Chapter 10
Vanessa
ten
. . .
The hangover wakes me up before I’m ready. My brain pounds inside my skull, desperate for freedom. Can brains ever be truly free of our skulls?
Fuck, am I still drunk?
Lurching toward the en suite bathroom, I take care of personal business and then crawl back into the nice and comfortable bed.
Why did I come to Sven?
And more importantly, why did he want me to stay?
I wish I knew how to read him. He’s as opaque as a brick wall. Hell, sometimes I think he might be a brick wall.
The bed I’m in is plush with thick blankets; white linens, white duvet, and white blankets. The walls are painted a light gray, just a shade darker than white, and there’s a spotless white rug on the black wooden floors. A small aloe plant sits on the bedside table, and there’s an orange and pink orchid on top of the dresser. Not a lot of greenery otherwise, unlike downstairs.
The floorboards creak and the pipes run. Sven must be up. I can hear him puttering around in his room, and when he opens his door, his footsteps pause outside mine before descending the stairs.
I wait a few minutes. Briefly, I debate climbing out the window. That’s a little much, I rationalize. He knows I’m here. He expects me to be here.
I can’t run from this any longer.
Making my way downstairs, I’m surprised again at the amount of greenery in the stark black and white apartment. The blinds are drawn and the midmorning sunlight sends sunbeams across the room.
Something hurtles toward me, and I shriek and duck, covering my head with my hands. I used to play lacrosse, but that was with heavy padding, a mouth and face guard, and a stick to protect me. I’m not used to things flying at me anymore.
“Rupert,” Sven says sharply.
Shit. He sounds pissed.
Did he throw?—
There’s a flapping noise above me. And as I uncover my head, I find the wide wingspan of a gray bird hovering above me. It’s about the size of a football, maybe a little longer, with a shocking crimson tail. Beady golden eyes are focused on me.
“Good girl,” the bird caws. “Good baby girl.”
It talks?!
“Rupert, come,” Sven demands.
And to my surprise, the bird flies over to him, perching on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Sven says to me. His accent is stronger in the mornings. “She’s not used to strangers.”
“She?”
“This is Rupert.” Reaching upward, he runs a finger along the bird’s dark beak, and it nuzzles the appendage. “She gets pretty free range inside. If she makes you uncomfortable, I can put her in the pen.”
“No, it’s fine,” I manage. “I just wasn’t expecting the attack.”
“Good girl,” the parrot squawks. “Rupert, good girl.”
“Yes, you’re my good girl,” he murmurs to the bird, who rubs her beak against his cheek.
Damn it. I want him to call me his good girl.
How the fuck am I getting jealous of a goddamn bird?
“Rupert is a girl?”
He nods. “The previous owner didn’t know until she laid an egg. They were quite surprised.”
“Are there any more birds flying around here I should be aware of?”
He shakes his head, and Rupert squawks again and nibbles on his ear.
It’s only then that I realize he is in the middle of cooking. There’s a carton of eggs, some vegetables chopped in small ramekins, and what smells like fresh bread baking.
“Good morning,” he says conversationally. “How do you like your eggs?”
I blink.
“You’re making eggs?”
Confused, he nods.
“With a bird on your shoulder?”
Sven quirks a smile. “Well, they weren’t hers. They’re from the store.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“She eats them, too.” He shrugs, and Ruperts lets out a grumbly squawk at her perch moving beneath her feet. I see the way her talons grip into his shoulder and he winces.
“Good baby girl,” he murmurs to the bird, who butts her head against his and then takes off. She clips his head with her wing as she flies toward the kitchen sink. A black wooden perch is set in front of the closed window, and she settles there, making herself comfortable.
Sven gestures to the espresso machine in the corner, beside which is a simple coffee pot. “Coffee will be ready soon, or I have a selection of tea if you’d prefer.”
“Coffee is great, thanks.” He has everything out and prepared. “Is there anything I can help with?”
“How do you like your eggs?” he repeats.
“Um…”
“Scrambled? Over easy? Hard boiled? That may take a minute.” He quirks his smile at me, and my stomach flutters.
I’m just hungry. It’s the hangover.
Except my head doesn’t really hurt. I’m a little queasy, sure. Altogether, I don’t feel all that bad.
