6
“The thatch is looking a little thin there, Reedton.” Maria pointed toward a particularly sparse spot on the roof. “I thought
you were all about professionalism and doing the job right?”
Hahafuckingha. Peter’s scowl didn’t noticeably discomfit her, but maybe further exposure would do the trick. He’d persevere.
“I didn’t see you perched on top of that wall and wrestling straw, Ivarsson, so shut it.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger
and mimed zipping his mouth closed. “That scene was a pain in the ass.”
In fact, anyone in their right mind would find the entire roof-thatching process miserable. Ye Olde Thatchery Enthusiasts might resent that conclusion, but they’d be fucking wrong .
Exhibit A: the endless goddamn threshing with a primitive flail to remove grain from the straw. Exhibit B: the afternoon spent
twisting grass and straw into ropes, ones that would secure the roof to the stones of the permanent shelter they’d built.
The task left Maria’s hands blistered and so stiff she’d barely been able to hold a fork at dinner that night.
But Maria hadn’t bemoaned those blisters, and she didn’t mind physical labor. He didn’t either. The weather maintained enough
coolness and cloud cover, even in the middle of summer, that they didn’t sweat to death. And working side by side with her
was—
Anyway, yeah, those parts weren’t so bad. They were actually kind of . . . enjoyable?
But they shouldn’t have been. If, to reiterate, he’d been in his right mind, rather than trapped in Maria’s Tractor Beam of
Charm and Fun.
Which brought him to Exhibit C, because attempting to attach various dried grains and grasses to a layer of sod while perched
high in the air on a famously windswept island? Yeah, that did blow. Literally and figuratively.
He could only hope the locals’ various horses, cows, sheep, and goats appreciated the free all-you-can-eat straw buffet that
descended on them from the heavens for an entire fucking week.
“You’ve been bitching about your stupid windblown straw for days, Peter.” She shook her head at him, a bemused smile curving
her wide mouth. “I don’t understand why that part of things got under your skin so badly.”
He knew one thing for certain: His displeasure had nothing to do with how he and Maria had filmed separately all that week.
In the script, while Cyprian struggled with the damn roof, Cassia walked the perimeter of the island in search of more salvageable
goods washed ashore from their shipwrecked vessel. They hadn’t needed to be on camera together, and that was fine. A welcome
break from several months of close proximity, actually, and some much-needed time off from work when the crew tackled her
scenes.
So her absence during filming definitely wasn’t the issue. His ill-fated attempts at installing the roof were simply frustrating,
and that would’ve been true even if she’d helped him.
Very, very true.
So true. The truest.
Hmmm.
Lying to himself had grown easier over time, what with all his recent practice, but he’d never gotten better at believing the lies. A shame, that.
He crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing her balefully. “Keep taunting me about the roof, and I’ll force-feed you seaweed,
Pippi.”
Maintaining a threatening demeanor became significantly more difficult at that point, since Maria produced a glass jar of
herring, seemingly from midair, and shook it approximately an inch from his nose.
No closer, though, because she didn’t touch him off camera, and he returned that favor.
“So help me, skitstovel , if you call me Pippi one more time...” Shake shake shake .
After three months with Maria, he knew what skitstovel meant.
Shit-boot. Swedish insults were fucking bizarre.
He bit his lip, then regained his composure. “You’ll do what? Dye your hair red, sling it into two weird braids that defy
the laws of physics, and sleep with your feet on your pillow?”
There wasn’t much to do at night on the island, so revisiting Astrid Lindgren’s stories hadn’t proven a hardship. Not when
Maria’s irritation rewarded his efforts so handsomely.
“I will brain you with herring and dethatch the shit out of that roof, Peter.” Her eyes had gone squinty, but her cheeks were
quivering as she tried not to laugh. “Don’t test me.”
“Too late.” He swept an arm around them, indicating the day’s setup. “We’re past the point where thatchery hooliganism would
cause problems for me. And if you give me a concussion now, with the last day of filming incomplete, you’ll keep the crew
away from their families for longer than necessary.”
She fake-glared at him, which he found very enjoyable.
Not too enjoyable, though. Not unusually enjoyable. Just a normal amount.
“ Fine .” Her jar of herring— sill , she called it—disappeared once more, into whatever convenient black hole she concealed on her person. “But sooner or later,
I’ll have my vengeance, Reedton.”
