Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
LAILA
The plane lands in a private airfield outside Trondheim, and Magnus arranged a rental car for the two of us. With James behind the wheel of a black Mercedes, we drive south of the city, through valleys and villages surrounded by rounded peaks. Everything looks so beautiful and pure, yet there’s an emptiness about it too. Like even these places are touched by the same loss that I am.
Eventually the road swings through a mountain pass and the fjord appears before us, the mountains on the other side towering like overlords.
“Shit,” James swears under his breath, trying to keep his eyes on both the road and the view. “This is incredible. And you grew up here?”
“I sure did,” I tell him as the road winds along the water, the surface dark and reflecting back the mountains. Eventually we come to the end of the fjord and the base of the village, which spreads out into a stunning valley, the patchwork quilt of farms and houses now covered by unifying snow. All the houses here are in primary colors—red, orange, yellow, white—the same colors they’ve been since they were built, having been passed down through generations.
Home. This is and always will be home to me. It doesn’t matter that I’ve lived in London or Oslo—this is where my heart feels most at peace. The funny thing is, there’s nothing really here for me anymore. My grandmother is gone. I’m friendly with my cousin, but he’s literally my only family left now. And I’m friendly with some of the villagers too, but there’s nothing keeping me except the sense of belonging. They say you can never go home again, but I hope, deep down, that one day I can.
“So this is the town,” James muses as we drive past a handful of stores, rounding the bend of the fjord. “What a journey you’ve been on, Laila. From fjord farm girl to being employed by royalty. The people here must be very proud of you.”
“Turn right up there,” I say as we head over a bridge, a frozen river beneath. “And I’m not too sure about them being proud. They’re pretty down-to-earth here. I don’t think most of them have an opinion either way about the royal family. And anyway, you’re the one with the journey. From the foster system of Glasgow to becoming Prince Eddie’s and Prince Magnus’s bodyguard.”
He gives a dismissive shrug. “I suppose we all have our journeys, don’t we?”
We continue along the road, now on the other side of the fjord, the street getting narrower as we pass through houses. I point out the different ones to James. “The yellow one belongs to Ernest and Trude Surdal who used to come over for brunch on Sundays. The dark wood one, which has a grass roof during the summer, is where old man Arvid lives. He taught me how to fish when I was young. Then there’s the Ragnar family, who I used to play with. Funny how I can’t remember their names.”
I continue to point out the different houses and people, until finally my grandmother’s old house appears. “Pull in here,” I tell him, my voice starting to shake as the emotions threaten to overwhelm me, my chest and throat growing tight.
James parks the car and looks at me, reaching for my hand. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, even though I have no idea how that’s possible. How can it ever be okay when you lose the person you love?
I let him hold my hand for a moment, then I steel my nerves, taking in a deep breath through my nose. “I’m okay,” I manage to say. I step out of the car.
The neighbors don’t seem to be home. I hope they remembered they said I could stay here. Of course, I’ll see them at the funeral anyway, but I really don’t want to break into the place.
“This is amazing,” James says as he gets out of the car, staring up at the house. “Right out of some bloody cottagecore Instagram account.”
That manages to make me laugh. He’s right. The house is white with black shutters and a black roof peppered with moss, a red door, and big windows looking out across the fjord on the other side of the street. It makes me happy to see the lace curtains in the windows haven’t been replaced by anything modern. My grandmother was adamant about not replacing anything unless it broke, and I hope Peter’s upkeep of the house kept that in mind.
James grabs the bags while we trudge through the cleared path toward the door. There’s a folded piece of paper resting on top of an upright log, the heavy key on top.
I pick up the key and read the note. It’s from Ann and Terre, telling me that the house is all mine, that they’ve got the logs for the fire ready to go inside, and that they’ll be back tomorrow to take me to the funeral.
I swallow and fold the note back up, placing it in my coat pocket as I stick the key in the door.
It’s been so long since I’ve stepped foot inside this house. The cold smell of the dry room, mixed with the pile of wood, brings back so many memories. My father had a workshop down here on the bottom floor that he would always disappear into, and my old playroom is just to the side, though it’s used for storage now.
James joins me inside. The heat isn’t on down here, so we’re quick in taking off our boots and coats and then heading up the narrow flight of stairs to the door at the top where the rest of the house is.
I open the door and step into the kitchen. It’s warm, and I’m hit with the smell of waffles, the same ones she would make every Sunday, that have somehow sunk into the bones of the house.
I close my eyes for a moment, just taking it all in.
James comes up behind me and places his strong hands on my shoulders, giving them a comforting squeeze.
“It’s lovely,” he says. “It feels like a home.”
