🌹🌹The Swedish Prince 🌹🌹
🌸🌸(ROYAL r0m@nç£) 🌸🌸
🌹Chapter 12🌹
Maggie’s POV❤️
I frown, trying to make my eyes turn to ha-rd ened steel. “What look?”
“Maggie, it’s okay to want this guy. I think you should get dressed up and make yourself feel S-xy. Shave your legs. Shave your lady bits. Put on makeup. Wear a dress. Heels. Go out with this Viking demi god and have a wonderful d@t£. Forget about your brothers and sisters. Forget about April and all her $h!t. Forget about everything except that you’re out with this guy that you want to fv¢k and then you go back to that La Quinta h0tel you are working at and you fv¢k him.”
I swallow ha-rd . “It’s not that easy.”
“Oh my god.” She sighs and does a mock fall back away from the phone.
“What? I just…I just met this guy.”
“You’ve alre-ady seen him n-ked,” she points out.
“I know but that wasn’t S-xual it was a mistake .”
“It doesn’t matter. You saw him n-ked, you rescued him drun!k, you bandaged up his wounds like Florence fv¢king Nightingale. Go and get those Swedish meatba-lls, girl!”
I bur-st out laughing. “St©p!”
She’s laughing too. “I’m sorry, I was waiting this whole conversation to sneak that in there. Believe me, I’ve got a joke about his Swedish berries as well.”
“Sam.”
“I know, I know. I can’t help it.” She sighs happily. “Anyway, I’m just saying. St©p worrying and just enjoy it. You know he’s not going to stick around forever.”
“I know. I think that’s what’s putting a damper on this whole thing. Here is this h0t as fv¢k, S-xy, rich, funny, smart, exotic beast of a man and he’s only here because his car broke down. Soon, maybe even tomorrow, he’ll be off to LA and then home. And I’ll still be here.”
“At least you would have gotten some food and Orgasms out of it.”
“And a broken heart.”
“Oh plea-se. This is all about your v@g!n@ , there’s no nee-d for your heart to join the p@rty.”
I giggle. Apparently, I’m immature. “I miss talking to you, you know.”
“Well call me more often and not just when you’re about to get la-id, okay?”
“I’m still not sure about that.”
“Either way, you should at least prepare like you’re going to get his c0ck. None of this Bridget Jones reverse psychology bull$h!t. Put on your S-xiest br@ and un-derwear. Shave.”
“You alre-ady told me to shave.”
“Well shave again because I have a feeling you’re in for a lot of yard work.”
I sigh. “God, if I do sleep with him, it’s going to svçkwhen he leaves.”
“So, just follow him to Sweden. You can get a Swedish travel article out of it and sell it.”
“Yeah right. Do you remember what my life is like now? Even if I could go, I couldn’t. And I can’t even convince the local newspaper here to hire me. I don’t get it. I’m a good writer. What I did at NYU was good $h!t.”
“It was, but they probably just can’t hire anyone right now. Your best bet is to stick to freelancing. Are you doing that?”
“I can’t even write,” I mumble. “I have zero inspiration. Zero time. Zero motivation.”
“Make time.”
“Sam,” I say, feeling a hit of anger cut throu-gh me. “You have no idea what kind of pressure I’m un-der over here with everything.”
She pouts. “I know. I’m sorry. I just want you to succeed that’s all. You shouldn’t have to give up on any of your dreams or hopes just because of what happened.”
“Yeah, well, I have.” I exhale, feeling sorrow dampen me. Funny how you can go from excited and elated to defeated in second’s flat. Welcome to my world now.
“Speaking of h0t Swedish men, have you seen the prince of Sweden?” she asks.
“Sweden has a monarchy?” I ask but even as I do so I remember Johan’s story about ABBA and the queen.
“Yeah and the prince is fv¢king h0t. There were actually two of them but the other one died a few months ago or something. Sad. He was young too, only in his mid-thirties.”
God, I haven’t been keeping up with the news at all. Not that I’d take any notice of anything happening in Sweden of all places.
“How do you know all this?”
“Dude, I’m like a royal junkie. Harry and Meghan, Will and Kate. Those S-xy as-s Casigrahis of Monaco. I am on it.” She adds, “I guess all Sweden men are exceptionally tall. Your guy. The prince. Alexander Skarsgard.”
“Looks like I was born in the wrong country.”
