I’m also annoyed that I have to do story time. Story time is what I like to call the brother’s bonding session. Even though Callum can read (better than most kids, actually), Pike has made it a habit to read to him from a book every night. Looks like I’ll be on duty and I know that Callum is going to make it hard on me, just because it’s fun to get me all riled up.
There’s no time to dwell on that though, not when Viktor is coming by in an hour.
I quickly get dressed into jeans and the blousy top I tried on last night. It’s silk or fake silk and this brilliant blue and shows off just enough cleavage without being trashy. I spend time doing my makeup again, putting just gloss on my lips in case he feels like kissing me, and then dry my hair so it falls around my shoulders in long dark waves.
Is it touchable? I run my hands through it. It’s touchable.
I won’t have any excuses for him not to touch me.
Then it’s time to start on the house.
Because it’s Sunday and I worked all day, the kids have been home all day and I haven’t been here to pick up after them. As a result, the house is an absolute disaster.
I find Rosemary and Thyme downstairs in the living room, both of them on their phones scrolling through websites, both looking bored out of their minds, and enlist them to help me.
With bribes, of course. They can both choose a meal for me to cook later in the week. It was something my mother used to do. We didn’t have the money for allowances or special rewards so what she would do is bribe us all with food. If we did X amount of work, then we could choose the dinner. As long as it wasn’t steak or lobster or something crazy, we could have it and it always worked. At least for me. I worked my ass off for my mom’s lasagna.
The twins are easy though, thank god, and within no time the entire house has been dusted and vacuumed and tidied. I take in a deep breath as I lean against the broom and wipe the sweat off my brow, admiring my work.
There’s a knock at the door.
I immediately shove the broom away and smooth down my hair.
“The Swedish Chef is here!” Callum cries out excitedly from the kitchen. “Bork, bork, bork!”
“Oh my god, Callum!” I exclaim. “No. Please stop.”
I hurry past him and open the front door before anyone else can.
Viktor is standing there in a suit.
A fucking black suit, white shirt, black tie.
He didn’t even look like this yesterday when we went out for dinner.
And in his hands are flowers.
Lavender, to be specific, in a small pot.
“These are for you,” he says, smiling at them as he hands the pot to me. “And for me too, I guess. I know our aversion to flowers and lilies now and figured lavender not only smells very different, calming, but it’s an herb as well. My mother has them all over her garden at her…house…and it brings good memories.”
I’ve only gotten flowers once, from my dad when I graduated high school, and yet somehow this little plastic pot of lavender means just as much.
“Thank you,” I tell him, subtly sniffing the purple ends. Their soothing, herbal scent fills my heart and I know this smell will forever remind me of him.
He holds up a tote bag from the local grocery store. “And here is the dinner.”
I step aside and usher him in. I may have been able to ignore the dirty thoughts I was having earlier, but I can’t ignore the way he makes my body feel. How my hair stands on end and shivers roll down my back and how just him brushing past me lets loose the butterflies that were caged in my ribs.
I follow him down the hall into the kitchen, both mesmerized by the sight of him in his suit and the scent of lavender filling the air.
“You look amazing,” I gush.
“And you look outstandingly beautiful,” he says, his eyes drinking me in until I’m squirming on the spot. He places the tote bag on the kitchen table and Callum immediately runs over to him. “Hi! Bork, bork! If you’re making lobster or crab or shrimp, I will die, you know. I will literally die.”
Viktor looks up at me in horror. “Oh no,” he says slowly. “Really?”
“It’s okay,” I tell him quickly. “Callum can eat mac and cheese.”
“I’m just kidding, Miss America,” Viktor says, breaking into a grin. “I didn’t bring any shellfish of any kind.”
“But I want mac and cheese now,” Callum whines.
