21. Kai
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
KAI
KAI: What if we cook? I could make something American for you.
OSKAR: Converting me from the inside out?
OSKAR: J/K. I would like that.
KAI: Mom and I went to Norway last summer.
OSKAR: Okay. Inferior to Sweden, but I forgive you.
I laugh so loudly I startle myself.
KAI: Haha. I liked the food there. What if you cook something Swedish while I make American?
KAI: Does that sound okay? I want to try Swedish.
OSKAR: I happen to know you have tried Swedish already. Do you mean you want to try Swedish food?
Shit. I can just see him smirking.
Okay, buddy. You asked for it.
KAI: The Swedish I had was just okay. Hoping the food might be better.
OSKAR: Never noticed those nails before. Perhaps I will give you both Swedish and Swedish food.
Jesus Christ. Why am I blushing when he can’t even see me?
KAI: We’ll have to see how it goes. I might be too full.
OSKAR: Oh, you will be very full. I recall when you told me that before.
My heart stops in slow motion. How’s that even possible?
OSKAR: Your place or mine? We will need to go shopping.
I thump my chest. Start, heart!
KAI: Let me see yours.
Delete. The fuck’s wrong with me?
KAI: If you still want me to see your apartment, I’ll come.
God. I give up. Send.
OSKAR:
OSKAR: Know the Westside Market? I’ll meet you there at 4:30. Then you can come…
OSKAR: Here.
KAI: 4:30 sounds good.
I barely trust myself to type that.
OSKAR: See you then. Du gor mig galen.
It’s embarrassing how long I look at the screen before it gets through that he’s written something in Swedish. I copy and paste it into a translation site.
I drive him crazy?
Does he mean I’m too much?
Or that I drive him wild?
God, please don’t let me be too much.
Fuck.
Reset room. Now.
“What are you making?”
Oskar is already driving me crazy in dark blue jeans that are at least a size too small. I have to force my eyes upward, only to find him staring at my crotch. We’d split up to shop, and now he’s eyeing my basket.
I clear my throat. “If you will look at my other basket, you’ll see I’m making an American classic. Sloppy joes.”
A quite satisfying blush crawls across his cheeks as he raises his head. “Um… It seems I have been… busted, I think is the right word. Sorry about that.”
“No you aren’t.”
He licks his lips and looks down at the grocery basket. “What is that? I see the beef, but this?” He takes the can of sauce and holds it up for inspection.
“Ground beef and sauce on a hamburger bun,” I say. “It’s delicious. All the kids here eat it at school, and I still love it.”
“It does not look so healthy,” he says, putting the can back where he found it. “I am proud of you for your food sin. You cannot make the sauce?”
“I guess it’s possible,” I tell him, “but I never have. This flavor is classic.”
“Okay.” He draws the word out, clearly baiting me.
“What’ve you got, smartass?”
“I will serve you meatballs, a Swedish classic.”
“You mean Swedish meatballs?”
Fuck me. Then kill me.
Hurry.
His low laugh sends a flash of heat across my nape, and he moves closer until our thighs are pressed together.
“That would be correct,” he says.
“They’re frozen. You can’t make the meatballs?” He deserves that.
He shrugs. “I guess it’s possible, but this flavor is classic.”
I draw out a long, “Okay.”
We laugh, and then he says, “My mother makes them from scratch. I do not. But I promise this brand is delicious.”
I nod. “Let’s pay, then. I want to find out for myself.”
It’s only a five-minute walk to Oskar’s place.
The minute we get inside and drop the groceries on the counter, he strips off his sweatshirt in one smooth motion.
He’s wearing a light blue Henley that clings to his muscles.
The fabric stretches across his shoulders, dips into the hollow of his throat, and then follows the lines of his chest down to a perfect V.
The fit is so tight I can see the outline of his abs.
I know I’m staring, but so what. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch him.
“Kai?” His voice pulls me back. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” I manage, my voice a little rough. “Just… admiring the decor.”
He puts an arm around my shoulders. “Let me give you a tour.”
But he doesn’t move.
Oh, shit.
Sweat runs down the back of my neck.
His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up.
Neither of us says anything.
When he licks his lips, my brain nearly blue-screens.
He moves his hand to my back. “No tour. We’d better cook.”
The kitchen is all stainless steel and white tile. With the lights on, it’s so bright it hurts my eyes. It’s as cramped as a penalty box, so we touch every time either of us moves.