“Crown Prince Viktor of House Nordin,” she says as she gets up from where she was sitting at her desk. “Here I think I have the magazine.”
“Magazine?” I repeat. “Oh jeez, Sam. You nee-d a hobby.”
I hear the rustle of papers as she rummages throu-gh something and then returns to the screen holding up a magazine. Throu-gh the grainy video I can make out Royalty Monthly with Harry and Meghan on the cover.
“Hold on,” she says while she fli-ps throu-gh the pages. “I was thinking of starting, like, a royalty blog, you know.”
“Well it would at least put this obse-ssion to use, though I can’t say it’s good use.”
“Here,” she says and then opens the magazine so I’m staring at one of the pages.
The headline says Prince Alexander and Prince Viktor visit the Stockholm Children’s Hospital with a picture of the princes below it.
Both are tall, about as tall as my Swede. One has dark hair and a paler complexion while the other’s hair is lighter and skin more tanned and…
Wow.
Though the picture isn’t clear, this guy looks a lot like Johan.
Sam takes the magazine away from my view. “See, they’re h0t.”
“Hey, put it back,” I tell her.
She smiles. “I knew you’d like it.”
The picture comes back onto my screen. It’s so grainy because of the low light of Sam’s room so I can’t make out the details, but fv¢k, it really, really looks like Johan. Obviously, it’s not, but it’s striking the resemblance.
“Happy?” she asks.
I shake my head. “It’s weird. Johan looks exactly like the prince.”
“Which one? The dead one or the not dead one?”
“The one with the lighter hair.”
“That’s Viktor. He was always the one who kept to himself. He wasn’t heir apparent until Alexander died.”
“How did he die?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Something to do with the wrong prescription maybe? Or he had some heart defect? I’ve re-ad a lot of different things.”
“Hmmm,” I muse.
“What?”
“I don’t know.” There’s something about all of this that’s ma-king me feel off-balance.
It’s not just that they look the same but it’s that…it’s that they really look the same. There’s something here not right.
“Hold on Sam, I’m going to put you in the background.”
“Looking them up are you?”
“Yeah well the picture is really grainy and blurry,” I say abs£ntly as I open up the Google app and enter in Prince Viktor of Sweden.
The first thing I see in the search results is the Wikipedia entry and the headsh0t of Prince Viktor to the side.
My heart stills. Pins and nee-dles rush up and down my b©dy as I stare at it in disbelief.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
Oh my god.
It’s Johan. Sverige. Mr. Swedish Driver’s License.
“What? What’s happening?”
“It’s him,” I say breathlessly. “It’s him.”
“Who?”
I quic-kly cli-ck the images and suddenly I’m bombarded by a whole grid of him. I cli-ck throu-gh and throu-gh and throu-gh, staring closely at the ph0tos but I don’t have to. I know it’s him.
How the fv¢k is this possible?
“He told me his name was…”
“Johan,” she fills in quic-kly.
“Yeah, Johan Andersson. That’s what his ID said. I saw it.”
“You think…wait…you think that the rich big-d!¢ked Sweden you’re going on a d@t£ with is the actual prince of Sweden?” She starts laughing. “Maggie! You’re crazy!”
“I know, I know it’s crazy but fv¢k. This is him.”
“It can’t be.”
“I’ll get a picture tonight of him and I’ll show you.”
But she’s also right because how can it be him? How could this be true?
“You’re seeing what you want to,” she says. “I put the idea in your head and now you’re thinking it’s him. Your mind is warping your image of him to fit this Viktor’s. But it’s not him. It can’t be. He’s in fv¢king Sweden right now.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know, but I do. Look, come back to me. Let me look you in the eyes and tell you how nuts you are.”
I sigh and close the Google app and come back to Sam’s face. She’s earnest, I’ll give her that. “You’re nuts, Mags.”
I shake my head, unable to get rid of that feeling that I’m right. “It’s him.”
“It’s so not. Come on. You know I’m your biggest supporter and I think you’re one fine h0t piece of as-s, but I can guarantee you that if the Swedish prince were in your town for some fv¢king reason, you wouldn’t be walking in on him n-ked. Staying at the fv¢king La Quinta!” She barks out a laugh.
“And then he wouldn’t be alone and drun!kand drugged at a bar and he wouldn’t, I repeat, he wouldn’t fight your sister’s thvg as-s b©yfri£nd. You’re h0t but you’re poor in small-town America and he’s a fv¢king prince from Europe. Okay? Think about everything I just said.”