“I’m all aquiver,” he stated in tones of unmitigated boredom, then yawned widely.
She couldn’t hold back any longer. Her inimitable cackle nearly deafened him, and he couldn’t help but laugh too.
Ramón waved them back to their places with an indulgent smile, and the two of them reentered the house they—and the crew—had
built together.
This last day of filming before their lengthy break was a celebration, on camera and off. The shipwrecked Vikings had put
together a feast for their first evening in their new home, the stone structure they hoped would see them through a harsh
winter. Another, presumably less seaweed-intensive feast was waiting for the entire crew at the hotel, because they wouldn’t
return to the island or see each other again for several months.
This should be their final take of the day, because otherwise they’d be letting Fionn’s food go cold, a near-criminal act.
Their final take for some time to come.
Suddenly, he didn’t feel the slightest urge to smile.
Side by side, he and Maria sat at a simple table Cassia and Cyprian had pieced together from yet more salvaged wood, its surface
crammed with all the bounty the island could provide in late summer. The countdown to action began.
And he decided that tonight, at long last, he’d say what needed to be said.
After dinner, he waited until everyone else had disappeared into their suite or left the hotel for their own lodgings. Then he knocked at Maria’s door for the first time ever.
It swung open a moment later, and her brow furrowed at the sight of him. “Peter? Are you all right?”
He had no idea how to answer that question. “May I come in?”
Without hesitation, she ushered him inside her suite. Where, he could immediately see, she’d been packing for her return to
Sweden the next day. Half-filled suitcases littered the floor, including one with—
Dammit, he did not need a reminder of what her panties looked like.
“If you’re thirsty, I have sparkling water in the minifridge,” she said, waving him toward her low-slung couch. “Or—”
“I’m sorry.”
There. There it was, finally.
She closed her mouth and blinked up at him.
He shifted his weight but forced himself to maintain eye contact. “I said a lot of shitty things to you in that LA parking
lot, and I want you to know that I was wrong, and I apologize.”
A slow smile of malicious glee dawned on her expressive face.
Even though he’d remained standing, she lowered herself onto the sofa and stretched out lazily. Like a satisfied cat. Or,
more aptly, like a queen claiming her space, confident of her own power.
Her chin tipped high to watch him. “Wrong how? Please be specific.”
Yep. She intended to milk every last drop of penitence out of his long-overdue apology, and he couldn’t even blame her. He’d
been an asswipe.
“You might have been new to television when you got this role, but you weren’t an amateur when it came to acting.
There is no conceivable way filming alongside you could ever hurt my career, and I knew that by the end of our first day in the studio together.
” He sighed, then told her the rest. “I looked up the theaters in Stockholm where you worked before, and they’re impressive.
So were the recordings of your performances available online, although I obviously didn’t understand all the Swedish. ”
That was more evidence of his obsession with her than he’d wanted to share, but she deserved to hear it.
Propping her elbow on the sofa’s arm, she rested her cheek in her hand and raised her brows. “You cyberstalked me. How flattering.”
He wouldn’t say cyberstalked , exactly. He’d simply... researched her. Extensively. Via her website, all extant YouTube clips of her work and interviews,
and her social media accounts from five years ago until the present.
Which was, clearly, very different from cyberstalking.
With enough practice, surely he’d believe his own lies someday. Today, however, was not that day.
Whatever. Better to abandon the topic of cyberstalking and cover the last bit of the speech he’d been mentally rehearsing
all evening.
“Your talent is undeniable, and you work hard.” He swallowed over a dry throat, suddenly longing for that sparkling water.
“You make the set a better, happier place every day.”
Her face softened at that, her smile gentling. “That’s a lovely thing to say. Thank you.”
He firmly believed he was an asset to any production that cast him. That said: On most sets, when the cameras stopped rolling,
he remained entirely himself—in the worst of ways.
Quiet to the point of surliness. Unable to fit into the group. On the outside looking in, and so used to the view that he didn’t bother trying anymore.
Maria, though...
She was a midnight sun, drawing everyone into her orbit. She shone . She brightened everything around her. Including him.
Maybe because she was entirely comfortable in her own skin, she seemed to enjoy herself so damn much, always. And with her casual ease and good cheer, her inexorable magnetism, she’d repeatedly drawn him