Chapter 5
ASTRID
“What does fan ocks? mean?” Callan asks as we walk across the road toward his house.
“Where did you hear…my mom.” A resigned sigh slips from my lips. I knew there was no way she’d get through today without dropping a few expletives.
He bobs his head, fighting a grin. “It’s some kind of Swedish curse word, isn’t it?”
“Yep. She thinks because she curses in Swedish that no one will know she curses like a sailor.”
Callan bursts out laughing. “I just can’t picture it. Your mum is so sophisticated.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh, and I almost stumble over the curb. Callan’s hand is out in a flash, gripping my elbow and steadying me.
“Thanks.” My skin is tingling from his touch. “In a few months, I’ll ask if you think my mom is sophisticated again. I bet your answer is different.”
He arches a brow in curiosity as we approach his front porch.
The paint has peeled from the railing, and the porch floor is faded and cracked in places.
“Mom is glamorous, and she has great posture from her modeling days, but she had an unconventional upbringing, and she’s wild and pretty crazy at times. ”
“She sounds fun.” He turns the key in the lock.
“Mom is great. I lucked out with her, with both my parents,” I say as he opens the door wide for me to enter.
I’ve noticed Callan has great manners. A lot of the jocks at school wouldn’t ever think about opening the door for a girl, mostly because they’re too full of themselves to think about anyone else.
“I know things are strained with your parents right now, but they seem cool too.”
“Ma is, but my dad has always had a giant stick up his arse.”
I can’t help laughing. “I know you’re probably already sick of hearing this, but I love how you speak. Your accent is beautiful.” Pretty much every time he opens his mouth, I swoon.
“I don’t get it, but if you say so.” He slams the door shut, and I swear the house shakes. “Welcome to the shitty house.”
“The shitty house?”
“It’s what I call it because every part of it is shite.”
I laugh again. “You won’t be saying that in a few months, dude.” I poke him in the arm. “I see what you mean though,” I say, glancing at the dated, torn wallpaper, scuffed floors, and hideous light fixtures in the hallway. “But it has character and lots of potential.”
“I really don’t see it, but I trust in your expertise.”
“I’ve got a confession to make,” I say, knotting my cardigan around my waist.
“That sounds intriguing.” He flashes me a grin, highlighting a set of perfect white teeth, and I’m dazzled, immediately losing my train of thought.
Callan snaps his fingers in my face. “Earth to Astrid. You zoned out on me.”
“Skit. I have a habit of doing that. Sorry.”
Callan cracks up laughing again. “Please tell me that means shit in Swedish.”
“It does.”
“You never told me what fan ocks? means.”
“The literal translation is devil also, but when Mom uses it, it’s generally because she’s dropped something or messed something up, and she means damn it. Vafaan is another way to say damn it too.”
“That’s weird.”
“A lot of Swedish curse words are weird. Fan is a versatile curse word, and it can be used in many different ways. I spent summers with my grandma in Ystad, and everyone uses the word fan there when cursing. It’s the Swedish equivalent of fuck basically.”
“Cool. I might adopt that, and you’ll need to teach me some more.” Mischief glints in his eyes.
“I can do that.” Mentioning Mormor only serves to remind me she’s gone, and it takes effort to sound blasé when I ask, “So, you gonna give me this tour or what?”
“Bossy and beautiful. I like it.”
My heart beats like crazy at the compliment, and I have no idea what expression is on my face right now.
“I believe you owe me a confession.” He arches a brow.
I glance all around me. “I used to come over here and peek through the windows, imagining all the ways I’d transform the house if I got my hands on it.”
“You seriously need to get out more, Astrid,” he teases, and I love how my name sounds rolling off his lyrical tongue.
“I’m aware I’m a geek, but I don’t care.”
“You’re so not. I think it’s cool you’re passionate about it. Most people our age don’t have a clue what they want to do with their lives, but you already have goals. I admire that a lot.”
Warmth blossoms in my chest. “The same way I admire you for your ambition.”
Delicious tension supercharges the space between us as we stare at one another. What even is this? What is happening? I’ve never had such a strong visceral reaction to a guy before.
Callan clears his throat, breaking the spell. His brow is furrowed as he straightens up. “Come on. I’ll show you the gross kitchen, dining room, and sitting room first.”
We chat casually as he shows me around, and though the place is in disrepair, it appears to be mostly cosmetic.
Structurally, it seems sound, and the original wooden floors appear intact.
Some of the boards might need bolstering, and they definitely need to be sanded and varnished, but I think they’ll look stunning when repaired.
I’m making notes on my phone as we move through the various rooms. I will need to come back when his mom is here to talk to her about her vision for each room and her budget, so I can come up with a mood board and a solid design plan.
I also want to take pics and measurements of each room so I can create technical drawings.
This will work perfectly as my end-of-year project.
“You really dig this stuff, huh?” he says, snapping me out of my inner monologue. “You haven’t heard a word I just said, have you?”
“No, sorry. When I’m in the zone, the outside world ceases to exist.”
