4. Freya
Rory Campbell is one tall stretch of handsome hotness. Thick dark hair flops across his brow, only partially obscuring a face that has all the sharp angles of a Picasso portrait, except in his case, they are arranged in exactly the right way. In fact, his face would be bordering on too perfectly carved if it wasn’t softened by the day-old dark growth along his jawline.
I imagine the rough scratch of scruff along my softer skin and cross my legs to tamp down the thrill that zings through my body with a slight shiver.
He’s not at all what I was expecting as I take a moment to observe him from inside the bar. The man leaning casually back in a chair too small for his heavily muscled physique is nothing like the person I imagined on the other end of the call this morning. That man sounded like an angry, uptight old grump.
This version of the man is panty melting. His Scottish accent—without the annoyed edge to it—rolling off his sexy lips could only be more perfect if he was talking dirty. As I step through the doorway and his gaze turns to watch me walk the few steps to our table, my hand shakes slightly, foamy froth dripping onto my fingers.
The glasses clink as I set them on the hard table between us without any more spillage.
“Thank you again for being so understanding about the luggage mix-up. I really wasn’t thinking of anything but my mother.”
He smiles. “And how is she?” he asks before bringing the beer to his lips. I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he takes a long swallow.
“Well … really well, considering.” My mouth is dry, and the words come out sounding like I’ve just crawled out of bed after a big night with friends. I clear it before continuing. “And surprisingly cheerful, though I suspect that might change when the drugs wear off.”
“That’s good. I guess you’ll be going back to visit her later?” The question in his voice seems to hold more interest than a polite inquiry. Or maybe it’s just the sexy lilt in his Scottish accent that makes it sound that way.
“Yes, but not for a while.” Until then, I’m hoping he doesn’t have somewhere else to be.
“Aye, right.”
“Plenty of time for me to hear the Rory Campbell story,” I add with what I hope is a friendly smile. Rather than a scary throwing-myself-at-him type when I don’t even know if he has a significant other.
A pleasant, deep chuckle rumbles up from his chest before he raises his glass to his lips. The ringless left hand wrapped around it is twice the size of mine and work worn. The hand of a man used to manual labor.
“Not an exciting story, I’m afraid,” he responds. “I live in Edinburgh, where I work as an architect designing row upon row of ordinary houses.” His voice trails off.
I lean my elbow on the table, propping my chin in my palm. “Wow, you’re right, that can’t be exciting. But surely there is more to your story. I mean, your hands don’t look like they belong to someone who sits at a desk drawing.”
Again, he laughs. “You’ve been checking out my hands? Isn’t that a bit weird?”
“Not at all. A person’s hands can tell you so much about them.” I smile before sipping at my drink, savoring the hint of lime my uncle swears makes his craft beer the best in the city.
“And what do yours tell me about you?”
I place both of my hands on the table in front of me, palms down. “That I’m an artist who likes to paint in oils and can never quite get the paint out of her nails.”
He bends forward, pretending to inspect my hands. “I think you’re right.” He gently turns them over so they are palm up. His touch sends heat coursing through my veins like hot flowing lava. “You really can tell a lot about a person by their hands.” He turns his right one over so our palms are side by side. Apart from the obvious size difference, his callused palm appears rough compared to my soft, smooth skin.
Rory looks up and smiles, his dark eyes drawing me in and holding me captive. The laughter lines framing them possibly placing his age somewhere in his early thirties. I’ve always been attracted to older men—well, not really old, but definitely not the boys who seem to want to date me. My pals tell me I’m way too fussy and cynical for a twenty-six-year-old. They might be right because most of the good men have been snapped up by thirty. Which is why my dating life is a dismal wasteland. But I’d still rather wait for the unicorn thirty-something man to come my way than waste my time with a fumbling, immature man-child.
His voice pulls me back to reality with a jolt. “Freya?”
I blink, then quickly drop my gaze back down to our hands, which are still beside each other, less than an inch apart.
“Did I lose you there?” he asks, and I quickly shake my head.
