doctor looks at a psych patient. Whatever analogy is going through his mind, it’s so blatantly obvious that he thinks I’m a complete idiot.
I shove my hand in my pocket, feeling rather desperate. “Well then…here.” I hold out the coin, only to realize it has a ten embossed on the surface, not a five. Why didn’t I just slink off when I could? “Interest.”
He closes his book, his gaze filled with amusement. I’ve become one of those bumbling fools that make Americans look bad. Zach would be so disappointed. I’ve brought shame to my culture. The chatter has resumed, but it’s a small café and the couple seated at the table next to us is watching with open interest, understanding every embarrassing word I fumble to say.
“It’s ok, really,” he says.
So far he’s been a man of few words, and despite the fact that I find him somewhat annoying at this point, I can’t help but admit I like his voice. It’s deep, smooth, with the slightest tinge of an accent. I want to hear him say more, but before I can come up with a topic of conversation, before I can even think of a way to make things right, he stands, picks up his drink and book, and rudely leaves.
This time I’m more offended than embarrassed. I know I’m no beauty queen, but I’m not fucking Quasimodo either. And sure, perhaps I accused him of being a stalker, but I apologized. And yeah, maybe I touched the royal walls, but how was I supposed to know that freaking walls were protected?
I grab my tea and the bags of pastries. “Screw him,” I mutter, ignoring the curious glances of the few people close enough to hear. Awesome. I’ve provided the morning’s entertainment, and because everyone speaks English, they know exactly what’s happened. “Two pastries for me.”
But even I know I sound pathetic. I stand and head out the door, determined to forget the guy. Sure enough, he’s standing right outside the café, messing with his phone. I’m thinking about either darting back into the café, or pushing him into oncoming traffic when he glances up, an odd look in his gaze. Wariness. Suspicion. Probably wonders if I’m stalking him again.
I know I should leave. Just turn in the opposite direction and walk away, Hope. Walk away. But of course I don’t because knowing I’m terminal has made me bold. Stupid, yes, but also bold. “You know, I really am not trying to make your life miserable.”
He only smiles this mysterious little crooked smile that makes him look a thousand times hotter, then puts his earbuds in his ears and does what I should have done… leaves without a word. I watch him go, realizing with disgust that the smile he gives me is the same sort of smile I gave my grandma when she had dementia and put peanut butter on the cats to wash them.
I’m not sure whether to laugh or crawl under the nearest rock and hide. He’s tall. Over six feet. His shoulders are broad, his hair styled longer on top and shorter on the sides, in a messy undercut that makes me want to run my fingers through the locks.
My gaze dips lower. I’ve never understood the appeal of a guy’s ass until I see his. Tight, muscled. I’m feeling hot, restless, and I know it has nothing to do with my illness. Yep, attraction, pure and simple. I might not be experienced, but I know enough to realize when I want a guy. Of course the guy I’m attracted to finds me repulsive.
It’s not until he pauses on the street corner that I realize he’s wearing his work shirt. Hell, he’s headed to the castle. Two other college-aged guys appear, coming to a stop next to him. They’re talking and laughing as if they’ve known each other a long, long time.
For a brief moment I wonder wistfully what it would be like to have a social life. To have friends, inside jokes. Then suddenly they’re all looking at me. I freeze like a deer in headlights. Scandinavian Hottie says something and smiles. His friends laugh. I’m obviously the butt of their joke.
“Shit.”
I spin around and head down the next road to avoid them. The plan for the morning had been to have breakfast in the park, but I know he’s headed that way. I hesitate at a corner where two cobbled roads come together. Should I go home?
The urge to return to the comfort of my small apartment is strong, but I resist. Damn him. I’m not giving up on my day, my dreams, because of one arrogant Scandinavian. I start north again. The park is big. I’ll tuck away behind the trees and hope he won’t see me. Besides, I’ve learned my lesson. I sure as hell won’t approach him again.
Determined, I scurry across the street toward the park but as much as I tell myself I won’t think about him, my mind keeps wandering back to that handsome face. Too handsome, now that I think rationally about it. I don’t need a guy that good looking. No woman wants to date a man prettier than she is. Yep, it’s definitely a good thing he was an asshole. Apparently hot guys in Denmark are pretty much like hot American males.
Except Matt, a soft breeze whispers.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
I find the path between the tall, willowy trees. Matt is honorable and good. Why did I break up with him again? Because I don’t want to ruin his life. Because I’m not sure if he loves me or if I’m his charity project, and honestly I don’t want to find out.
I veer off between the trees and find a spot on the grass where the sun shines brightly. The day is warm. Perfect. Already I feel at ease in this country. I won’t let my confusing relationship with Matt ruin my day. And I won’t let rude, arrogant Danish boys destroy my vacation.
