3. Rory
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me !I slump into the plastic chair near the luggage carousel and watch the last remaining bag go around. It’s not mine, though it looks suspiciously like it—same brand, color, and size. Okay, so it’s exactly the same piece of luggage, except for one crucial difference. The tag does not have my name on it.
There appears to be no airline staff around, seemingly having all disappeared along with the passengers wheeling or carrying their bags that arrived safely. There’s only one thing to do. I jump up, my hand flying to my head with the sudden movement because, of course, my head is still pounding painfully. Each step toward the solitary bag on the now-stationary carousel is another hammer-like rap on my skull. Keeping my head as still as possible, I wheel it back to the seat and sit. Hope flutters in my chest when I turn the tag over and see a name and phone number in legible black ink. There’s probably something I could tell about the bag owner through the fine flowing lettering, but all I care about at this point is getting my own luggage back.
Rapidly, I type Freya Jonsdottir’s number into my phone, and a sigh of relief escapes from my lungs as I listen to the ringtone. But two rings later, the call disconnects.
What the fuck!The relief I’d felt seconds ago deflates quicker than a popped balloon.
Silence fills my ear; there’s not even an option to leave a voicemail. Is she on another call? Or did she deliberately disconnect me? I click to redial, and again, I’m disconnected.
For fuck’s sake! I dial again, tempted to throw my phone across the polished concrete floor. Instead, a low growl rumbles up from my chest and is expelled on my next breath. It’s probably a good thing I’m the only remaining person in this area of the airport, or they’d think some rabid animal had just been let loose.
This time, a female voice answers, and her tone instantly raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “Yes?” she demands.
“Is this Freya Jonsdottir?” I throw back at her with the same level of attitude. After all, it wasn’t me who took the wrong fucking bag.
“Yes, I’m Freya. Who is this?” Her voice has mellowed, and if I wasn’t in such a mood, I would probably enjoy the lilting tone and the slight accent as she says her name with a roll of her tongue.
“Rory Campbell. And I believe you picked up my luggage at the airport instead of yours.” I try to temper my tone, but it’s hard to hold back the frustration I’m feeling at her careless actions.
“How do you know that?” Trepidation coats her words.
“Because … I have an identical-looking bag right beside me, but it has your name on the tag instead of mine. And I’m still sitting at the luggage carousel, which has stopped because there are no more bags coming out,” I explain slowly, not wanting to have to repeat myself. Just to be sure, and with a touch of sarcasm I add, “I assume you collected a bag from the carousel?” My words drip sarcasm.
“Just a moment.” A rustling sounds on the other end of the phone before I’m put on hold.
But less than a minute later, she’s back. “I’m so sorry, sir.” And the way she rolls the r on sir has me listening more closely to the faint inflections of her accent. “I was in a rush to get to the hospital to see my mother,” she tries to explain, and the more she talks, the more I listen. It’s not the explanation that’s soothing my temper but the soft, elfin-like quality of her voice as she continues. “You see, she had an accident late yesterday, and I came from Dublin on the first flight to be here when she woke up from her surgery. It’s been hard getting any news, and I didn’t know how she was until I arrived at the hospital.”
She appears to catch her breath, then asks more slowly, “How do I fix this mess?” Her voice trails off into silence, and I don’t know if the question is rhetorical or addressed to me. It’s hard to focus on the words and ignore the faint sniffling. It sounds like she’s crying, and I feel like an asshole for bothering her in a distressing situation, even though none of this is my fault.
“I hope your mother is okay,” I offer, trying to erase the last remnants of annoyance from my voice. “And I can keep your bag with me until we’re able to swap them back. That seems like the simplest option.”
I don’t really want to have to try and find an airline worker to explain the mix-up, as that will probably mean I won’t see my bag until my return flight on Monday morning. That’s the way my luck is running at the moment.
“Yes, that seems to be the best. Let’s do that?” Her voice sounds a little happier with an agreed plan.
“Aye! Just one small thing. Could you give me the code to your bag so I can be reassured that I won’t get arrested by customs for bringing anything illegal into the country? I don’t think you sound like a drug courier, but you can never be sure.”
