Page 28 of Valkyrie Confused

“No I’m not.” Panos’s voice comes from a few steps below.

I lower the lid, my heart racing in my chest. I’ve been so focused on my chat with Mia, I didn’t notice him coming up.

“Oops.” Mia giggles.

“Have to go. Talk later,” I tell her.

“Oh, you’re not hanging up. I wanna hear this. Turn me so I can see the hotness?”

I ignore her and close the lid all the way. It won’t end the call, and she can still hear us through my AirPods, but she’s been there for more embarrassing moments of mine than I care to remember.

“I didn’t see you coming up,” I tell Panos.

“I’m not gay,” he says.

“But… with Arnlaug?”

“I’m Pan.”

Pansexual. Of course.

And I shouldn’t care about my employee’s sexuality, but I can’tnot, now that it may include me. “Oh,” I manage.

“Yeah. And we can talk more about that later, but first, our newest arrivals requested to meet you.”

“Me?” I squeak. “Why?” If I liked peopling, I wouldn’t have moved here.

“They’re fans.”

“And how do they know I’m here?”

He shoves his hands in his back pockets, which is really not safe when he’s on a staircase. “They may have seen your books and mentioned they love them, and I may have said you lived upstairs.“

He isn’t making any sense. “My books? Where did they see my books?”

“Come. I’ll show you.”

“I should change.” I look at the stain on my sweatpants, where the salami landed earlier, when I was eating while trying to figure out where everyone’s limbs were supposed to go in the big threesome scene. Which I still haven’t written.

“You look great.” It’s a platitude, but it sounds earnest enough to get me moving.

I tuck the laptop under my armpit and start down the stairs after him, when Mia says, “If he looks half as good as he sounds, do yourself a favor and fuck him. Call me later. I wanna hear about your crazy and tell you about mine.”

The line is dead before I can come up with a snappy retort.

The four girls in their late teens waiting outside the reception area start squealing when they spot me.

I freeze, my fight-or-flight instinct kicking in, but Panos plucks my laptop with one hand and ushers me forward with his other on the small of my back. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

And so is Arnlaug. He’s leaning against the wall, brow furrowed. He looks ready for a brawl, which I find oddly reassuring.

“Hi.” I give the girls a little finger wave, and one of them steps forward, clutching a copy ofThe Berserker Who Loved mein her arms.

“Oh my God, you’re really here,” she says. Her accent is either Greek or Italian.

“I am.” Am I supposed to offer my hand for a handshake? I should say something witty, shouldn’t I? I’m a freaking author. I should know what to say at all times. But I don’t do interactions with fans unless there’s a table between us, for a good reason—unplanned peopling kickstarts my social-anxiety issues.

“I love you,” says one of her friends. “Seriously.”

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