“I’m like that when I’m on the pitch,” he says, walking up the stairs. “I have singular focus, and it’s all about putting the ball in the net.”
I try not to notice how great his ass looks in his jeans as he climbs the stairs, but I’m only human, and he’s got a fine ass. Every part of him is fine, and the more I get to know him, the more I like.
Callan stomps along the hallway, pausing in front of a room and swinging the door inward. “See, I wasn’t exaggerating.”
“Skit. You weren’t.” The entire room is green from the green and white patterned walls to the avocado bath, sink, toilet, and bidet. Even the tiles are a sickly yellow-green color. “This is…a lot.”
“A lot of fucking green.” He grimaces. “I want to puke every time I take a shower.”
I laugh. “This is what’s called an avocado bathroom,” I explain, “and believe it or not, it’s enjoying a revival now.”
His mouth drops open in horror. “Do not tell my mum, or she’ll insist on keeping it.”
I crack up laughing again. “Not like this. Interior design trends tend to be cyclical, revived every forty to fifty years. This kind of bathroom was originally popular in the 1960s and 1970s, so it’s no surprise it’s becoming popular again.
Mostly with younger homeowners, but it’s an updated version of the trend.
A modern take on a green bathroom often combines the warmth of green with the neutrality of beige and cream.
Green is a symbol of nature and harmony, and it’s tranquil and calming, which is perfect for a bathroom. ”
“You already sound like an interior designer.”
My heart swells to bursting point. It’s the greatest compliment he could pay me. “Thank you, but I still have a long way to go. I’m so excited to go to college and to eventually have a career as an interior designer. It’s all I’ve wanted for years.”
“Hard work and determination mixed with talent are a winning combo. I bet you’re going to be very successful.”
“As you will be.”
He shrugs, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he glances around the room. “If I never see green again, I’ll die happy,” he deadpans.
He’s so dramatic, but it’s funny. “No green in the design. Got it.”
“My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. Let’s get this over with.” All humor is gone from his tone, replaced with obvious strain. He closes the bathroom door and walks to the room at the end of the hallway. “Don’t expect much,” he says over his shoulder before opening the door to his room.
“Wow, it looks like the 1970s threw up in here,” I say as I step foot on the brown shag carpet.
Callan’s mom already mentioned she had everything steam cleaned before they moved in, but if it were me, I’d have ripped all the carpets out on day one.
Let’s just say I’ll never be walking barefoot on this floor.
The king bed, matching nightstands, dresser, and desk are all modern—a mix of white and oak wood—but the rest of the room is nostalgia central.
Thick orange curtains frame the window, which looks out onto the street.
Geometric swirls in vibrant orange and gold mix are layered over the white wallpaper, making my head spin. “That wallpaper has got to go.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he says, kicking off his sneakers and crawling onto the bed. He pats the space beside him before grabbing the TV remote.
“Still unpacking, huh?” I say as I toe off my sandals and sit on the edge of the bed, keeping my feet away from the questionable carpet.
Boxes are stacked against all the walls, making the room feel small and cluttered, even though the things on his desk are neat, his bed is made, and there are no dirty dishes, empty takeout cartons, or crumpled clothes on the floor like my last ex-boyfriend’s room.
“Don’t see why I should bother. It’s not like I’m staying here permanently.”
I swing my legs up onto the bed, smoothing my dress down over my thighs when it moves up with the motion.
Callan’s gaze lingers on my legs for a second before he returns his focus to his phone and the remote.
“Graduation is June fourteenth. That’s over ten months away.
It’s a long time to be tripping over boxes. ”
“I just don’t see the point when I’ll have to repack it all.”
I drop the subject, not wanting to argue with him. It’s his bedroom. His life.
“Okay. Here we go,” he says as the screen loads on the TV with a still of a soccer field.
“This is the part where I need to admit I’ve only watched a handful of soccer games.”
“How come?” He straightens up against the headrest, and I mirror his position, being careful to ensure my dress doesn’t ride up my thighs as I maneuver myself.
“I’m not sporty, and my dad only ever watches golf on TV. I went to a few school games with Renee to support Thor, but I spent most of my time reading.”
“Shocking,” he says, pressing play on the video his friend sent him. “I’m not sure we can be friends.”
“You want to be friends?” I peer into his eyes, acutely aware of the fact we’re sitting close together on his bed. Yes, we’re fully clothed, and it’s not like anything is going to happen, but it still feels intimate.
“You don’t?” he asks as the game plays in the background.
“I do,” I rush to reassure him. “I mean, it makes sense, right? We go to school together, we’re neighbors, and it’s pretty clear after today our parents will be friends, as will our sisters.
You’re new to town, and I can show you around, explain how things work in school, etcetera.
” I quit my babbling at the amused look on his face. “Shutting up now.”
Callan laughs. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
I flip him the bird, and he cracks up, the bed shaking with his laughter. “Come on, bestie,” he says, flinging his arm around my shoulder. “Let’s watch the game so I can educate you.”