by Vivian Wood
Or is it early? It’s hard to tell.
He meets my eyes, grinning broadly. “It’s made of boyfriend material, sweetheart.”
It’s impossible not to crack up at that. For some reason, that strikes me as the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. “That’s terrible!”
He smirks at me, wiggling his eyebrows. “You doubt me, but it’s true.”
I can’t stop laughing. I ball up my fist, hitting him lightly. He acts like I’ve just killed him, groaning and turning onto his back, using my hand to pull me nearer. He wrangles my hand so I’m all but toppling across his chest.
“You murdered me! I’m dying!” he cries, trying not to laugh. “You’ve done it now, little witch.”
I grin at him, biting my lower lip. “You deserve it for that terrible pun.”
“Hmm,” he says, flashing that wicked grin again. “It made you forget about being awkward, though.”
I realize then that Lars has pulled me so that I am pressed up against him. Only the thick blanket separates our bodies. My breath leaves me in a huff. A shiver of anticipation skitters down my spine.
I look up, right into Lars’s deep blue eyes. I swallow, my tongue darting out to wet my bottom lip. My gaze slides to his mouth.
Lars’s eyelids close halfway as he moves in toward my mouth.
I can feel the kiss before it even happens. He moves closer. I close my eyes, my lips parting ever so slightly. His breath against the sensitive skin of my lips makes me shiver.
There is no room for softness in this kiss. Lars cups the back of my head and brings my mouth against his, searing me through. His lips are hot against mine. I open my mouth more and he takes full advantage, growling low in his chest. He moves his tongue against mine in a rhythm as old as the ages. I can barely help myself, curling my hand around the warm back of his neck and pulling myself closer. He tastes of clean mint and smells like aftershave; it is beyond me how he can smell so good while he’s asleep.
His free hand comes down to notch in my waist. I feel small compared to his much bigger body, almost dainty.
That’s a new sensation for me. I may be slender but I am still tall.
When his hand slides up to cup my breast, all the breath leaves my lungs in a rush. I suck in a breath and a moan escapes my lips.
Yes.
God, yes.
Lars is touching me.
I nip at his full bottom lip. He slides his hand down my waist and hip to my knee, pulling my leg onto his hard, hot body. I can feel my body tightening, my breasts growing heavy, my pussy growing wet. I lean into him, rocking my lower body against his. I want him to touch me everywhere, but my clit is actually so hot it’s almost achy.
I’m on fire for him.
Only him.
He stops kissing me for a second and rolls away, opening his bedside table. My brain takes a second to process the crinkling sound. But he holds a condom up in the air.
“Got it,” he says.
My face contorts. It feels like I’ve suddenly been drenched with a bucket of ice water. I wasn’t expecting to actually have sex with him…
“Umm… hold on.” I murmur. Sitting up, I pull the blankets up over my chest.
Lars looks a little puzzled. “You don’t use protection?”
I frown. “We were just kissing. I mean…” My face grows hot. “I think I’m still drunk, Lars. I don’t want to… do more than that.”
The words spill from my lips, unbidden. Lars frowns and looks away. “Oh.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I mean… of course.”
Oh god, I can tell from his facial expression that I’ve hurt him. He clears his throat, trying to pretend away his awkwardness.
I reach out, my fingertips falling on his forearm. “I’m sorry, Lars.”
He tosses the condom off the bed, shaking his head. “No, it’s… I mean, I shouldn’t have… assumed…”
I drop my hand. “We shouldn’t… I mean, what we have is already so special.”
He takes a deep breath, pinning me with his aquiline gaze. “Seriously, it was just… a lapse. I was on autopilot or something.”
My eyes widen a bit that. The fact that his autopilot involves condoms is just…
It hurts my soul.
Before he can puzzle out my wounded expression, I turn onto my back and pull the covers up to my neck. “It’s for the best. Like I said, I’m still drunk.” I bite my lower lip, desperate to change the conversation. “I can’t believe you let me drink so much.”
I feel him roll onto his back beside me, sighing. “I didn’t let you do anything, little witch.”