I spread my jacket on the grass, and lay on my stomach, pulling out my Copenhagen guide book. I’m trying to decide if I can figure out how the train works so I can travel outside the city when a shadow falls over me.
“Hello, Roomie!”
Startled, I look up. It’s Gabrielle. I’m not sure if I’m happy to see her or not. “Hey…you.”
You? You?!
What can I say…I’m a horribly awkward idiot.
Gabrielle settles down beside me, a coffee in hand. “Thought I might see you here.”
I stiffen. Was she purposefully trying to find me? I shift, feeling slightly uneasy. I admit, I’ve been trying to avoid her. If I was any other teen, I would have dealt with a roommate at camps, school trips, and college by now. But I’m not any other teen, and I’ve always had my own room…to myself. People leave you alone when you’re sick. They tiptoe around you. They abandon you because they just can’t deal.
If I told her the truth, how long before she started acting aloof? Before she started avoiding me? Maybe that’s why making friends isn’t my top priority, despite my mom urging me to. Maybe I know deep down that Gabrielle and I could get close, if I let her in. And if I let her in…she would most likely abandon me when things got tough. And it would hurt too much.
“Missed you yesterday.” She laughs, a sound that has a slightly suspicious tinge to it. “Was a bit worried, you slept so much. You still have jetlag?”
She thinks I’m weird. I don’t blame her. I nod. Sure, I’ll pretend it’s jetlag. “You going to Rosenborg?”
Do I sound too hopeful that she’ll move on? I don’t make small talk anymore. I stopped doing that years ago. She, apparently, has never heard, “Yeah, I’m just not that into you,” and doesn’t get the hint. I can tell Gabrielle is the sort of person who makes friends everywhere.
“Nah, been there, done that.” I don’t miss the way she pulls on one of her dark curls. A nervous gesture, as if she’s unsure around me. It’s my fault. I don’t exactly put out the “welcome” vibe. “I’ve been to Denmark before. Was just in Amsterdam and stopped here to see friends, and for the ambiance.”
I nod like I know what she’s talking about. How awesome would it be to have her life? To constantly travel? To stop in another country just for the ambiance? To have friends everywhere. “It’s actually my first trip abroad.”
Surprised, she straightens her spine, becoming instantly alert. She’s wearing slacks, a blouse and a long, golden necklace. She’s so stylish that I want to beg her to make me over. “No way. Oh my god, there’s so much you need to see!”
I smile wanly. Too much. Too many things. Right. This is why I don’t have friends. They’re exhausting. They don’t really understand how much rest I need. I can already see her mind spinning. She’s going to give a list a mile long of things I simply must see, can’t miss. I need to nip this in the bud fast. “Yeah. I’ve got a list.”
She sips her coffee. She’s got the most amazing dark eyes with the tiniest hint of gold. “What’s on it?”
I blush. “Well…”
“Little Mermaid statue?”
“Maybe.”
She laughs. I like her laugh. It’s so cheerful, so carefree. She’s the kind of woman who actually enjoys life. “Okay, so you walk by the statue just to see it, but don’t even try to get close. It’s ridiculously crowded. Get a photo from afar. Then head to the park nearby. That’s much better. Relax on the grounds. That’s where you’ll see locals.”
I hold out a bag. “Danish?”
“Yes. Definitely.” She takes it eagerly, like any normal person would react to a gift. “The famous Nyhavn neighborhood is great.” When I look confused, she continues. “You know, the one along the canal, with the colorful houses in the city? But it’s also super crowded. Full of tourists. Honestly, I love this area, the Latin district, the best.”
She takes a healthy bite of her pastry. I stretch out my legs and realize that I’m having fun. It’s been so long since I’ve chatted with another woman, talked to anyone about something other than my illness. And she’s so friendly and easy to talk to. We don’t have to be best friends. After all, I’m leaving soon. But why not enjoy being around someone happy? Carefree? Interesting? “I wouldn’t mind going out of town for a bit, but not sure how to use the train.”
“Oh easy. Just grab a twenty-four hour pass. That way if you get on the wrong train, you just hop on another.”
She’s full of information and she’s so easy-going that I know if I pepper her with questions she won’t mind. Maybe it won’t be so bad to have her as a roommate. “How many times have you been here?”
She shrugs. “Denmark? Not sure. I write for a travel magazine and blog so I travel to a lot of places.”
“Really?”
A soft breeze sweeps through the garden and makes her dark curls dance. “Yep. I’m from New York City, but I’m thinking of moving to London.”
“Why London?”
She hesitates. Obviously, there are things she doesn’t want to tell me. We all have our secrets, all have our own pain, I suppose. “My father’s parents are from Kenya, but my mother’s family is white. They’re from a small town outside of London. Crazy thing is that even though I’ve been to London many times, I haven’t gotten the nerve to see them. My mom left when I was two.”