“Who says I’m not making mac and cheese?” Viktor says teasingly to him. He starts bringing out items from the bag, placing them on the table. “Let’s see, we have fresh pasta. We have hard cheddars and parmesan. We have chorizo and prosciutto. Onions, garlic, rosemary and…”
“Me!” Thyme yells from the living room. Obviously eavesdropping.
He grins. “Not quite. Paprika.” He looks at me with the most adorable gleam in his eyes. “You don’t have a sister called Paprika, do you?”
“No, you’ve met them all,” I tell him. Despite what Pike had warned me about earlier, I immediately feel at ease with Viktor. The fact that he’s a prince, that I’ll be interviewing him later, barely crosses my mind.
Well, it does a little.
Enough so that I’m doing a quick glance around the kitchen, making sure there isn’t anything out of place. Everything looks tidy and spotless, except the fridge, which is absolutely covered with drawings and report cards and calendars and notes with a plethora of magnets holding them all down. For a second I feel a burst of pride, knowing that the fridge looked like that before my parent’s died and it still looks like that now. Perhaps I’m doing a better job than I thought.
“Do you need any help?” Callum asks Viktor as he sorts things.
Callum has never asked to help me in the kitchen before.
Viktor smiles at him appreciatively and I’m aware of how charmed they are of each other. It warms my heart.
“Well let’s see,” Viktor says and takes off his suit jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair, and starts rolling up his sleeves. His tanned, muscled forearms pop against the white fabric as he folds it around his elbow. Hot damn. Forget about warming my heart, this is warming up other places.
“What are you good at Callum?” he asks.
Callum taps his finger against his chin in thought. “Math.”
“That’s great. I meant in the kitchen.”
“Slicing things,” he says with a big smile. “Or stabbing things.” Evil giggle.
Viktor’s eyes widen briefly. “Okay, so we’ll keep you away from the knives.” He looks at me for help.
I shrug. “Beats me, he’s never wanted to help me in the kitchen.”
“Because you’re not James Bond,” Callum says.
“Well sorrrrrry,” I tell him. I can’t blame the kid. Viktor in his suit in our kitchen is probably the most exciting thing to ever happen to us.
“Have you ever grated parmesan, Callum?” Viktor asks him while rummaging through the drawers and finding the cheese grater. He raises it up triumphantly while I silently shake my head, no way. A cheese grater is just a knife with scales.
“Never mind,” Viktor says quickly, placing the cheese grater far away from him. “How about you just sit there and sing me songs. I rather liked your rendition of Dancing Queen.”
Oh god. Now that I know “Dancing Queen” was sung to his actual mother the night before she became queen, by ABBA themselves, Callum’s version seems even more crude.
“I forgot the lyrics,” Callum says with a shrug. “But I can rap.” He clears his throat like he’s about to sing an opera. “I like big poops and I cannot lie.”
I roll my eyes and give Viktor a warning look. He asked for this.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask coming around the table beside him.
“An apron would be great,” he says. His hands are already floured from handling the fresh pasta, so I grab an apron hanging in the pantry–one that has chickens all over it, my mother was obsessed with chickens–and bring it over to
him.
We smile at each other as he lowers his head so I can slip the top strap over his neck. With his head at my height, I take a moment to run my hands through his hair under the guise of fixing it.
My god. This is what heaven feels like. His hair is so thick and lush and silky, the ultimate sensory experience. I get a whiff of his shampoo, something woodsy and herbal that makes me want to drool. How I want nothing more than to just grab a few strands between my fingers and give it a sharp tug. I want to see the easy-going expression on his face become something raw and wild.
He sneaks a glance up at me and I realize how inappropriate I must be touching him like this.
“Your hair was a little messed,” I say quietly, then I go behind him and tie the straps around his lower back. Damn, if Callum wasn’t sitting right there and watching this whole scene, I’d start running my hands up and down his back, feeling every hard, taut muscle, and then climb him like a jungle gym. He’s just so tall, his shoulders so broad and wide, that I feel like I take up no space at all next to him, like Viktor commands every atom in the room when he’s around.
