16
“Technically, I suppose all fish bought here are Swedish Fish,” Peter said to Maria as he pushed the grocery cart past the
glass-fronted display of seafood. “Just like all massages are, by definition, Swedish massages.”
Maria snorted and nudged him toward the prepared foods section with a warm hand on his back. “How long have you been waiting
to share that little gem?”
“Since three-point-two seconds after I found out I was traveling to Sweden.”
The stupid joke shouldn’t tickle him so much, but a long day of overseas travel had left him punch-drunk, as had his visceral
terror at meeting her parents for the first time at the airport. Luckily, Stina and Olle seemed perfectly nice thus far. Medium
height, several inches shorter than their daughter. Both gone gray, both clad in neutral-colored leisure wear. Both surprisingly
bland and nondescript, actually, for people who’d raised a woman like Maria, although they were undeniably loving toward her.
Even now, Olle reached up to sling an arm around her shoulders with casual affection as he peered quizzically at Peter. “I’m
not sure what you mean.”
“Swedish fish?” Stina blinked up at him, wispy eyebrows drawn together. “I don’t understand.”
Maria bit her bottom lip and offered zero help.
Really, of the two of them, she was the true shit-boot.
“Um...” He halted the cart by the deli counter and prepared to explain himself. Because the best jokes all had to be explained,
right? Right. “So there’s this candy sold in the U.S.—although I’m not sure it’s manufactured in America, actually. Maybe
it originally comes from here in Sweden or somewhere else in Europe? I should look that up.”
Stina and Olle stared at him blankly, while Maria now had both lips sandwiched between her teeth and was gazing down at the
tile floor.
“It’s called Swedish Fish. But it’s not fish.” He drummed his fingers on the cart handle. “Well, actually, it is fish. Sort
of, although not the ocean type of fish. It’s gummy.”
A choked sound drifted from Maria’s vicinity.
Stina frowned at him, even as she reached to pluck a slip of paper with a number on it from a red dispenser on top of the
deli case. “Gummy? So the fish comes from a lake or river and has a bad texture?”
Resting an elbow on the edge of the cart, he closed his eyes and massaged his temple. Maybe he should have suggested a nap
before going grocery shopping, instead of agreeing to stop on the way home from Arlanda. But Maria’s parents had wanted him
to pick breakfast items he’d enjoy, and he was trying to be as accommodating as possible, so here he was. Jet-lagged and chilled—because
spring had evidently not quite sprung near Stockholm—and fumbling to explain gummy fish to a pair of befuddled, bespectacled
Swedes in their late sixties.
So much for a good impression. Shit.
He tried again. “I’m not explaining this well. I’m sorry. What I mean is—”
“Peter.” When he opened his eyes, Stina patted his upper arm and offered him a sweet, grandmotherly smile. “I should apologize, not you. Olle and I are merely . . .”
She turned to Maria. “What’s the appropriate phrase in English?”
“I believe that would be ‘fucking with you,’ Mamma,” Maria said. “As in, ‘Olle and I are merely fucking with you.’”
He opened his mouth. Closed it once more.
“Thank you.” Stina nodded, then swiveled to face him again. “Olle and I are fucking with you. As we did when we warned you
against openly criticizing Alexander Skarsg?rd, lest you be sentenced to several years’ hard labor serving meatballs in an
IKEA cafeteria. In reality, that’s only for repeat offenders. The first time, you’d simply be forced to assemble display shelves
for a month or two.”
“Also when we warned you about a rampaging herd of wild Dala horses menacing the countryside outside Stockholm,” Olle added.
“Those are mainly found in southern Sweden.”
At this point, Maria had staggered away from all of them, hiding her face in her hands, but he could hear her distinctive
cackle down a nearby refrigerated aisle. She was losing her damn shit.
“Ah,” said Peter politely. “I see.”
As discreetly as possible, he unearthed the cheap cell he’d bought at the airport upon arrival and did two quick Google searches.
Dala horses were, as it turned out, decorative wooden horses from the Dalarna region of Sweden, hand-carved and painted in
distinctive colors. And as far as the search engine knew, criticism of Alexander Skarsg?rd remained both legal and unpunished
by hard labor in the IKEA mines.
Okay, now he believed Stina and Olle were truly Maria’s parents.
“You’re still fucking with me,” he noted mildly.
He’d feel worse about swearing in public, but Maria had as sured him on the plane that Swedes didn’t object to obscenities the same way many Americans did. Although, in retrospect, he should probably Google that little tidbit too.
“We are.” Olle nodded gravely, the very picture of dignity.