I know what she said and it all makes perfect s-en-se.
But…
“What if it’s him?” I ask hopefully. I hate sounding hopeful but there it is.
“It’s not.”
“But what if it is? What if I take a picture of him and then s£nd it to you and then you’re all like, $h!t it is him. Then what?”
“Then don’t tell him that you know. Keep that $h!t to yourself. And write a fv¢king article and sell it to the gossip mags. Sell it to Royalty Monthly. Forget the, whatever your town is called, forget the paper there and go big. You could get a fv¢king as-s-load of money for an article or interview with the prince of Sweden, the heir to the throne.” She pauses. “But it’s not him. K?”
I nod slowly. My br@in refuses to accept it, but I’m just going to have to wait and see. I’m sure the moment I see his face I’ll realize that I’ve been mistaken.
“So forget all of that and just go have fun tonight? Get la-id. Be loud. Make him go down on you and don’t you dare get Rick-Rolled. And then call me tomorrow and tell me all about it.”
I laugh softly. “I will. Bye Sam.”
I hang up the phone, watching her face disappear, and stare at my closet full of second hand clothes. Luckily men don’t notice the br@nd of a dress and I have a couple that look fairly new.
I sort throu-gh the rack, pu-ll out a simple black sleeveless one with lace overlay, put it down on the be-d and start getting re-ady for my d@t£.
He’s not the prince, he’s not the prince, he’s not the prince, I tell myself.
But, god.
What if he is?
I’m a nervous wreck.
I can’t remember the last time I was ever this nervous.
I’ve changed outfits enough times to make anyone crazy. I’ve gone from the black dress to jeans and a blousy t©p, to a long sundress, to black p@n-ts and a tank t©p and all the way back to the black dress again.
Now I’m pacing my be-droom, both trying to break in these three-inch heels I picked up in New York but never wore and trying to dispel all the nervous energy that’s been building up inside me to dangerous levels.
A knock at my door.
I pause and then run over to my window that looks out onto the street. No cab yet. I glance at the clock on my wall. It’s five to seven. He could be here at any minute.
I’m going to be sick.
“Maggie,” Pike says from the other side of the door. “What are you doing?”
“Getting re-ady.”
“Still? He’s going to be here any minute.”
I sigh, shaking out my hands as if that will dissolve my nerves, and go over, opening the door a crack.
“I’m busy.”
Pike frowns at me. “Nice makeup.”
I glare at him. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“No,” he says. “I’ve just never seen you wear it before.”
He’s right. I rarely wear makeup, certainly not the whole sheban-g like I’m doing right now. Apparently I’m a bit s-en-sitive on how I look at the moment.
“Are you n-ked?”
“No.” I grimace, wishing my brother wouldn’t use the word n-ked around me.
He puts his hand on the door and shoves it open, causing me to take a step back and almost bail in these damn heels.
“Jesus, Mags,” he says with wi-de eyes. “Just where are you going again?”
“The Bullshed,” I tell him, my vulnerability morphing into defensiveness. “Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“You just look a little dressed up, that’s all. I mean, heels. When have you ever worn heels?” He looks completely confused and flabberg@sted.
“When I lived in Manhattan,” I snipe, hands on my h!ps. “You know in other p@rts of the world, people actually dress up when they go out for dinner.”
“Yeah and this ain’t those p@rts of the world.”
“Pike, do I look nice or not?”
“You look nice. Jesus, you’re t©uçhy.”
Was that so ha-rd ? I snatch my purse off the be-d and head out of the room.
“He’s here!” Rosemary yells from downstairs.
Oh god.
I practically keel over, my hand going to my stomach as I lean hunched against the doorway.
“Are you okay?” Pike asks.
I nod frantically, my eyes pinched shut. My nerves are so razor sharp it feels like I’m being sliced in half. “Bad case of nerves,” I manage to say.
“Why?”
God, brothers are so fv¢king dense. “Never mind.”
Next to my room the door to April’s room opens and she pokes her head out to see what the commotion is. Sees me, goes “Uggggh,” rolls her eyes and then slams the door shut.
“Don’t worry about her,” Pike says putting one hand on my back and shoving me out into the hall. “Don’t worry about anything.”
“Yeah right.”
