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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.
Chapter four
Freya