“Oh … okay, that makes sense. It’s zero-two-six. And again, I’m really very sorry to have caused you this trouble, sir.” Her reuse of the word sir has my ears pricking up and my cock twitching in appreciation. This girl, who sounds to be in her twenties, could make a fortune as a sexy voice-over.
We agree that she’ll text me when she’s finished at the hospital, then end the call. And not a moment too soon as inappropriate thoughts about the stranger on the other end of the line begin to fill my head.
It’s been a while since I had the free time to enjoy some female company, considering nearly every waking moment has been spent working, even on the weekends. This break with the boys will be the first chance I’ve had to kick back and enjoy myself in months. And I plan on making the most of it.
I lay the bag flat on the floor and twist the numbers into the code she gave me. It feels wrong opening someone else’s luggage, even with their permission. But it’s best to be sure. The lock clicks open with a loud snick, and I unzip it before lifting up the top half. A big mistake, because out pops an array of brightly colored scraps of lace and tiny triangles of black silk.
Wow, the girl likes her lingerie. Actually, I like her lingerie, and I can’t stop my mind from picturing the underwear before me with the sexy voice from the phone call.
Carefully, I move the top layer of underwear to the side and find a crumpled pile of plain T-shirts in white, black, gray, and pink, along with some jeans and sweaters. In a scrunched-up ball in one corner is some gold sparkly fabric. I don’t bother touching it as it’s too small to hold anything. Scattered among the clothing is a selection of shoes, boots, and joggers, none of them together in pairs. I reach my hand between everything to check there’s nothing dubious in the bottom, and my hand snags on a thick plastic stick.
No, it’s not a stick. Oh, for fuck’s sake! Please don’t let that be what I think it is. I run my hand along the length, and—
Yep, it”s a vibrator, and I pull back as if burned.
I stare down at the messy contents; it looks exactly the same way I found it. Nothing is neatly folded like she would find if she looked in my bag. I guess she did say she was in a hurry. For me, even rushing, I would still need to fold every item individually, packing them neatly, and bag every pair of shoes separately. I hate chaos in any form, and it’s been that way since I was a kid. I was the one who would always pack my toys away in their boxes without being asked, even doing the same for my siblings. At the time, it felt like it was the only thing I was able to control. And it had the added benefit of not giving my father a reason to take out his rage on one of his children.
I close the lid of the bag and zip it up. There’s no contraband, and that’s all I need to be thinking about after looking through a stranger’s luggage. Now I just have to hope border control doesn’t want to go through the bag too.
For the first time today, I feel like my luck is turning. Security waved me through without a second glance, and I was able to get a taxi straight away without having to stand in a queue.
When the taxi pulls up to the bed and breakfast a little later, it’s not my accommodation that holds my attention. It’s impossible not to be wowed by the sight of the distinctive white Hallgrimskirkja church across the street from it. I could have booked us into a five-star hotel for the weekend, and we certainly would have all been able to afford it, but luxury doesn’t buy you this iconic view.
The hotel sits at the bottom of the hill, closer to the center of the city and overlooking the harbor. All very nice, but as the organizer of the accommodation and an architect influenced by the Nordic style, I chose this place instead. And I couldn’t be happier standing here on the hilltop, staring at the tall tower of the church, a readily recognized Reykjavik landmark and a stunning example of Icelandic architecture.
I’m quickly checked in by Ingrid, the owner, and directed toward a steep, narrow set of stairs. I climb three flights, awkwardly dragging Freya’s luggage behind me. Pausing near the top, I realize I should have left the bag downstairs. My headache is turning into a migraine, impeding my usual good judgment and making my brain as effective as a ball of cotton wool rather than fully functioning neurons.
The time flashes on my watch, and I figure I’ve got about an hour before I can expect a text from Freya. Desperately seeking relief, I scrabble about in my backpack, snag the box of Ibuprofen and pop a couple in my mouth, glad I kept them in my backpack. I swallow them whole with a few gulps of water, hoping they will take effect instantly but knowing it”s more likely to take about ten minutes.
Entering my room, the cold hardwood floorboards creak with each labored step I take toward the bed, literally falling into it. And instead of a firm mattress supporting my weight, I bob about on the surface. It’s a fucking waterbed, and I jiggle around like I’m sitting in a bowl of jello. Who puts a waterbed in a bed and breakfast? But as I remember the narrow, steep stairs I climbed up to my room, it starts to make more sense.