“You’re nervous about going on a d@t£ with this guy? He’s just a guy,” he says, ushering me toward the stairs. “A tall fv¢ker with a funny accent who beat up Tito Jones. But still, a guy.”
Is he just a guy?
Even if he’s not the prince of Sweden, he’s definitely not “just a guy.”
My heart feels like it’s literally lodged in my throat as I walk toward the front door, sweat breaking out on my palms. $h!t, what if he tries to hold my hand? I frantically start wiping my palms on my dress then take the de-epest breath possible before I open the door and step outside into the fading sun.
There the cab is waiting, and I see the Sweden climb out of the back seat and hold the door open for me like a true gentleman.
He’s smiling, that movie star smile with those perfect white teeth, the c0cky twi-nkle in his eyes.
And I know in my heart of hearts that there is no wondering or questioning or dreaming anymore.
This is him.
He might still be Mr. Sverige by default but he’s not Johan Andersson at all.
He’s His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Sweden, Viktor of House Nordin.
And he just rolled up to my house in a yellow cab.
“Hey,” he says to me, gesturing to the cab with his arm. “Your chariot awaits.”
I grin at that. A nervous grin. A stupid grin.
I can’t believe this is happening.
Viktor–Viktor, god how he suits the name Viktor–isn’t as dressed up as me, but he still looks amazing. Leather jacket, a rust-colored V-n£¢k tee that makes his blue eyes pop, dark jeans, dark boots.
Sam isn’t going to believe this.
I ba-rely believe it myself.
A knocking sound comes from behind me and I whirl around to see Pike, Rosemary, Thyme and Callum at the large, kitchen picture window, waving and motioning me to get in the damn cab.
My eyes then trail up to April’s be-droom window.
She’s there, watching.
Gives me the f!nger.
I roll my eyes at her, turn around and hurry toward Viktor before anything else happens.
“You look beautiful,” he says to me as I approach him, and I’m so mesmerized by the way he’s staring at me, like he’s str!pping the clothes right off me with his gaze, that my left heel wo-bbles and suddenly I’m pitching over like a tree, my fall to the ground inevitable.
Without even moving much, Viktor’s hand shoots out and he gr-abs hold of my arm with a grip so strong he could probably break my bones if he wanted to.
“Falling for me alre-ady,” he says, waiting patiently until I get my footing again.
I giggle mumble “Sorry” and “thank you” in response. Then add, “Johan!” A little too loud.
He frowns at me. He thinks I’m nuts. “I think I liked it better when you called me Mr. Swedish Driver’s License.”
I slide in the back of the cab, conscious of the fact that my dress is ri-ding up higher and higher on my th!ghs as I do so. Viktor gives my legs a burning glance and then shuts the door, coming around to the other side and getting in.
“Where to?” the cab driver asks. He eyes me in the mirror, does a double take and then turns around to look at me. “Maggie McPherson?”
“Yeah,” I say cautiously.
“I forgot this is where you lived,” the cabbie says. “I’m Earl. Earl White? I used to know your father. Anyway, real sorry about what happened. Such a tragedy. You poor kids. All on your own. Man, I hope they execute the punk that murdered them, give him a taste of his own medicine.”
I nod and smile politely, trying to work down the lump in my throat. Well, that’s one way to have my nerves disappear–have someone bring up not only my parents being murdered but the monster who did it.
I don’t look at Viktor. I don’t want him to re-ad my face.
But he does reach out and puts his hand on t©p of my hand.
Wra-ps his long, strong f!ngersaround mine.
Gives it a comforting squee-ze.
Thank god my palms aren’t sweating anymore.
“So where to?” Earl says again.
Viktor lets go and my hand now feels n-ked and alone without his.
I clear my throat. “The Bullshed. plea-se.”
“You got it,” Earl says and drives us off.
Viktor chuckles.
I glance at him quic-kly out of the corner of my eye. “What?”
“I thought you said The Bull$h!t,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “And I thought that was a brilliant name for a restaurant.”
His comment makes me relax, just a little. Despite who he is, he’s really good at putting me at ease. Or at least trying.
The thing is, my b©dy was alre-ady ti-ght and jittery around him before I figured out who he was. Just being in his pres£nce, in the backseat of this cab with his mas-sive frame and long legs and those large hands and that strong jaw and those eyes, those eyes that hold so much in them, hold back so many layers that keep tou-ching the surface, I am nervous. Nervous. He is so much, larger than life, worldly, and fv¢k, he’s noble. Not just as a characteristic but in a literal s-en-se.
