Page 24 of One Weekend in Iceland

My phone vibrates against the wooden bar with an incoming message. Angrily, I flip it over to read it. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone. But when I see it’s a text from Freya asking Where are you?, hope blossoms in my chest.

I immediately text back the name of the bar and add, Why?

Maybe we aren’t done?

Pathetically, I continue to stare down at my phone, waiting for her reply. But it never comes. Instead, I get a tap on my slumped shoulder. I recognize the scratch of that nail, and when a waft of her familiar perfume hits me, I spin on the barstool.

“Freya?”

“Is this seat taken?” She points to the empty stool beside me.

“It is now. Would you like a Scotch whisky or a beer?”

“I’ll have what you’re drinking,” she says, sliding onto the stool, the short dress she’s wearing riding up high and giving me a teasing view almost to the top of her thigh. She crosses one leg over the other, her booted foot tapping wildly to a silent beat.

I order her drink, then angle my body toward her. She avoids my gaze, intently watching the bartender pour her Scotch instead.

When the glass is put in front of her, she immediately picks it up and tips it toward mine. “Skal,” she says, the Icelandic word for cheers.

“Slainte Mhath,” I similarly respond in Gaelic. And we both knock back a gulp of the burnished liquid. It burns a familiar path down my throat.

When our glasses are back resting on the bar, I admit, “It’s good to see you.” I’m not sure what’s happening here, but I am happy to see her. I didn’t like the way we left things earlier.

Thankfully, this bar isn’t too busy, and they seem to believe background music belongs in the background so we can hear each other without shouting.

“Rory, I wanted to apologize to you.” The words rush out of her mouth. “I flipped out today after you met my father. It wasn’t your fault that happened, but stupidly, I made it about that. I’ve always been scared of people finding out about my lies. I didn’t—”

The torrent of words stops only when I seal my mouth over hers and swallow them. My tongue slips between her lips to check for more. I don’t want her apology. It’s not needed. I don’t even need any more explanations. It was enough when she told me why she hid her familial links. What I want is just to be with her. Here, having a drink, listening to her lilting voice telling me another fun fact about her city. Or stretched out on that fucking ridiculous waterbed, me holding her, because it doesn’t feel so ridiculous when she’s in it with me.

But first, I need to make something clear. I lean back, my palms remaining against her cheeks. “Freya, I don’t give a fuck who your father is. I just like being with you.”

“Thank you,” she whispers before hopping off her stool and coming to stand between my bent knees. I duck my head to kiss her again, and this time, it’s slow, deep, and full of promise. My hands hold her hips, and she links her fingers behind my neck, caressing the short hair there. The heat rises, and I lift her to sit on my knee. Her arms loop around my shoulders, holding her to me.

A voice clears loudly beside us, and we both look up. The bartender has his arms folded and is looking unimpressed.

Freya says something to him in Icelandic, and he moves away to the other end of the bar to serve another customer.

A chuckle rumbles up from my chest. “What did you say to him?”

She grins. “I told him we were just leaving.”

“Good,” I growl into the shell of her ear, and one shoulder hitches like it tickles. The thought that she might be ticklish is an interesting little fact that’s worth exploring later. There’s so much about Freya I’ve yet to learn, and it’s going to take more than the one night remaining of the weekend. But that’s a good place to start.

We finish our drinks quickly and leave.

Back inside the privacy of my room, I lead her by the hand to stand beside the bed. Our movements aren’t as frenzied as they were last night. Like the kiss earlier, I plan to seduce her slowly. Teasing the pleasure from her body. Freya is a woman to be savored, not rushed. She’s no weekend fling. Not to me anyway.

I place my free hand on her cheek, holding her gaze. When I did the same thing earlier this afternoon by the car, I was searching for the answer to a question. Does she feel this same pull in her heart?

Now, as she leans into my touch, her expression clears, and it’s like the sun has just come out from behind a cloud. The fact that she came to find me tonight tells me everything I need to know. I do mean something to her. My breath stutters out from my lungs, and the tightness in my chest finally releases, allowing me to breathe freely for the first time in hours.

I brush my lips over hers, then trail feather-soft kisses across her jawline to the long, slender column of soft skin at her neck. One of her fingers hooks into the waistband of my jeans, urging me closer.

“I don’t think I can wait. I need to be inside you,” I whisper near her ear, and her linked hand squeezes mine.

“Yes.”

Fuck, I must be the luckiest guy in the world to lose my luggage and then discover that this amazing woman was the one who had it. Maybe there is such a thing as fate.

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