Not wanting to spring a leak with any sharp objects, I kick off my shoes and remove my belt. I haven’t had much experience with waterbeds, so who knows if that’s even a possibility. I cautiously ease back into the center of the queen-sized bed with a slosh of water and try to stay as still as possible until the swaying slows and eventually stops. And when it no longer feels like I’m in a rowboat on a stormy sea, I do manage to sleep.
What seems like only minutes later, the buzz of my phone vibrating its way across the side table near my head wakes me. I snatch it up, relieved my head feels human again.
It’s Drew, probably calling to check the arrangements one more time.
“Halo, bro,” I greet.
“Hey, bro. I’ve got some bad news.” He pauses with a heavy sigh before continuing. “Anna is sick with a high temperature. The doctor said it’s probably a virus, but she’s so small, and no matter what Katie and I do, she won’t settle.” In the background, their three-month-old baby is crying. Poor little Anna. She’s a wee bonnie lass, and I hate hearing she’s sick.
“Fuck, that’s not good.”
“Aye, right. Anyway, I’m really sorry, but I can’t travel this weekend.”
I know my brother, and I can tell in the tone of his voice how worried he is. Responsibility and loyalty run deep with Drew. My brother went to war, facing life-and-death situations on a daily basis as a member of the SAS, and he held his nerve. But when it comes to his baby girl, he goes to pieces.
“Of course, you need to stay with Katie and Anna. We can reschedule to another time,” I reassure him.
“I know how hard it was for you to get time away.” He’s right. It was tricky finding a weekend everyone could do. But that’s not important.
“Mate, you know I always wanted to visit Iceland, so it’s fine. But what about the boys? Are they still coming?”
“No, they’re going to cancel their flights since they weren’t flying till tomorrow morning.”
“Makes sense. Works out well for me, too, because it means I can do my own thing.”
“You mean salivate over buildings. I swear your love of bricks and mortar borders on a weird kink.”
I laugh. “Not everyone is lucky enough to find the woman of their dreams. So stop bugging me and get back to your lasses. I’ve got somewhere to be.”
Before I disconnect the call, I ask him to keep me updated on Anna. I’ve only met my niece once, and already, she’s stolen a piece of my heart.
My weekend plans have changed, but Drew wasn’t far wrong when he suggested I’m obsessed with buildings. Reykjavik is a city I’ve wanted to visit from the time I became interested in architecture and studied the Finnish twentieth-century architect Alvar Aalto at university. His designs influence my own preferred style of simplicity and clean modern lines. If only I had the freedom in my current job to design the kind of structures I could be passionate about rather than the unimaginative boxes the previous partners insisted we all adhere to and the new management has doubled down on. But I don’t want to think about work this weekend. I need this break, and I plan on making the most of it.
I take a quick shower, then sit at the small wooden desk, a local map spread out in front of me. Everything I want to see is nearby, and I come up with a rough plan to see them all over the next two days, starting with the iconic church just visible through the glass doors that open onto a tiny balcony. It’s about four, so I could go now before Freya messages.
But then my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
It’s Freya, like somehow thinking her name telepathically transmitted a message to her. She’s suggesting we meet at a bar in a couple of hours, and after I consult the map again, I find it’s only an easy couple of blocks away.
I like the message before heading out to spend this time in between wandering around Hallgrimskirkja.
***
To the minute, I arrive at the bar Freya named, dragging her bag behind me. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim lighting after the still-bright daylight on the street outside. There aren’t many people inside, and of the few I can see clearly, none of them match what I imagine Freya to look like.
In my head, she’s a single thirty-something-year-old lass. I readjusted to this after seeing the contents of her bag and tried to imagine the owner of the sexy lingerie.
Maybe a corporate highflyer or a shy librarian type with a secret love of silk and lace? Or perhaps a homebody who doesn’t go out much, her only pleasure pretty lingerie and a large vibrator. Nope, there are no women here who fit any of those descriptions. I squint into the darker recesses of the bar. There isn’t even a single female with luggage beside them to make things easier. She’s probably late, because if there was one thing I discovered from her bag, it’s that Freya Jonsdottir is totally disorganized.
