17
Maria’s long, blissful afternoon nap had been, in retrospect, a truly terrible idea.
The rest of her family had already headed to bed, either in her parents’ house or in their own homes. Peter had also disappeared
upstairs, and the gush of water in the pipes indicated he was cleaning up for the night. In a minute or two, he’d come down,
give her a kiss, then trudge back upstairs to erase those dark circles under his beautiful eyes.
She should be getting some sleep too, of course. The next day, Gates ’ PR department had scheduled interviews with local and national news outlets for Maria and Peter, as well as an hours-long
photo session that would take them to various iconic Stockholm locations. It was going to be exhausting, and the more she
rested now, the better.
And given how awake she felt, she might as well have guzzled Sweden’s entire supply of energy drinks, then charged into one
of the few Starbucks locations and started an espresso IV. She was nowhere near sleep. At the moment, she wasn’t certain she’d
ever sleep again.
If she were irredeemably selfish, she’d convince Peter to forgo the rest he needed and talk with her. Not because she was
lonely for company in general, but because she’d pined for him all day, even though he’d remained no more than a few meters away from her at any given time.
But she wouldn’t ask him to give up yet more sleep and keep her company when he was already beyond exhausted.
No matter how much she wanted him to herself for a few hours.
Dividing her attention between him and her family hadn’t come naturally that day, much as she wanted him to like them and
vice versa. She’d missed one-on-one time with him, missed the privacy they’d relinquished by staying in her parents’ house,
missed the thrill of knowing—even when surrounded by other people—that at some point, the two of them would find themselves
alone in a bed and fuck like rabbits.
Her childhood bed, sadly, was not conducive to rabbitlike fucking. It was barely wide enough to fit her, and it also shared
a wall with her parents’ bedroom. Which had been a source of much consternation during her teenage years, because Stina and
Olle still led a very active life, both in bed and out. Nevertheless, she preferred not to follow their example in this particular
instance, and she would not be banging Peter in a location where her parents could provide play-by-play commentary, should
they so choose.
Peter’s bed abutted Filip’s old bedroom, where her brother was staying until he found an apartment far from the home he’d
shared with his ex. The guest bed was the same size as hers, and the old frame would collapse in despair if asked to support
their combined weight.
So the two of them were fucked, yet also unfucked. They would remain so until they flew to Wisconsin next week, where they’d
check into a hotel. He’d rejected the idea of staying with his father with such stony finality, she hadn’t even asked for
an explanation.
Fine, then. She couldn’t sleep, and she couldn’t have sex, but she could still entertain herself. Uncurling from her favorite spot on the couch, the corner farthest from the television and closest to the windows, she drifted toward the built-in shelves and contemplated her options.
Sci-fi paperbacks. Cookbooks. Noir thrillers. Or—childhood photo albums.
Nostalgia it was.
The album she removed from the shelf was a bit worn around the edges now, some of the photos inside not as bright as they
once were, and that only made her cherish it more. Those scuffs and slightly bent pages meant the album had been well loved,
pored over by her and her family again and again over the past two decades.
It contained everyone she truly needed, everyone she loved.
Although... that might or might not be true any longer.
A heavy, warm hand landed on her hip. “What’s that?”
For such a big man, Peter could move very quietly. Without turning, she let herself lean back against him, trusting him to
support some of her weight, and he wrapped his arms around her and propped his bristly chin on her shoulder. With each deep
breath, she inhaled her family’s usual lemongrass-scented soap and whatever product made him so deliciously cedary.
The unexpected combination smelled good. It smelled right.
She wished she believed in omens.
His feet were bare, some sort of soft-looking pants loose around his ankles, the fabric of his long-sleeved tee smooth and
cool against her forearms. The equivalent of pajamas, which she suspected he didn’t own. So this was a good-night hug, obviously.
Not an invitation to share her childhood—not to mention her siblings’—with him.
“Are you ready for bed?” Ducking her head, she kissed a tiny scar on his lower arm, the memento of a too-sharp piece of limestone as Cassia and Cyprian built their home. “Is there anything you need? An extra pillow, or a nightlight?”