Not a bad thing. Right?
“Need the salt,” I say, already reaching around his waist. My knuckles glide against his hips.
“Here.” He turns and hands me the shaker, and his fingers brush mine.
Focus. Food. No being stupid.
I dump the ground beef into the pan. Too hot. The sizzle is so loud it sounds like I’ve set the kitchen on fire. I add salt, and the smell hits—searing meat, a little metallic, almost too much. I breathe through my mouth. Five-count in, four-count out.
“Your sloppy joes seem very American. Quick and convenient.”
“At least I didn’t use meatballs from Sweden in a plastic bag,” I shoot back, making sure he sees my smile. “What’s the deal with those, anyway? They look like little pucks.”
The crinkles at the corners of his eyes tell me he’s amused. “These are great, you’ll see. But Mormor, my grandmother, made the best meatballs. Beef and pork, more nutmeg than most people.”
“Nutmeg? Isn’t that for eggnog or something?”
He adds sauce to the pan and stirs it. “Once, my sister and I tried to make them for Mormor’s birthday. Disaster. It’s harder than it looks, and we forgot to add egg. She got meat soup for dinner.”
I can’t help laughing, and my hand slips as I add the sloppy joe sauce to the ground beef. Some of it spills on the countertop next to the stove.
“Shit!” I grab a paper towel and wipe at the mess.
Oskar watches as the sauce smears into a streak, and I start using both hands, pressing too hard. The paper towel tears. I squeak.
Squeak!
“It is fine, baby.” His voice is almost a growl. He gets another towel and wipes up the mess, then brushes his lips against my cheek. “Do not worry.”
My knees wobble. I wish he’d do it again, but he only looks at me.
I throw the towels away and try to regain my equilibrium. “Funny hockey story,” I say. “Go.”
He thinks for a minute as he stirs the meatballs. “I know. In juniors, we played against V?xjo. Their arena has a weird echo, so it’s hard to concentrate. To fight it, I started singing an ABBA song to myself during the game.”
It sounds ridiculous, but I get it. Hell, I’ve done it.
“ABBA?” I ask. “Seriously? Which one?”
He pulls himself to his full height, daring me to make fun of him. “‘Dancing Queen.’ I made it to the second chorus before I noticed a V?xjo defenseman had come over beside me, trying to block my view.”
“You didn’t see him coming?”
He shakes his head. “Told you the echo wrecked my focus. Anyway, the ref stopped play for icing, and the V?xjo guy looked at me and asked, ‘Singing about somebody you know or yourself, dancing queen?’ I told him, ‘I’m singing about you. You’re prettier than your girlfriend.’”
I start laughing again. “No way.”
“The guy went pale and skated away. Two years later, he hit on me at a club, but I wasn’t interested.”
My chest tightens, and what’s that about?
Christ.
“Your turn,” he says.
“I went to Boston College. Once, we had a game against BU. The ice was so soft my skates were sinking into the crease. I got stuck every time I went down to butterfly. Eventually, I had to pull myself out of the ice. Literally.”
He snickers and gives me a funny look. “I know you are very flexible. Maybe you need to stretch.”
“I do. I—”
Oh fuck. That’s heat in his eyes.
My knuckles graze his arm as I reach for the buns. Electricity shoots up my spine.
“Kai.” His voice isn’t much more than a growl. He turns off the burners under both our pans.
“Hmm?” Shit. I sound more like a kitten than a goalie.
He’s standing very close, and my pulse starts pounding in my ears.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then our lips crash together, and I’m lost. He cups my cheeks, and his tongue slides into my mouth, claiming me. The heat between us roars into a fire. I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer, needing to feel every inch of him against me.
My mind goes quiet as he deepens the kiss. His hands slide down my chest and settle on my waist. All I know is his mouth on mine, the slow glide of our tongues, and the safety of him holding me.
This kiss isn’t a question; it’s an answer.
He pushes me back against the counter. It digs into me, but I don’t care. All that matters is the starving, desperate way he’s kissing me.
There’s only us and the slick glide of our tongues, his hardness as he grinds against me.
Just as I’m about to melt into a puddle, he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine. We’re both panting.
“Bedroom?” he asks, his voice already wrecked.
“We said we’d eat,” I whisper.
“Eat later?”
I can’t find words, so I nod. He presses his lips to mine again, then puts his mouth near my ear and whispers something in Swedish.
“Fuck, Oskar.”
Then he takes my hand and leads me away.