A couple of steps further, a large man looms from the darkness, giving off angry Viking vibes. But I have enough of that same Viking blood flowing through my veins that I’m not intimidated. Although it’s not often that I consider another man large, given my height, but this guy has at least a couple of inches on me.
“How can I help you?” he booms.
“I’m looking for Freya Jonsdottir. Do you know her?”
He looks down at the bag beside me. “You’re Scottish,” he accuses while puffing his chest out. What’s this guy’s problem? If he owns the place, it’s a strange business model to greet patrons while oozing with threats. I stand my ground and return his glare.
“This way,” he commands, seeming to come to some decision in his head that I’m not easily intimidated and don’t plan to be any trouble.
He leads me through the dark bar and out the back again to a small outdoor courtyard with a collection of wooden tables in various sizes and shapes. An equally eclectic array of colorful chairs arranged around them. All of them are empty except for one of the longer wooden tables against the back brick wall, where a woman sits alone, perched on the edge of her seat, a bag beside her. Hearing my arrival, she turns my way, and I almost trip over my feet. She’s breathtakingly stunning. Nothing at all like I imagined. A beauty who would stop traffic on any day of the week.
Blond waves cascade over her shoulders, falling in a river of gold down her back to disappear beneath the low wooden rails of the chair. A few shorter silky strands escaping to brush against the creamy flawlessness of her skin. I assume she’s never spent time baking on a beach in the summer sun like I’ve done more times than I should have. Her heart-shaped face is so perfect, it’s surprising she’s not instantly recognizable as the face of one of those expensive cosmetics companies.
But it’s her full lips that draw my attention as they press together, then release into a slow smile. It’s like the weak Reykjavik sun has been turned up to summer-in-Benidorm levels. It’s impossible not to respond to her warm greeting with a grin of my own. Realizing it’s too much, I dial my response down a little as I move toward her.
She stands with the fluidity of an athlete, with long, graceful limbs and curves in all the right places. Pine tree-green eyes capture me, and suddenly, I’m wandering lost in their Nordic Forest depths. My step falters again, and I almost miss her offered hand. Luckily, I took it in mine before it could become awkward. My other hand tightens around the handle of the bag I’m still dragging behind me, like it’s a lifeline holding my feet steady.
“Freya,” I greet in a low voice, trying not to remember that this woman is the same one who owns the suitcase filled with a plethora of lacy underwear. I never expected the owner to be this beautiful, stylish young woman in casual, fitted jeans and a cable-knit sweater. She looks like she’s barely out of college, and I feel like a bit of a creep remembering the effect her underwear had on me.
“Rory?” Her smile opens fully, and it’s blinding. I don’t remember ever having a visceral reaction to a woman of this level before, and all I can do is nod in response. My friends back home would be doubled over laughing if they could see the tongue-tied mess I’m making of this introduction. The infamous Rory Campbell, floored by the beauty of one Icelandic princess.
Fuck, I’m a way-too-old-for-her kind of creep.
“Please sit,” she offers, and realizing I’m still holding her hand, I quickly release it along with my grasp on her bag. Happy to divert my attention elsewhere, I thank her and take a seat on the opposite side of the table.
She remains standing, and when I’ve shuffled onto the narrow wooden straight-back chair, she asks, “Would you like a drink? I can recommend my uncle’s craft beer. He brews it downstairs.”
I tilt my head toward the doorway where the angry Viking giant disappeared. “That was your uncle? I hope he knows this isn’t a date.”
She laughs, a cute, melodic sound that makes me want to say something amusing to earn me another. But my head is still busy imagining this gorgeous woman in that sexy lingerie.
With a slight nod, I find my words. “If you’ll join me, I’d love a beer.”
She smiles, then slips away to order our drinks. It takes more willpower than it should to avert my gaze from her perfect ass as she disappears through the door. I’ve never been that kind of guy, and I’m not going to start now. I’m here to resolve a bag mix-up. So why am I planning to stay long enough for a drink? Because Freya, with her friendly, pretty smile, seems like a much more interesting option than wandering the streets of Reykjavik alone. Even with the prospect of seeing one of the iconic landmarks on my list.
I sink into the chair, my grumpiness from the disastrous start to my day completely forgotten.