But Callum is watching, very intently I might add, and whatever intimacy I had conjured up by putting on an apron vanishes.
I take a few steps back from Viktor and decide to go and tell the girls to help set the table. The pasta shouldn’t take too long. I bring out a bottle of red wine too, for the adults.
When Thyme and Rosemary are done, they sit down at the table and start grilling Viktor as he stirs the pasta and cheese on the stove, asking a million questions about Sweden. At least it prevents Callum from singing.
“What’s Sweden like?”
“Do you have the biggest IKEA in the world?”
“Do you know Alexander Skarsgard?”
“Do all girls have dragon tattoos?”
“Is it snowing there right now?”
“Does everyone have funny names?”
“Do you have a nickname?”
At that last one Viktor laughs.
“Actually, I do,” he admits, grating some more parmesan into the pot. By now, it’s almost ready.
“Well what is it?” I ask, hoping it’s embarrassing because it would be nice to see Viktor look flustered for once. He’s always so poised and regal.
My mind goes back to my fantasy about hair-pulling.
He says a word that sounds like “elk” but if, like, a sick person said it.
“What?” Callum asks, scrunching up his nose.
“Älg,” he repeats. “It means elk, but it’s not the elk that you know. It’s actually a moose.”
“So your nickname is moose?” Thyme asks.
“Like in the Archie Comics,” Rosemary says.
“Why moose?” I ask.
He grins at me. “Have you ever seen a moose, especially a young one? They’re all legs with a big head. Growing up, that was just like me. Of course, now that I’ve gotten older this head is…” he trails off and looks at the kids, “well, my head, seems pretty normal.”
“Except what’s in the inside,” Callum giggles.
“Callum, please,” I beg.
“No, he’s right,” Viktor says good-naturedly. “Long legs, big head, a little crazy. Seems like a moose to me.” He takes a step back from the pot and wipes his hands on the apron. “Hey, Callum, how about you add the paprika at the end, the finishing touch.”
Callum looks so proud to be chosen, he can barely get out of his chair fast enough.
Viktor holds a mound of the red spice in his hand and lowers it for Callum who carefully takes a pinch. For one long, agonizing moment I swear I can see the wheels in Callum’s head turning, evil wheels, ones that are telling him to blow the mound of dusty paprika all over Viktor’s pristine white shirt.
Please no, I think to myself.
And Callum actually looks over at me with a tiny smile like he can hear what I’m thinking and suddenly I’m struck by how much he looks like that creepy kid at the end of The Omen. I swear I hear the demonic Latin chanting, Ave Satani!
Then he stands on his toes and sprinkles the pinch of paprika into the pot.
“Voila,” he says proudly. “Mac and cheese by moi.”
“Your French is very good,” Viktor says. “Now we eat.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and get up to start helping him serve.
“Sit Maggie,” Viktor commands.
“Yeah sit Maggie, woof,” Callum says.
“Not what I meant,” Viktor chides him and then nods at me to sit down as he grabs the pot from the stove. “Maggie, please. Just relax for once. There’s no cow on the ice tonight.”
“Cows?” Callum asks.
“It’s, what do you call it, an inside thing between us,” Viktor explains.
I sit down, both loving and hating the feeling of him doting on me. I’m so used to doing everything all the time that to actually just sit and be served food like this makes me feel like I’m royalty here and not the other way around.
And once again I’m reminded that, holy shit, he’s a fucking prince.
“Where’s April?” Thyme asks, grinning up at Viktor like she’s got a mad crush on him as he doles out the incredible looking pasta onto her plate.
“April!” I holler. I know I heard her get out of the bathroom a while ago.
I guess the strength of my bellow surprises Viktor because he says, “Wow. That’s a set of lungs.”
“Comes with the territory.”
“I’ll get her,” Rosemary says, getting out of her chair and running up the stairs. By the time Viktor has poured the two of us wine and the kids all have juice, she comes back, alone. “She’s not coming.”