She shrugs it off as if it’s no big deal, so I don’t question her further. But my mind is spinning with questions. Why? Why would a mother leave her child? Why does Gabrielle pretend not to care? Because it’s obvious, at least to me, that she does care. So very much. But then anyone would. My chest grows tight with sympathy. That wall I built to protect myself weakens. We just met but there’s something about her that pulls me in. Damn it all…I really do like her.
She tugs an IPad out of her purse and turns it on. “This was my latest article.”
I take the IPad. The Best Pot in Amsterdam. I laugh. “Perhaps I should have gone to Amsterdam instead.”
She grins. “My dad is so proud. He’s a surgeon, but he’s not one of those pushy dads who thinks I need to get a “real” job. He’s proud of everything I do. Would you believe it’s actually the first time I’ve smoked pot? Didn’t like it. Made me paranoid.” She tucks the IPad back into her bag. “I write about everything and anything.”
She has a great dad, at least. An awesome career. But that lingering pain is still there, deep within her dark eyes. Something that might never go away. Not even if she confronts her mother. “That’s awesome.”
“It is.” She stretches out her legs and tilts her head up to the sunshine. I have a feeling she’s the kind of woman who sees the positive in everything. Or at least tries to. I bet anything she’s the cheerleader in her group of friends. “Best job ever. Only problem is I don’t get to see my boyfriend as often as I’d like.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a photographer for the same blog. He lives in London. Another reason to move there.”
I’m instantly interested. “I love photography.”
“Do you?” She glances at the camera, peeking from my bag. Someone shouts a warning in Danish, right before a soccer ball rolls between us. Gabrielle picks up the ball and tosses it back toward the two guys who aren’t even hiding the fact that they’re checking her out. She, however, seems oblivious. “Have you had anything published?”
I blush, embarrassed to have brought it up now. “No. Not at all.”
“No worries. You’re totally young. You have plenty of time. I’ll give you my boyfriend’s information so you can contact him, ask questions if you want.” She reaches into her purse and hands me a card. “The best is when we get to do assignments together.”
Mark Roberts. I tuck the card into my bag. My first adult contact. Maybe Gabrielle is the good luck charm I need. “So what’s your favorite place?”
“Totally cliché but France. Anywhere in France.”
Must go to France. Why didn’t I add that to my list? I take my bottom lip between my teeth. I could still jump on a train and meet Heidi in Paris. French guys would totally flirt with me. Maybe next year…if I’m not too ill. But no, I won’t worry about my illness now, not when I’ve been feeling better than I’ve felt in years.
“How long are you here?” she asks, idly picking a small white daisy from the grass. The flowers are everywhere, these tiny white daisies, and they add a magical touch to the scenery. “You should take a train to France. And stop in Germany too! And if you’re ever in New York, you have to stay with me.”
France, Germany, New York. There are so many places to see, things to do. I’m starting to feel overwhelmed. I look up at the blue sky. I never want to leave. I wish I could see this place covered in snow. See the Christmas markets in Germany. Wish I could witness the bulbs blooming in the Netherlands. “I’m only here a couple weeks, then off to Norway.”
“Ohhh, Norway has the best looking men. Just don’t tell Mark I said that.”
I perk up. So, maybe I haven’t lost my chance to have a one-night stand. Perhaps Denmark is my practice country, while Norway is where the action is at. “Really?”
She nods. “Completely. But just a warning, Scandinavian guys can be a bit arrogant.” She shrugs. “They’re gorgeous, live in some of the best countries, so I guess it’s expected.”
I laugh, a huge belly laugh that actually hurts my stomach. It feels so good to laugh, I don’t even care if I look like a fool. “Oh believe me, I’ve dealt with that already.”
Her eyes widen and she leans forward, all eagerness. “Do tell!”
“Hello,” someone calls out.
Startled, we both look up. He’s a dark shadow with the sun behind him, but somehow I know it’s Scandinavian Hottie looming over me. My amusement flees. Oh god, how much did he overhear? He hesitates, then kneels as I sit up straighter.
He’s only a few feet away and his scent whispers on the breeze toward me, the same breeze that plays with his hair. He smells good. Really good. Better than Matias. A clean, male scent.
“Hello,” Gabrielle calls out cheerfully while I sit there wary and suspicious.
What is he doing here? Mocking me from afar wasn’t good enough, he has to do it up close?
“You don’t mind me interrupting?” He blesses Gabrielle with his heart-stopping smile, then his gaze is on me, and I forget all of my annoyance and wariness. “I was talking to my friends, telling them what an idiot I’ve been around you.”
I blink, confused. He’s calling himself an idiot, not me? Where, exactly, is this coming from? I have to resist the urge to turn around and see if he’s talking to someone behind us, because surely he’s not speaking to me.