In contrast, Stina allowed her smile to shift from grandmotherly to openly wicked. She might not share a genetic heritage
with Maria, but he’d recognize that smug grin anywhere.
“ Ja ,” she said, then tugged him down with a hand on the back of his head and planted a smacking kiss on his cheek. “Welcome to
Sweden, skitstovel .”
Someone was saying... something.
Peter couldn’t seem to focus. He was still dazed from jet lag and a long flight aboard a crowded plane. Not to mention exhaustion
from several days of incessant fucking at every opportunity. Also the brain fog resulting from a too-short, sweaty nap spent
atop a very narrow guest bed, beside a radiator pumping out tropical air, covered by a stiflingly heavy duvet so he couldn’t
inadvertently expose Maria’s entire family to freshly showered, full-frontal goodness—
He rubbed his forehead, his erratic train of thought entirely derailed.
What was with the lack of bedding, anyway? Did Swedes not believe in top sheets and blankets? Didn’t they experience sleeping
temperatures anywhere between Steamy Heat Requiring Absolute Nakedness and Hypothermic Huddling Beneath a Down Duvet Suitable
for Antarctica?
If he’d known, he’d have packed pajamas. Or purchased pajamas to pack. Or, alternatively, gotten used to sleeping in boxer briefs rather than going commando.
Which raised yet more fuzzy-minded questions: Was Maria naked right now? Was her bed bigger than his? Might she want company? And did her mattress creak too? Because if not—
Someone cleared their throat, and Peter raised his head, blinking wearily.
Oh, right. While Maria continued her own nap, he’d stumbled downstairs and found himself surrounded by the entire remaining
clan of Ivarssons. Most of them were working on dinner, and he’d wanted to assist, but when he’d offered, the outraged refusals
had been too fierce to resist. So now he was sitting at the large dining room table with Maria’s brother Vincent, who appeared
to be the family’s chosen diplomatic representative to the Sovereign Sleepy State of Peter Reedton.
Vincent, who also appeared to be waiting for a response to a question Peter hadn’t heard.
“Sorry. Jet lag is a beast.” Peter straightened in his chair and marshaled his straggling thoughts. “Can you repeat what you
just said?”
“What did you think of ICA?” Vincent didn’t appear offended. “Is it very different from American grocery stores?”
Peter took a moment to blearily consider the appropriate level of honesty in his response.
Under normal circumstances, staying in the guest room of complete strangers for an entire week—as Maria had finally persuaded
him to do—would necessitate a certain amount of tongue-biting and noncommittal small talk, for fear of offending his hosts.
Who were, after all, feeding him, and could thus spit in his food whenever the spirit so moved them.
Plus, he didn’t want her family to hate him. They were a close-knit group, maybe closer than he’d even guessed, and if they
disapproved of him...
Well, if pitted against them, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t come out on top. Not yet, anyway. So he was making a concerted effort not to be surly or silent or in any way like himself.
That said, they were Maria’s family, so he figured they couldn’t be too easily offended. Also, her parents had spent the entire
ride from ICA to their yellow-painted two-story home outside Stockholm feeding him yet more complete bullshit about Sweden.
For example: According to Stina, sixty percent of Swedes self-identified as ABBAsexuals. Including her and her husband.
After she made that pronouncement, Olle glanced over at her and placed a hand on her knee. “Knowing me, knowing you, being
ABBAsexual is the best we can do. Right, ?lskling ?”
Yeah, they were smartasses through and through. But maybe Maria’s siblings weren’t.
Vincent, in his late thirties and the oldest of those siblings, was still looking at him, blond man-bunned head cocked. Still
waiting yet again for an answer to a completely innocuous question.
Aw, fuck it. Other than a few television appearances and interviews, he and Maria would be spending a lot of time with her
family, and he didn’t want to pretend for seven days.
“Your checkout lanes scare the shit out of me, man.” When he saw Stina gathering silverware for the table, he half rose out
of his chair to help, but she waved him back down. Reluctantly, he turned to Vincent once more. “I don’t mind bagging my own
groceries, but I wasn’t prepared for the intense pressure . By the time I managed to get all our stuff in the bags, two separate families were waiting for me to finish so they could
pack their own groceries, the checkout clerk had stopped scanning things and was giving me a look of disdain and pity, and
I think I panicked and threw an entire ham on top of our eggs.”
“You did,” Stina called from the far end of the kitchen.
Olle nodded, mouth grim. “Somewhere, a lone hen felt a disturbance in the Force. A century from now, historians will trace