I sigh heavily. This hurts. I don’t know why this does in particular but I feel like this is her way of telling me to fuck off again. It’s obvious I like Viktor and that this means a lot to me that he’s here and doing this for all of us.
“Should I go talk to her?” Viktor says, poised to get up.
“No,” I say quickly at the same time Rosemary says, “Big mistake.”
“I think she’s sore that you beat up her boyfriend,” Thyme offers.
“He wasn’t her boyfriend,” I tell her. “He was just a big jerk.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Viktor says under his breath. Then he smiles at everyone and raises his wine glass. “Smaklig måltid!” he says. “Which means have a nice meal.”
We all raise our glasses and clink against each other’s and I look into Viktor’s eyes and he looks into mine and I hope he can see just how touched, just how happy I am, that this is happening. I know April and Pike aren’t here, I know I felt like charity at the beginning but now, now I just feel what it’s like to just be normal for once.
Of course, the food is absolutely amazing. I know you wouldn’t expect too much with mac and cheese but with the spices and the chorizo and the cheese, it’s melting me inside.
“I think you really are the Swedish Chef,” Callum says after a few bites, cheese dripping from his mouth. “Hurdy schmerdy!”
“It’s really good,” Thyme says.
“Can you cook for us every day?” asks Rosemary. She’s serious too.
“Sadly, Viktor has to leave for LA at the end of the week,” I tell them. “He’s flying back to Stockholm.”
In unison, all of their faces fall.
“Bummer,” Thyme says.
“But,” Viktor says, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “we still have a lot of time to get to know each other. You were asking me questions earlier, so I think it’s time I ask you the questions.”
And then he proceeds to ask the twins and Callum questions about themselves. Mainly trivial questions, but questions nonetheless. The kids feel important, that much I can tell, and even though the food is incredible, there’s more talking at the table than eating.
The way that Viktor listens so intently to each one, his focus completely on them, makes my ovaries want to explode. Add in the fact that he cooked us this
damn meal, he’s wearing a suit, his forearms are golden and rippling with strength and I now know what running my fingers through his hair feels like, it presses a small ache in between my ribs.
I want this man so much, I don’t even have words for it.
And I’m not sure I’ll even get a chance to have him before he leaves.
He doesn’t belong to me.
He belongs to another country.
And I’ll be left behind in mine.
As if sensing my thoughts, he turns his head to look at me and once again the breath is knocked out of me. He is so damn gorgeous it makes me want to cry.
“And you, Maggie,” he says to me. “What’s your favorite flower?”
Is this where the conversation turned?
But I don’t even have to think.
“Lavender,” I tell him, my eyes falling on the pot I put in the middle of the table. Forever lavender.
When we’re all finished eating I tell the kids to go in the living room and watch some TV while Viktor and I clean up in the kitchen.
They take off like rockets. Usually I have them help me with clean-up but since Viktor is here, I want time with him alone.
“I suppose I should have brought dessert,” Viktor says as he starts filling up the sink with dish soap and warm water. We’ve never had a dishwasher, so you can imagine the amount of dishes there always were to do in this house. “Your brother and sisters would have liked that, maybe a pie of some kind.”
I grab a dish towel and lean back against the counter beside him, ready to dry. “You did enough,” I tell him. “Those kids are over the moon with you.”
He glances at me with a smirk. “Over the moon?”
“It means to be, I don’t know, not quite in love but…enamored. Charmed. In such a huge way that the moon somehow gets involved.”
He chuckles softly, the sound spreading warmth through me. “And you, are you over the moon with me?”
Well that puts me on the spot.
I give him a shy smile. “The moon doesn’t seem big enough. I might be over the sun.”
He studies me for a moment, his gaze sinking deep into mine. I see enough longing and heat in his eyes that I don’t feel silly for my admission. “I don’t think anyone’s been over the sun for me before,” he muses.