“And,” he adds, “trying to decide if I should bother to ask you out.”
Wait…what? My heart leaps for joy even as my muddled mind tries to understand what the hell is happening. Ask me out? Is he serious? I somehow keep from looking for cameras because this has to be some weird Danish hidden prank show. But no…we’re alone in this park. Just us.
Play it cool, Hope. Play it cool. I clear my suddenly dry throat. “What did they say?”
And then that crooked smile is shining on me and I want to swoon. Swoon! Charm. He oozes charm. Oh yes, he can afford to be arrogant. He can be whatever he wants when he’s that gorgeous. “They, of course, said you were too good for me, however I’ve decided to ask you anyway.”
Gabrielle is biting her lower lip to keep from grinning.
He’s joking. Right? Mocking me again? His gaze holds mine. He’s waiting…waiting. No, he’s not joking. He’s doing something else… It’s something I’m vaguely familiar with, but haven’t experienced in a long, long while. It’s…
Hell, he’s actually flirting with me.
Answer him, the breeze seems to urge.
“Ask me out?” My fingers dig into the soft grass, as if my body is trying to ground itself. “On a date?”
“Well…” He shrugs, and finally he’s the one looking slightly uneasy. He’s wondering if he made a mistake. Read me wrong. And a part of me takes glee in the fact that he’s suddenly unsure. He deserves it for making me question my sanity. “I mean…if you don’t have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
Crap, I said that a little too quickly. But he doesn’t look at me like I’m pathetic, or like he’s second-guessing his request. In fact, he seems relieved. I was reading him wrong all this time. Maybe he wasn’t indifferent, just reserved.
“Are you…busy then? Leaving Denmark soon?”
He’s waiting for an answer, but I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that he’s actually asking me out, and he apparently didn’t think I was a total fool. I don’t miss the way Gabrielle is watching us as if she’s in the middle of a really good soap opera. “No. Not busy. Not really. I mean…no.”
“So then we can just hang out.” His fingers curl against his thighs. He has nice hands. Large and strong. The fingernails clean. I want to trace the veins I see on the back of those hands. I want to feel the warmth of them wrapping around me. “I can show you the city.”
I tuck my knees to my chest, the giddy warmth of excitement and expectation surge through me. A feeling I haven’t had in a long while. Hell, I feel like a child on Christmas morning. So then, maybe I won’t have to wait until Norway to find my Scandinavian Hottie. “Spend the day with me?”
He smiles as I once again repeat his words like I’m a moron. “If you’d like. I get off work at two tomorrow. I can meet you at the tower. I assume you’re staying around the area as that’s where I keep seeing you.”
I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, and don’t miss the way he watches me, his gaze lingering first at my ear, then dropping quickly to my mouth, before reaching my eyes again. I can’t help myself and sigh. It’s been such a long, long time since a guy has looked at me with interest instead of pity. “Yeah. I am.”
“Good.” He’s giving me that lop-sided smile again. “So then… Say two-thirty?” He holds out his hand. “Christian, by the way.”
I look at his hand and realize I’m going to touch him…finally. It’s like preparing to take a bite of a really rich piece of chocolate cake you’ve been craving. “Hope.” I slide my hand into his. The friction sends a shiver over my body. “And this is Gabrielle.”
“Hope,” he repeats in an intimate way that makes me feel as if we are the only two in the park. The warmth of his palm over mine makes my mouth go dry. I want him. I want to feel his lips move over mine. Want to feel his hands on me. I want to see what his body looks like under those clothes because I know he’ll look good. Really, really good.
His gaze flickers to Gabrielle and he smiles. “Nice to meet you.”
Gabrielle grins. “You too.”
His gaze is back to me and he finally releases his grip. “See you tomorrow.”
Who the hell knew a handshake could be so erotic? He stands and leaves, but I can still feel the imprint of his hand on mine. I cradle my palm in my lap and wait for him to look back. Just once. He does. A quick glance over his shoulder, and then he’s gone and I wonder if it was all a dream. Maybe a side effect of my medication.
Come two-thirty tomorrow I’ll find out.
“Holy cow,” Gabrielle whispers as we both stare at the empty path. “See, told you Norwegian guys are hot.”
“He’s from Norway?” I ask greedily, desperate for any information I can get on this guy. “How can you tell?”
“Accent.” She laughs, shaking her head. “I was going to offer to be your tour guide, but never mind. I’d toss aside my own family for him. How did you meet?”
My heart is pounding so frantically I feel almost dizzy. Never have I experienced so much emotion in one moment. Nervousness. Worry. Excitement. I’m really being that girl who hangs out with friends in parks, chatting about boys and dates and our social lives. And even if it doesn’t last, I don’t care because here and now I’m being…normal.
“How did we meet? Well,” I say. “It all started at the toilets.”