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A laugh rumbles up from his chest and is released into the light breeze. It fills my own with a similar bubble of happiness. This is exactly what I needed after having to say goodbye to my father.
Slowly, we continue our circuit, stopping occasionally to look at the large sculptures dotted around the grounds. Back at the front, we go inside. I’ve spent countless hours viewing the Kjarval paintings housed in this museum, and I recognize each stroke of the artist’s brush. It’s like looking through an album of family portraits and remembering the first time I viewed them. I afford each canvas a thorough inspection, and Rory stands beside me, doing the same, only moving on to the next when I do.
At the end, we enter a Norse mythology and Icelandic folklore exhibition. He stops in front of a painting of a strange, humped sea creature.
“It looks a bit like the Loch Ness Monster,” Rory pronounces. And as we continue through the exhibition, we search for more similarities between the folklore of Iceland and the stories he remembers from his childhood. Scottish and Icelandic cultures are both filled with mythical creatures. Where I grew up with elves and trolls, Rory’s stories were more about shape-shifting spirits living in the lochs and seas. The traditions are surprisingly similar.
Sometimes our hands link, sometimes our bodies brush against each other, but with each touch and the more time I spend in his presence, the attraction grows.
Initially, it seemed like we had nothing in common other than the same taste in luggage. He is Scottish, and I’m Icelandic. He grew up with four siblings, and I was an only child. He has a stable professional career, even if he doesn’t like what he’s doing, while I’m still trying to find my place in the world.
However, in just one day, I’ve learned that there is so much more that we share. I’m falling for Rory, which is probably a bad idea, given he’s only here for the weekend.
But I’ve never had a bad idea I didn’t end up liking.
Chapter seven
Rory
“Can I take you to dinner tonight?” I ask, standing outside Asmundarsafn. It looks like we are the last to leave as the staff close the doors behind us. I take her colder hands in my warm ones, and a zap of static electricity travels up my arm from the point of contact. There must be moisture in the air. Or maybe it’s these shoes.
“I’d like that. How about we meet at a bar on Laugavegur?”
“Is that the street you recommended last night?”
She nods, blond waves bouncing around her, and I can’t help myself. I bend to brush my lips against hers. God, I’ve been wanting to do that all day, and it’s as fucking amazing as I thought it would be. Her lips are cool and sweet and so tempting that I bend to sample some more. But I’m too slow, because her head turns as a couple of women speaking Icelandic walk past, and her cheeks flush pink.
“Do you want to translate that?” I ask, knowing the women said something to cause the reaction.
“No, the compliment will just go to your head.” She reaches up on her toes to kiss me briefly. “I’ll text you the address of the bar and see you at seven.” Without waiting for my response, she spins on her heel and walks away in the opposite direction of the one I need to take.
I watch the sway of her denim-clad hips until she disappears from view. With a quick adjustment of my semihard junk, I stride back through the quiet late afternoon streets to my accommodation. I may need to pump one out in the shower before meeting Freya, just to relieve a bit of the pressure building in my groin.
Now, that’s something I’ve never had to do before a date.
***
I can’t take my eyes off her or the gold shimmery dress that skims the curve of her butt and threatens to display a whole lot more every time she moves on the barstool. But where most women would pair the cocktail dress with heels, that’s not what Freya has done. Her foot, currently swinging at the end of her crossed legs, is encased in a classic Dr. Martens chunky platform boot laced up over her ankle. It’s kick-ass empowering, and along with the black leather jacket she’s been wearing most of the night, it’s a rock-chick style that suits her free, impulsive personality perfectly. If there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s that Freya doesn’t like to dance to anyone else’s tune.
And I like it a lot. It's a sexy, untamed combination.
“Another drink?” I ask, noticing that her cherry-pink cocktail glass is empty. “Or are we moving on?”
She tilts her head from side to side as if she’s weighing the options.
Following our casual dinner, this is the third bar we’ve visited on Freya’s tour of Reykjavik’s nightlife. The first one was an intimate speakeasy-type bar, all dark tones and rich red carpets, with art covering the walls. Being a whisky lover, I felt at home. But it wasn’t the kind of place I expected Freya to take me to. I’m finding it hard to know what to expect from her. She’s a bubbly package of contradictions and surprises.
From the whisky bar, we moved on to a microbrewery. Different from her uncle’s place, it was a small bar tucked away at the side of a hotel. Easy to miss if you don’t have an excellent local guide. The beers were insanely good, and we stayed for two.
Now we are in a bar with vibrant street art covering the walls and a DJ blasting music from large speakers over a crowded dance floor. It’s after midnight, and the Saturday night party scene is just getting started.
“Let’s dance,” Freya says, jumping from the stool and grabbing my hand. I laugh along with her. It’s impossible not to be swept up in her enthusiasm. I’m thinking she’s missed home, and tonight, she wants to share all her favorite places and memories with me while reliving them again.
She quickly strips off her jacket and passes it to the bartender, who she of course knows. This time, it’s a girl she went to school with, not an ex-boyfriend. I have no desire to meet any more of those. I suspect there might be a few lurking in the bars, hoping for another chance with her. They’d be fools not to want to be with this woman.
Freya leads me to the center of the floor and, still holding my hand, begins to sway her hips seductively to the beat of the bass. This might have been a very bad idea. Or possibly an excellent one. I reel her in closer, wanting her hips moving against mine. It’s dark enough that we become one with the confusing mass of gyrating shadows. The occasional strobing light catching on Freya’s gold dress and setting her aglow. My jeans are hiding the effect she’s having on my body, but I want her to know. I want her to feel what she does to me. So I pull her closer, my arm wrapping around her waist from behind. And when her butt brushes against my erection, I feel the gasp leave her body. She turns within the circle of my arms, still pressed up close against me, then reaches up to pull my head down to hers.
How sweet her lips taste, like the first strawberries of summer, and I slide my tongue over them, savoring their softness. A whimper escapes from her, and I swallow its promise. Her lips open beneath mine, and my tongue slides in to taste her.