She was almost certain she heard him mutter, Some fucking bedding would be nice .
When she turned in his arms to face him, though, he only shook his head. “I’m not ready for bed yet, and I don’t need anything.
But I want something.”
“So I can feel.” She raised a brow and nudged his burgeoning erection with her belly. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm,
I’ve considered the logistics, and—”
“I want to know what you have in your hands, and I want time alone with you, Maria. That’s all.” His own belly vibrated with
his low laugh, and his cheeks creased beneath his beard. “Well, not all, but I’m still working on the logistics too. For now,
let’s see if we can find a chair that’ll support us both and...”
He paused and shifted his weight.
“Why, Peter Reedton. My stoic, silent costar.” Leaning back against the support of his arms, she tipped her chin until she
could see his expression clearly. “You want to chat, don’t you? Chat and cuddle. How adorable.”
His scowl should have incinerated the album still cradled in her hands and propped against his chest. But it was too late.
She knew his dirty little snuggling secret now.
Tucking the album beneath one arm, she stepped out of his embrace, took his hand, and led him to the chaise longue in the
corner. It was another of her favorite spots in the house, perfect for reading. Wide, thickly cushioned, and upholstered with
velvety teal fabric, it overlooked the small back garden, had comfortable rolled arms, and resembled an overstuffed armchair
stretching out its legs.
After one good look at it, Peter closed his eyes and groaned.
Well, after that pained growl, she was imagining the possibilities too, and they were both delightful and legion. But...
“Let me stop you right there. Yes, fucking on the chaise would be amazing, but the door doesn’t lock, and Filip is a restless
sleeper.” She used her hold on his hand to urge him toward the enticing piece of furniture. “Sit.”
His answering grunt brimmed with aggrievement, but he put a knee on the chaise and maneuvered until the back cushions supported
him and he could extend his strong legs over the elongated seat cushion. Then he spread those legs as wide as he could get
them between the rolled arms and patted the space he’d created in front of him.
It was a tight fit, but with a bit of wiggling, she managed to wedge herself between his slightly raised knees and recline
against his chest and stomach. His arms loosely circled her shoulders, and his chin nuzzled her cheek.
His body surrounded her. Braced her. Enclosed her in strength and softness and warmth without demanding a thing in exchange.
In the late-night stillness of her childhood home, they might have been the only two people awake in the world. Turning her
head, she planted a kiss against his prickly chin, and the little hum in his throat sounded... content.
When he spoke, his tone was gruff but amused. “You realize we’re going to need a crane to get us out of this chair.”
“Worth it,” she said, and propped the thick album on her belly. “To answer your question, my father made this album when Vincent
went away to university. Pappa was having empty nest issues, even with the rest of us still around, so he gathered photos
showing how everyone became part of the family, up through the first year or so after we arrived.”
Over time, she’d seen each member of her family flip through the pages. The album served as a sort of touchstone for all of them, even as she and her siblings scattered to various spots around the world, only to inevitably return before scattering once more.
“Show me.” Peter took over holding the album upright. “Tell me about your family.”
Despite the quiet calm in his voice, new tension thrummed through his limbs, turning them from languid to slightly stiff,
and she wanted to ask what was worrying him. But not if asking would distract from the conversation they were about to have,
because he needed to know. He needed to understand the stakes for her in whatever sort of relationship they were creating,
because his own stakes weren’t nearly so high. Not when he already lived in LA, seemingly content to settle a good distance
from what she’d gathered was his semi-estranged father.
So instead of pressing him for answers, she simply flipped to the first page.
Her mother, red hair in loose curls, in her early thirties and pregnant, a smile on her face and one hand on her belly as
her blond husband wrapped an arm around her shoulders and beamed at her. With her free hand, she held his.
“Mamma and Pappa didn’t meet until they were almost thirty. He’d just moved from the countryside to find factory work, and
they met on the production line of our local pharmaceutical plant. They married two years later at the city hall, and they
didn’t know it at the time, but she was already carrying Vincent.” She traced her parents’ entangled fingers through the plastic
barrier. “The pregnancy was fine, but things went wrong during labor, and they were advised not to have more children. Pappa