And then there’s me, who could ba-rely get a d@t£ in New York, who is chained to tragedy, drowning in responsibilities I’ll never live up to, stuck forever in this town.
“This is a beautiful town,” Viktor says, and he says it with such earnestness that I have to look at him, my brows raised to the roof.
“Are you poking fun? Do you Swedens have a word for that like the Brits do, like taking the piss?”
“I’m not taking the piss,” he says. “It’s pretty here. This light. These hills. We don’t have hills like this in Sweden. We ba-rely have any hills at all.”
I look out the window at the houses we’re pas-sing by, the rolling hills in the distance beyond the town that are catching the last rays of the sun. I f0rç£ myself to see the town throu-gh his eyes. Maybe it would look more promising to me if such awful things hadn’t happened here.
“Actually, it’s beautiful if you drive in from Bako,” I concede. “That’s Bakersfield, to the west. You’re driving on this ugly highway and it’s just desert, but not the kind of ro-mantic desert like you get in the Mohave with all the Joshua trees, but this dry, dirty, broken-down kind of land. And then these hills appear in the distance, like brown and tan velvet and the highway starts winding up throu-gh them. When the sun hits it just right, it feels like you’re driving up to heaven.”
“That sounds beautiful,” he says softly.
“Yeah and then your heaven quic-kly turns to hell.”
“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks. “Moving? Seeing the world?”
I laugh dryly. “Every second of every day. But I can’t.”
“I’m sure it’s not impossible though.”
I give him a sad smile. “But, it is. It is. And you know what…I might think about it, but I also try not to spend too much time complaining either. It is what it is.”
He nods. “It is what it is.”
With our conversation taking a rather serious turn, by the time the cab pu-lls up to The Bullshed, a steak house around the corner from the h0tel, at the edges of “downtown,” I’ve nearly forgotten all about the new development.
You know, that I’m going on a fv¢king d@t£ with the prince of Sweden.
No big deal.
Still, I know that I’m going to nee-d some kind of proof. I nee-d Sam to tell me I’m not crazy and I nee-d to prove to her I’m not.
I nee-d a picture of him.
We walk into the restaurant and even though it’s Saturday night, the place doesn’t look too busy. As Viktor requests a table for two and the hostess disappears around the corner to check, I bring out my phone.
“Here, let’s take a selfie,” I tell him, sidling up to him and holding the phone out in front of us.
He balks, seeming visibly uncomfortable.
“What?” I ask him, but I don’t lower the phone. “You don’t like having your picture taken?”
I press the shutter, subtly taking one anyway even though it will be a pic of us looking at each other, both frowning.
“No, it’s fine,” he says and flashes the c@m£ra a f0rç£d smile.
I take another one and hope that it didn’t make things weird.
“Sorry,” I tell him, sli-pping the phone in my purse. “I figured after this you’ll be on your way and I’ll look back on this as if it were a dream. I’ll nee-d proof that it was all real.”
Lame, Maggie.
But he nods, seeming to buy that cheesy justification.
The hostess comes back and leads us to the table. As we walk throu-gh a row of booths, Viktor puts his hand on the small of my back. It’s possessive, letting everyone here know that we’re together, and it causes heat to tingle in the pit of my stomach.
It says, I’m his, even if just for tonight.
We’re seated at the end of the row, which thankfully gives us a lot of privacy. A small candle is lit between us, the lights overhead dimmed and warm.
“This is very nice,” he says, giving the restaurant an appreciative glance.
“Well it’s not Manhattan,” I tell him. “And it’s still too good for me.” Before I can get settled, I get up, gr-abbing my purse. “I’m just going to quic-kly use the restrooms. Order me anything you wish.”
He c0cks his brow. “Anything? You know in Sweden, we’re rather fond of Aquavit.”
That must be some type of water. “That’s fine,” I say brightly. I can always order some alcohol after.
I steal away from him and head into the restrooms at the opposite end of the restaurant, go straight into a stall, lower the lid, sit down and bring out my phone.
My heart is going so fast it’s ma-king my f!ngersfumble and I’m ba-rely able to s£nd the two pics of us throu-gh to Sam.
I add: CALL ME NOW. Right now. Not on FaceTime.
I see the pics get delivered and seconds later, the phone rings.