A half frown pulls his eyebrows down. “I was only saying that I like to work with wood, making furniture in my spare time.” His words float between us, eventually finding their way to my brain.
Clearing my throat, I mumble, “See? I knew there was an interesting backstory there,” before pulling my hands back and tucking them safely one on top of the other on the table. The conversation feels a little too personal for two people who just met. It’s time to reset and bring things back to a more casual footing.
“What brings you to Iceland? Are you here with a partner, friends, or alone?” Okay, so that is probably not the best follow-up, but subtlety and I have never been friends. Besides, Rory and I were almost holding hands, so I need to know if he belongs to somebody else.
One brow rises and his smile widens. “I was meant to be meeting up with my brother and some friends for his buck’s weekend. But he had to cancel at the last minute because his baby isn’t well. So it’s just me.”
“Good … I mean, that’s unlucky. Is the baby okay?”
“Aye, he texted a short time ago to say the doctor thinks it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing. I guess being new parents, anything like a temperature would be worrying.”
“Do you have children?” There I go again, blurting out questions about his private life.
He laughs louder this time, and when he finally stops, he says, “Freya, I don’t have children, a wife, or a girlfriend.”
“That obvious?” I ask, a faint blush turning my cheeks pink.
“Aye. But while we’ve gone there, do you?” His eyes dance with amusement.
I shake my head. “No. No significant other, completely free to—” I stop mid-sentence, my fingers flying to my lips, forcing them to remain closed and not blurt out what I might want to do with him. I’ve only just met Rory, but it feels so simple and easy talking with him that I need to remind myself of the fact.
He reaches for my free hand. “I’m glad.” It’s lucky I’m sitting down because I think my heart literally just stopped.
“Another drink?” I ask. Even though I still have about half of mine to go, his glass is empty.
He withdraws his hand and stands. “Let me go.”
“Okay,” I squeak out, and the moment he disappears through the door, I drop my head to my hands on the table. I need to get a grip on myself. Two deep breaths, then I sit back up, pulling out my phone to check the time. I still have a little while before I’m expected at the hospital.
Rory returns with two more beers, and when he’s settled back into his seat, I’m ready to ask a preprepared innocuous question.
“What are your plans now that there’s no buck’s weekend?”
He blinks several times. I don’t know what he expected me to say, but I can bet it wasn’t that.
“It’s my first time here, and I’m looking forward to exploring your city, starting with the Nordic House tomorrow. And then I’m not exactly sure.”
“I love the Nordic House. Is there a particular exhibition you’re hoping to see?” This is good. A casual, normal conversation between two people who just met.
“Not really. I studied Scandinavian architecture at university—in particular, Alvar Aalto, the architect who designed the Nordic House.”
“He was Finnish, wasn’t he?”
Rory’s brows lift, and a grin stretches his cheeks wide. “You’ve heard of him?”
“Of course I have. I studied fine art at IUA, the Iceland University of the Arts. I virtually lived at the Nordic House, and I’ve even taken part in a couple of exhibitions.”
“I’m impressed. So I know you’re an artist; I’ve seen your hands.” He winks at me, and my belly flutters excitedly. “But where do you live?”
“Dublin. I’d like to tell you I’m a full-time artist, but really, my paintings could only be called a hobby at this point. One day I hope to change that, but until then, I’m happy working in a small art gallery in the city.” It’s more information than I’d usually tell someone I’d only just met.
His stare burns into me. But looking up is dangerous territory when his penetrating gaze seems to be peeling back my layers. So instead, I pick at the corner of the cardboard coaster under my glass, playing back the truth I just admitted, and something doesn’t feel right about what he said earlier.
“Rory, if you love architecture so much, why do you design houses you don’t like?”
His chin lifts, and he sits back in the chair. This time, his posture is stiffer, not casual, and his dark eyes, which minutes ago sparked with amusement, are dull dark orbs.
“Well, that’s a long story that we probably shouldn’t get into over a first drink.”
