Page 19 of Pucking Strong

I can tell he doesn’t know how to take the compliment. “There’s no guest room.”

I shrug. “The couch is fine with me.”

“You might be more comfortable at a hotel.”

“I’m comfortable here,” I assure him, dropping my backpack to the floor. “I’d be even more comfortable if I had my duffel bag though. Did you get your bags off the plane?”

“I had a porter bring all the bags here.” He points next to the stairs that lead up to his loft bedroom. There, on the floor, sits my blue duffel.

“Well, if it was a snake, it woulda bit me,” I say on a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing. Bathroom?”

He points to the open door tucked behind a bookshelf.

I weave through his living room over to my bag. “I’m so tired, I think my skeleton might just collapse. I’m gonna brush my teeth and crash if that’s okay.”

“Fine.” He makes his way to the kitchen.

“But don’t think I won’t snoop around this place tomorrow,” I call over my shoulder. “Your secret’s out, Karlsson. You’re a total magpie, and I love it.”

“It awaits your snooping.” His back is turned to me, but do I sense a hint of a smile in his tone?

Grabbing my bag, I head for the bathroom. This is totally fine. I’m in Henrik Karlsson’s Stockholm studio apartment, and there’s only one bed. I can already hear the screams from the family group chat—

No, I can’t send this to the group chat. I mean, I told them I’m in Sweden, because that’s the kind of thing you tell your sisters. What if my plane crashed? What if I end up in a Swedish jail? Oh god, I get anxious just thinking about it.

They were all supportive of my mission. If I know Shae, she’s already put a care package in the mail for Karolina. But this? Exploring the secret mysteries of Karlsson’s inner sanctum?

Yeah, I’m not sharing this with anyone.

Iwake to the smell and sound of bacon frying in a pan. Sunlight blinds me as I blink my eyes open. Where the hell am I?

Oh, that’s right. I’m stretched out half naked on Karlsson’s cloud-like leather sofa, buried under a pile of blankets that smell like him. I’ll make no comment about the state of arousal I might be in.

I sit up, gazing around at the majesty of this loft apartment. In full daylight, there’s almost a sparkle to it. The studio feels like one part living space, one part library, and one part storage locker. There’s a large book of nature photography on the coffee table. Under the table, I spy a bright pink box. I slide it out with my foot and find stuff for coloring and a mess of tangle-haired dolls. The box sends a clear message: Karro was here.

I smile.

“Teddy! Come!”

I jolt, eyes wide, as I take in Karlsson’s shirtless form standing in the kitchen. He’s got his phone up to his ear, spatula in his other hand. His expression is tense as he barks something in Swedish. Then he waves at me with the spatula.

“What—”

“Come,” he says again. “Mind the bacon. I have to take this call.” He sets the spatula down and hurries over towards what I now see is not a windowpane but a door set in the wall of glass. It leads out to a small terrace.

I scramble off the sofa, wearing nothing but my shorts. I trot over to the kitchen and grab the spatula. Eggs are frying in one pan, bacon sizzling in another, and I think there might be something in the oven.

Shit. I can’t cook to save my life. I’m an okay baker, but skillets and I don’t mix. I always burn everything. My mom and sisters usually won’t let me touch anything but the salad spinner. But I suppose this looks easy enough. I flip the bacon as it crackles in its own grease. I don’t know a damn thing about frying eggs though.

The oven dings, and I officially panic. I rattle open the drawers, searching for a pot holder, anything to avoid pulling a baking tray out with my bare hands.

“Aha!”

I strike gold in the drawer below the oven. Pulling the door open, I’m hit with heat and the salivating smell of fresh bread. It looks like cinnamon rolls. Karlsson did all this while I was sleeping?

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