Silence stretches between us for half a minute. “Can we just not talk about this ever again?”
“Sure,” he says, a little too quickly.
I roll away from him, facing the Copenhagen skyline instead. “Um. Night, Lars.”
He just grunts, shifting a few times. Then I assume he just goes right to sleep.
Not me.
No, I lay here and go over things again and again in my mind. Like how amazing the kiss was. How into it I was.
And how he definitely ruined my mood by completely assuming that I would just fuck him. Like it was that easy.
Like it wouldn’t have effects on our friendship.
My mouth twists.
If I thought there was the remotest possibility of that, Lars and I would have gotten naked and sweaty together ages ago.
At some point, my eyelids drift closed. I don’t remember falling asleep. But when I wake up, it’s mid morning.
I roll over to find Lars’s bed made on his side. And a handwritten note on the pillow.
P —
Had to work out early.
There’s coffee in the kitchen.
See you later.
— L
Groaning at how casual his note sounds, I pull the blankets over my head. I definitely learned one lesson for the fiftieth time in our friendship. It sucks to be in love your best friend.
I roll over, squeezing my eyes shut, and try to pretend last night didn’t happen.
11
Pippa
The next couple of days are hellish. Lars seems to handle me with kid gloves, being very courteous while at the same time keeping me at arm’s length. Nika is angry at me for some slight I made when I was drunk.
And to top it all off, I have a lingering remnant of a headache that just won’t go away. I blame the champagne for it.
Actually, I blame the alcohol for a lot of things. Like French kissing my best friend, for instance.
After running all my errands Friday evening, I finally arrive home. I have to be careful when I carry my grocery bags upstairs because my entryway is absolutely bursting with thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing. I skirt the boxes and let myself into my flat, only to nearly drop the bags when I get the door open.
A small, dark-haired figure in a belted trench coat stands at the window. She turns and quirks an eyebrow at me.
Ms. Olsen is here, in my fucking flat.
I drop my bags unceremoniously, backing out the door. I trip on the boxes behind my feet, trying to get my cell phone out of my purse.
“Pippa, dear,” Ms. Olsen lets out the tiniest smirk. “I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course I bloody mind!” I yell, looking at my phone screen. “Listen, whoever you are. I’m dialing the authorities right now!”
She steps forward, her lips quirking. “You can, if you wish. But I wouldn’t.”
I shake my head, pressing the call button. “You’re insane. You know that? Just totally daft.”
The phone starts ringing. Ms. Olsen smiles coolly. “Do you not care about Lars’s wellbeing, then?”
I glare at her. The operator picks up. “Emergency services. What is your emergency?”
I flush. “Yes, hi. I just came home to my apartment and there is an intruder,” I say quickly.
“What is your address, please?” the operator asks.
Ms. O
lsen arches a brow. “We will tell him your secret.” She pulls out her phone, showing me a flash of a photo. In the photo is the same girl that I found on Facebook, my little sister Stella. “And we will hurt your sister, if we have to.”
I open my mouth, but that gives me some pause. My eyes slide over to Ms. Olsen’s face, which is both smug and superior.
Is she serious?
I cover the microphone. “You should leave.”
Ms. Olsen tilts her head. “You should hang up the phone, my dear.”
“Excuse me, what address?” prompts the operator.
Mrs. Olson scrolls through six or seven pictures of my sister, obviously taken when she was leaving the grocery store. I automatically reach for the screen, curious. She yanks the phone away from me, her tone threatening.
“Hang. Up.” Ms. Olsen looks serious now.
“Uhh… never mind. I thought it was an intruder, but I… was mistaken?”
The operator replies. “Are you sure?”
Ms. Olsen checks the elegant silver wristwatch she wears.
“Yep!” I blurt. “Sorry.”
I hang up the phone, a scowl on my face. I don’t know how to even approach this subject. How should one act when being blackmailed?
“What do you want?” I ask at last.
Ms. Olsen’s expression lightens. “For now? Not a thing.”
“Why are you here? Why are you waving these… these creepy photos around?” I ask, gesturing wildly.