“It really is,” I say. “As it always was.” Everything looks the same. The table in the middle still has the same lacy tablecloth with red trim, the bench painted a sky blue. There’s a fruit bowl in the middle, one that we would always fill with blueberries and cloudberries picked in the late summer on the mountainside right behind the house. Right now it’s empty and it reminds me of how empty I feel.
There’s another note, this one on the old fridge. I walk over and take it off. It says to open the fridge.
I open it, finding it absolutely packed with food. Tupperware containers, casserole dishes covered in tinfoil, all the meat and fruit one could want. And beer. Tons of beer.
“Oh my god,” I exclaim softly. “I feel like the whole town has brought us food.”
“Uh, Laila?” James says.
I turn to see him in the doorway to the living room, staring at it. I rush over to him and gasp. It’s covered floor to ceiling in balloons, and flowers, and gift baskets.
“Oh my god,” I say again, and this time the tears can’t be held back.
I break down crying, so painfully raw at the loss, and yet so overjoyed and warmed by the generosity of the townspeople. The people who loved Helge as much as I did.
James puts his arms around me, holding me close to him, his palm pressed against the back of my head. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says quietly. “You’re allowed to feel everything.”
I bury my head in his sweater, my hands going behind him and holding on to the strong planes of his back, feeling his strength, hoping he can pass some of that strength on to me.
I don’t know how long we stand like that. Time doesn’t seem to matter much. It passes with each beat of his heart that I can hear from his chest, each long and steady breath he takes. His grip on me remains firm, keeping me up, and I think I’m losing myself to the comfort he brings me, his touch and affection.
Why do I keep losing myself to the very man who broke my heart and will no doubt do it again?
Finally, I calm down, even though everything inside me feels more wild and chaotic than ever, feelings I don’t even have names for that want to take me for a ride.
I lift my head and look up at him, studying the sharp line of his jaw, the black stubble over his chin with the deep dimple, his strong aquiline nose, the faded scar on his cheek. His dark eyes are what give me the most trouble, after that smile. Right now they’re brimming with intensity, the kind that leads to trouble. And right now, I’m welcoming that trouble with open arms.
I clear my throat, aware of how close we are. “I should show you to your room.”
I pull away from him and walk back through the kitchen and to the staircase leading up. The stairs are steep and narrow, and I’m very conscious of my ass being in his face, but then again, he’s always complimented me on my “arse.”
We get to the second level, and I take him straight to my bedroom, which overlooks the garden at the back of the house and the hill that rises directly behind it, all the brambles and blueberry bushes hidden as lumps of snow.
Just as downstairs, it looks exactly the same. Like nothing was touched.
“You can sleep here,” I tell him as he puts his duffel bag on the bed, leaving my suitcase in the doorway. He walks around the room, taking in the green wallpaper, the framed photos on the walls, the row of horseback-riding ribbons from when I was a teenager, the bookcase full of well-loved books.
“Is this your old room?” he asks, enthralled by each and every photo.
“Yup. And it looks exactly the same as it always did.”
He nods, eyeing the queen-size bed with a wooden frame painted the same green as the walls, the pale blue and pink bedspread.
“Where are you sleeping?” he asks.
I suck on my lip for a moment, meeting his eyes. “Here.” I walk over to him, stopping a foot away. “With you.”
He cocks a brow in surprise.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” I add. Or any night, really.
His black brows knit together. “Are you sure?”
I reach up, holding the back of his neck with my hand, feeling how hot and soft his skin is beneath my palm. “Yes.” My gaze flutters down to his lips. “Kiss me.”
He hesitates for a moment. Then lightning flashes in his eyes.
He moves fast, his lips pressing against mine, soft and tentative at first as my grip on his neck tightens. Then our mouths widen, the kiss deepens, and we are moving against each other in an easy rhythm that grows hungrier by the second.
I break away briefly, my hands going down to the hem of his sweater, pulling it upward.
“You sure?” he whispers again, though I can see the lust has already overtaken his eyes.
“Yes,” I tell him. He raises his arms and I pull his T-shirt and sweater off, throwing them to the floor.
He’s now bare-chested in front of me, and I take a moment to marvel at him, to run my fingers over his impossibly broad shoulders, his hard pecs, the carved abs of his hard-earned six-pack that he works for in the estate gym. I spent so many nights with this body in the past, and yet to see it like this again, to feel him beneath my touch, feels like I’m with him for the first time.
I glance up at him, about to tell him how beautiful he is, but he’s on me like wildfire, grabbing my face roughly between his hands as he pushes me back on the bed, climbing on top of me.
And I let go.