In my eagerness to understand him, I’ve pushed too far, forgetting that I’ve only known him for about an hour.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t be digging into your personal life. It’s a bad habit of mine.” I pull out my phone to check the time. “I think I should be going. You know, back to the hospital.”
Rory only nods, confusion furrowing his brow.
I want to see him again, but I’m not sure he feels the same. My chair scrapes loudly across the worn flagstones as I stand. “Enjoy your time in Reykjavik, and make sure you visit Laugavegur. It’s the main street in the city and has some great bars.” I roll his bag toward him and pull mine toward me. “We definitely have the right bags now,” I joke.
He rises to tower above me and my tummy flutters excitedly with his nearness.
“Do you think you could show me some of those bars? Local knowledge is always much better than stumbling about on my own.”
I nod furiously, not bothering to hide my eagerness. I’ve never been someone who pretends not to be interested when I am. Playing games about your feelings is a waste of time.
“Yes, I’m free between visits to the hospital. I’ll just check with my mother. Can I let you know later?”
“Aye, right.”
“I guess I’ve already got your number. You know, from before. So I’ll go now. See you tomorrow sometime.”
I’m not sure if I should hug him, kiss him, or just go like I said. After faltering in place for a moment, I turn to flee.
“Freya?”
I spin back to him, smiling, and stretch up on my toes to hug him, happy he didn’t want me to leave without a proper goodbye. His arms wrap around my waist. It’s a brief embrace but long enough for me to enjoy the feel of his strong shoulders beneath his sweater. I knew it. Under his clothes is a smoking hot body. I let go, and his arms drop to his sides.
“Ah, you forgot your bag.” He grins wide as his gaze drops to my bag exactly where I left it beside the table.
My hands dart to my beet-red face, and I actually groan. That’s embarrassing.
He chuckles while he peels my hands back. “I’m glad you forgot your bag this time.” He drops a kiss on my cheek, and butterflies play a game of tag in my stomach. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Freya.”
I nod, and this time when I turn to go, I drag my bag behind me. And yes, I did double-check to make sure it was mine.
***
“Those drugs must be really strong,” I joke when my aunt and I walk into my mother’s room. Her smile is still defying the fact that she had a difficult operation only this morning.
“Your father just called,” she says with the excitement of a small child promised a special treat. “He’s coming tomorrow.”
It’s perfect timing because one of his visits is guaranteed to make her forget that she’ll be stuck in this hospital bed for at least a couple of days.
“A happy accident between friends” is how my mother refers to my birth. My father was and still is her best friend. They were just out of high school, and he was on the brink of hitting fame and fortune with his band when they found out she was pregnant. Who my father was became our family secret and in time people stopped wondering. Even now, only those closest to us know and that’s the way we are all determined to keep it.
“Do you think he’ll have time for lunch with me?” I ask. Just like Mum, news of a visit from Pabbi has me grinning like a clown.
“You know your father would never miss that.”
“We’ve already got your special table reserved at the bar for midday tomorrow,” Embla adds.
Being home has just become even better, and I settle into the visitor’s chair closest to my mother.
Mum and Embla share a look that has me thinking they’re up to something.
“I hear your bag man was handsome,” my mother pronounces with all the subtlety of a bull in a chinaware shop. Of course she’s encouraged by Embla and another of those looks passes between the two women.
I huff out the breath in my lungs. “Mum, don’t go getting any ideas. We just met to swap the bags.”
“Changing bags takes probably ten minutes, so what did you talk about for the rest of the time?” Her eyebrow arches with hope. Since I hit my twenties, she’s taken more interest than she should in my dating life.
My head spins in the direction of my aunt. “Embla, what stories have you been telling my mother.”
Her shoulders lift in a cute shrug as a guilty smile tips the corners of her lips. I can’t be angry or surprised. My mother and aunt are each other’s eyes and ears. They tell each other everything.
In protest, I roll my eyes, but I know that it will do nothing to deter their probing questions “Fine. He’s totally hot,” I admit, before giving them a brief bland summary of my meeting with Rory.
It turns out picking up the wrong bag wasn’t so bad after all, especially when the wrong bag belongs to the right guy.