Chapter 29
Mattias
Despite my usual reservations, I’m highly considering chugging half a bottle of akvavit when the doorbell rings five minutes earlier than expected.
I grit my teeth, glance at the bottle in my freezer that's been sitting there since last Christmas, then decide better of it.
I should keep my wits if I'm going to be on camera. I go to open the door.
My least favorite trio (and I have a lot, like the Dallas Rattlers’ starting line) are waiting on the other side.
Hearst is wearing a Santa hat, even though it’s still October.
I don’t even have time to say anything rude about it before her cameraman brushes past me, inviting himself and his ugly Bears hat into my home.
“Manners, much?” the Texan says, echoing my thoughts.
“I’m from Jersey, Parker. We don’t have manners,” Ryan says over his shoulder.
Parker and Hearst look at me expectantly, making me realize I’m still in the doorway, taking up too much space.
“By all means,” I step aside, sarcasm lacing my words.
Hearst is carrying three bags of groceries, and the trio wanders inside, making themselves too at home for my liking.
“Please take off your shoes,” I admonish. None of them have bothered, tramping all the dirt and filth from wherever they’ve been all over my entry hall.
“Sorry,” Hearst says, her platitude diametrically opposed to the way she rolls her eyes.
“If you did that in Sweden, you’d be crucified, just so you know. This way.” I shove past the three of them and lead them to my kitchen.
“Nice place,” the cameraman remarks. I can’t tell if he means it, and it makes me oddly self-conscious.
“Thank you,” I say, not that I know anything about design. I pay someone for that.
Hearst deposits her bags on my kitchen island, and already the troll twins are breaking out their film gear.
I lean against my countertop, watching Hearst silently.
When she starts digging through my kitchen drawers, I let her.
Other company aside, there’s something I don’t entirely hate about watching her familiarize herself with my flat.
“Do you have a tenderizer?” she asks. I put one hand on her shoulder and gently move her out of the way, opening the correct drawer. Only, for some reason, I don’t drop my hand. She doesn’t shrug it off, either.
“Here.” I hand it to her and step away, my fingers lingering on her an extra moment before I restore an appropriate distance between us.
“What’s on the menu?” I say like an idiot, trying to keep the heat out of my face.
“One guess,” the Texan interjects. Hearst gives me a sardonic smile, and suddenly I feel like there’s a joke being had at my expense.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I say.
“What, you don’t like my Kubrick smile?” Hearst replies.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“If you guessed meatballs, it’s your lucky day.” Hearst pulls out what I can only describe as an entire log of meat.
I stare at it. “You can’t be serious.”
“Unless you’d rather pickle your own herring? I thought it’d be fun to make everyone cook something traditional from their hometowns.”
“I can’t believe someone is paying money to have this produced,” I say under my breath.
“Poirier’s making hamburger soup.”
“What the fuck is that?”
“Some Saskatchewanian abomination,” Hearst says.
“I’d rather die,” Parker comments.
“Damn, I was looking forward to poutine,” Ryan says.
Parker knocks his hat off his head. “That’s the PB&J of Canada. When are you gonna grow a real palate, bucko?”
“Simple is good,” Ryan quips as he picks it up.
“Where did you find these?” I move to Hearst’s side, plucking a jar of lingonberries out of her hand and scrutinizing the label. I’m close to her again—too close—but she doesn’t move away and I don’t really mind.
She bites her lip. “A furniture store which shall remain nameless.”
I narrow my eyes. “A furniture store with a blue and yellow facade?”
“I would never. Anyway, I brought you this.” She reaches into her tote like she’s Mary fucking Poppins and unfurls an apron.
“I’m not wearing that,” I say immediately. It’s red and white with a thick black belt sewn across the front. A Santa apron.
The look in her eye is devilish as she says, “That’s not all.”
She takes the hat off her head and starts towards me.
“No,” I say, taking a step back.
“Get over here, Falkenberg.”
“I said I’m not wearing that.” I circle the island to put it between her and myself, making the cameraman stumble out of the way. I’ve never worn a Santa hat and I’m not starting today.
“Be my guest explaining that to my father, then. He’s already signed off on it and I’m not in the mood to get steamrolled,” she says.
“So used to getting your way, aren’t you,” I remark.
“Hardly. Now get over here and put on the apron, Krampus. If you’re a good boy I’ll refrain from posting pictures on the team’s socials.”
My hackles raise at the way she says good boy, like I’m some kind of pet. It makes me feel like a dog chewing through its leash.
“Just do it, Falkenberg, for fuck’s sake. A little roleplay never hurt anybody,” Parker sighs.
“Easy for you to say,” Ryan murmurs.
Hearst and Parker then proceed to look at him, simultaneously saying, “What?”
“What?” he repeats.
What the fuck?
“Fine. I’ll do it,” I snap when the gnome-looking man fails to offer an explanation. “If only so I can get you all of my house as soon as possible.”
I walk over to Hearst and snatch the Santa hat from her hands, ignoring the way my skin prickles as her fingers brush mine. Then I snatch the apron, too, and tie it around my waist.
Fan i helvete. I look ridiculous.
Freddie and her minions erupt in laughter, and my neck grows hot—just as Ryan starts rolling the camera. This day can’t end quickly enough. I briefly wonder if I would have signed my ten-million-a-year contract had I known it would include this.
“Wait. It’s crooked,” Hearst says, regarding the hat, and she reaches for it atop my head but can’t quite grasp it.
She places a hand against my chest to balance herself as she stands on her tip toes to straighten it.
The unexpected touch reminds me of our first meeting, only this time, I don’t recoil.
“Perfect,” Hearst smirks.
I watch, dumbfounded, as she flits about my kitchen, opening and closing drawers while she pulls groceries out of her bag and gathers utensils and cookware.
How does she know where to look for things?
Didn’t she grow up with a live-in chef? When she bends over to look for something in one of my cabinets, I force myself to look the other way, my fingertips pressing hard into the wooden countertop.
I glance at the trolls instead. Parker is watching me with a cool expression, boom in their hand while Ryan unpacks and adjusts his lighting setup.
I can’t remember the last time anyone was in my kitchen, aside from to grab a glass of water.
I’m not the kind of guy who lets you get so far as sleeping over, let alone the kind that cooks breakfast afterwards.
“I think that’s everything. Mattias, stand right here.” Hearst gestures to where she’d like me.
“A little left. He’s practically translucent under that kitchen light,” Ryan comments.
I shoot him a dirty look.
Then it registers. She’s just said my name, like it’s something she uses every day.
I blink, caught off guard.
“What, are you having trouble getting into character?” she says wryly, making my attention dip briefly to her mouth.
Oblivious, she continues, “You and Santa probably have more in common than you think. You’re both from the North Pole.
He’s the captain of his sled, you’re the captain of your team.
You both keep a strict schedule and you both weird me the fuck out—”
“Shut up, Hearst,” I say, moving to stand where she’s indicated.
“Just one more step to the side. Ryan’s right.” She lays a gentle hand on my ribs to guide me.
I don’t hate it like I should.
I press my palms flat against the countertop again, desperate to look anywhere but the camera while I’m wearing this moronic getup and trying not to think about where else I’d like my boss’s daughter to touch me in front of two strangers.
Hearst steps behind the camera. “I think you should introduce yourself and we’ll go from there.”
“Look into the camera for this one, Falkenberg,” Ryan adds.
I’m so thankful none of the team are here to see this.
Grimacing, I point my body towards the camera and look directly into the lens. “Hi. My name is Mattias Falkenberg, and these are Swedish meatballs.”