“Whatever you’re doing is fine.” I perch on a barstool. The oven is on, a timer counting down. “Are you baking something?”
His eyebrows go up. “Yes?”
Most of the professional hockey players I know have someone else around to do the cooking. And baking? Fuck, I’m surprised any of them even know how to turn on the oven.
Sven starts cracking eggs into a clear glass bowl. He gets through three-quarters of the dozen before he starts scrambling. From little pinch bowls, he rains salt and pepper into the bowl, then adds milk and starts scrambling with a whisk.
Like, an actual fucking whisk.
I’m a grown-ass adult, and I’ve been living on my own since I graduated college, and I still don’t have a fucking whisk in my kitchen.
And this asshole? He’s a professional hockey player, and he busts it out? He’s cooking? And baking?
What is this, the freaking Twilight Zone?
The coffee pot chimes, and Sven pauses the whisking to pull down two white porcelain cups from a meticulously organized cabinet.
“So you like to cook?” I ask.
“I have to eat, don’t I?” He looks over his shoulder at me with that half-smile.
“A lot of guys hire it out.”
He shrugs. “I’m not them.”
“No,” I say slowly. “I suppose you’re not.”
He pours a cup of coffee, then walks around the center island and deposits it in front of me.
“I’ve got almond milk and sugar, and there’s flavored creamer in the fridge.”
I blink. “You have flavored coffee creamer?”
That is so not allowed on the elite hockey player diet plan.
“It’s Brigitte’s.”
“Who’s that?” Another bird? Another girlfriend?
No, he said he wasn’t seeing anyone when we hatched this cockamamie plan.
“Rupert’s house sitter,” he says. “She does some work around the place, too.”
“Oh?”
“Cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping.” He makes a face. “I hate grocery shopping.”
Okay, irrational jealousy, calm the fuck down.
“Yeah, I suppose you would.” He probably gets mobbed by fans, even in his quiet little neighborhood. “So Brigitte—is she here often?”
“Whenever I’m gone overnight.” He cocks his head. “Everything is handled by email. I put what I need in a note and she handles it.”
Now it makes sense why there were fancy soaps and shampoos in the bathroom and clothes in the dresser. If she’s his regular house sitter, it would make sense that she keeps some things here.
Making my way to the fridge, I’m surprised by how clean everything is inside. It’s full of fresh vegetables, already chopped and prepared in glass containers. A shelf contains brown paper packages labeled chicken and salmon, and a small basket of fancy European cheeses.
He has a porn-worthy refrigerator.
On the door is a bottle of Oreo-flavored creamer. Damn. I might like Brigitte. First she uses nice-smelling soaps, now she drinks good-tasting coffee?
Pouring some in my cup, I watch as the dark liquid joy turns a pale off-brown color. Now that I’m not playing lacrosse and watching every fucking calorie I eat, coffee with creamer is one of my favorite indulgences.
Sven moves to the eight-burner range. It’s top of the line, as are the rest of his appliances. Then again, if he likes to cook, that’s not much of a surprise.
“I feel like I should help. What can I do to help?”
Just as the words leave my mouth, the oven dings.
“Could you get that?” Sven pauses as he adds some butter to the pan.
Using the black pot holders beside the oven, I open the door and am assaulted by the heavenly scent of freshly baked bread.
My mouth waters. If this is what sleeping at Sven’s house is like, sign me the fuck up.
The dutch oven is heavier than I expected. Sven moves behind me, closing the oven door.
“You can set it here.” He points to the closest burner, which is the farthest from where he’s cooking.
“You bake bread?”
Sven shrugs. “It’s tasty.”
I blink at him. It’s tasty?
“There’s no point in keeping a starter if I don’t exercise it regularly.”
“Who are you?” I blurt.
His easy smile goes blank in an instant.
Quickly, I backtrack: “Fuck. No. I just?—”
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I try to hide my wince.
“You’re not what I expected,” I admit.
“What did you expect?” His tone is careful as he adds broccoli and peppers to the sizzling pan.
“Just… not this.”
He looks over his shoulder at me, clearly unimpressed.
I shrug. “Fine. I expected some asshole dude-bro hockey player with a stick up his ass.”
Sven snorts, mumbling something in Swedish.
“You’re not what I expected,” I repeat. “And I’m so glad for that.”