“Sam,” I whisper, answering it.
I hear a choked sound on the other end, then, “fv¢k. fv¢k!”
“It’s him, isn’t it? It’s him,” I say, getting more convinced by the second.
“Oh my god, I can’t…it looks just like him. He is fv¢king fine, Maggie, holy fv¢k, if you don’t tap that as-s, prince or not, I will come over there and tap it myself and I don’t give a damn if he doesn’t like it.”
“But it’s him right? You agree?”
“It looks like him. I’ve never seen him in a leather jacket but yeah it’s him.”
“I know it’s him.”
“Where are you now? Are you with him?”
“I’m in the bathroom of a restaurant. We’re on our d@t£. That’s why I don’t want to FaceTime, pretty sure that’s illegal if someone is sitting on the can.”
“Listen, listen,” she says, “you have to interview him. You have to. Oh my god, Maggie, this could end all your problems.”
“How?”
“How would you interview him or how would it end all your problems?”
“Both.”
“Well for one, if you got an interview then you could sell it like we discussed.”
“I don’t think that’s legal.”
“Of course, it is! Didn’t you learn anything in school?”
“It’s…unscrupulous.”
“Not many things in life are scrupulous,” she says. “Even if you don’t feel comfortable writing an article, you could at least do it all as an anonymous source. Seriously you can make big, big money.”
I ponder that, though I’m disappointed in what the idea of having more money does to me. “How much money?”
“I don’t know. Enough to make you and your family’s lives easier for a few months. Don’t you have a toilet that nee-ds fixing? Look, he’s the heir apparent now. He will be king one day. The king of Sweden! And you have the inside track right now. My god, Maggie, don’t you see the possibilities?”
I do see them. I just wish my moral compas-s wasn’t spinning so wildly right now. “How would I interview him? I can’t remember anything and he’s going to notice I’m taking notes.”
“Don’t you have a voice recorder on your phone?”
“It’s an old iPhone.”
“You should still have it. It comes with the phone. Open it, then press record and have it out while you’re having dinner. Just don’t let him see. Easy peasy.”
I can tell it’s not going to be easy peasy.
But it’s worth a sh0t.
“I’ll do that now,” I tell her. “I’ll text you later.”
“Wait, wait,” she says. “Can I just tell you one thing?”
“What?”
“You two make a damn good-looking couple.”
I sigh, hating how my heart just glowed at those words. “Don’t tell me that.”
“It’s true. Maggie, he wants you.”
“You can tell that from a picture?”
“Yes. The way he’s looking at you, my god. He wants, no, craves you.”
“I’m the only person he knows here, and he ba-rely knows me at all.”
“Maggie. He wants in your p@n-ts. Okay? Now go get that interview and go get those Swedish berries!”
I hang up and I think I hear her swearing as I do so.
$h!t. Now I feel like dry-heaving again.
Can I do this? Am I okay with doing this? Is this the kind of person my mother raised me to be?
Then again, my mother also raised me to put family first. And if I have a chance to put food on the table and buy things we really nee-d for my brothers and sisters, then I don’t think I have much choice.
I quic-kly find the voice memos app, open it and then press record. I hold the phone close to my side and step out of the stall, grateful that there was no one in the restroom to hear all of that.
When I get back to the table I notice two glas-ses of water out for us as well as what looks like highba-lls of vodka. I slide into the booth, ever so careful of keeping my purse at the end of the table and my phone, face down, on t©p of my purse, recording in secrecy.
“I ordered an appetizer for us,” Viktor says. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m afraid I’ve taken quite a liking to your onion rings in this country.”
“I can’t blame you.” I clear my throat and j£rk my chin to the drink. “Vodka?”
“Aquavit,” he says. “Didn’t you know?”
“Of course,” I say, taking the glas-s in my hand.
“Cheers then,” he says, raising his. “Or as we say skål!”
“Skål!” I say, noticing the way that his eyes never leave mine, even as he sips his drink. I guess he takes the seven year’s bad S-x superstition seriously, I think to myself as I take a drink and… ah –
Oh god!
The burning!
The aquavit is fv¢king acid on my ton-gue.
I start coughing, choking. Dying.
“It’s strong,” he says, trying not to smile.
I just keep coughing, reaching for my water. $h!t. I thought with all the tequila sh0ts I did in college I would be able to handle this, but that drink is on another level.
TBC