She shrugs a single shoulder. “Those are questions that I do not have the answers to. I’m just here to ascertain if we believe that you can be loyal or not.”
I ball up my face. “What are you talking about?” I shout, exasperated. “Can you leave my flat?”
Ms. Olsen gives me another cool smile as she looks me up and down. “I think I’ll tell my bosses that they had better keep Lars and Stella under observation for now.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Just wait until he hears about this.”
She gives a tiny yap of laughter. “If you tell him, if you tell anyone, we will expose you. No one will even remember the story you tell because they will all be focused on the story of Sylvie Martin. And oh, what a story it is…”
I lift my chin. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Please, leave my apartment!”
She purses her lips. “We both know that isn’t true, Sylvie.”
Tears prick my eyes. “I mean it. I will call emergency services back.”
She sticks her hands in her pockets, moving forward slowly. I can’t step back so I stand my ground. Her eyes twinkle for a moment as she pulls one of her hands out, revealing a basic flip phone. She reaches out to me as she comes to stand in front of me.
“We will be in touch. Take care of Lars, Sylvie.”
My beat beats like a jackhammer in my chest. “I don’t want your phone.”
Ms. Olsen navigates around me, heading down the stairs. “Keep it close.”
As I look over my shoulder, she raises down the stairs and out the front entrance of my building. Glancing down at the black phone in my hand, I realize that I am shaking.
Who is Ms. Olsen?
What does she want?
Staring at the phone, I can’t come up with a single answer that makes sense.
12
Lars
“Try not to look like the car in front of you has done something to personally offend you,” I whisper into Pippa’s ear.
She blinks a few times, blushing as she looks at me. She clears her throat and runs a hand down her light pink dress, licking her lips. “Sorry,” she whispers back.
“And this car is the very first automobile to have rubberized wheels!” the older man leading our tour says. “You might think that the wheels look the same as they did in the last model, but I assure you they are not.”
Pippa looks around the massive white tent where we have been learning about Denmark’s part in the automotive boom. I check out Pippa while she isn’t looking, finding the way that pink fabric clings to her ass much more interesting than the history of cars.
We’ve been extremely awkward since she spent the night in my bed last week. I’ve been kicking myself for blowing my one chance with the woman of my dreams.
And Pippa has seemed wrapped up in something else altogether. I guess it’s better that way.
“Now if we move on to the next car, you will see that the shape looks a bit different…”
Pippa glances at me. I raise a brow. She leans close. “Please don’t make me listen to any more. I’m begging you, Lars.”
I can’t help but smile. “What, you’re not riveted to our guide’s dissertation on how some old cars were made of wood and…” I pretend to fall asleep, snoring mid-sentence.
She rolls her eyes. “Come on. If anybody asks, I’ll tell them I am not feeling well.”
My lips curve upward. “You deceptive little minx. Lead the way.”
One corner of Pippa’s mouth tugs down but she just sighs silently. Turning on her heel, she spins and makes her way toward the tent’s exit. I follow her as she weaves her way around half a dozen more old cars, then duck out of the tent into the bright sunshine. There are even more cars parked here, rows upon rows.
And these cars are much newer, much sexier, and much sportier than anything parked inside. Pippa glances back at me, arching a brow. “Isn’t this one of the cars that James Bond used to drive in the 1960s?”
I wander towards the baby blue Aston Martin, feeling cooler just by being near it. I run my hand along the door, whistling. “Yes, I believe it is.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You boys and your toys.” She steps closer to me, bringing her hand up to my neck to straighten my tie. “At least you look the part.”
My stomach sort of flip flops when she touches me. I play it cool, not reacting outwardly. “What? Devastatingly handsome?”
Her snort of good humor warms a little of the frost I’ve been feeling coming from her direction. “I just meant you were wearing a suit.”
I put my hands behind my back, twisting my spine to survey the other cars. “Bond is known for wearing a tuxedo, if I’m not mistaken.”
Her lips tip upward. “Tell me about this James Bond. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with him, seeing as how he is only my country’s most famous fictional spy and all.”
There it is. The banter that I’ve so greatly missed for the past week seems to have returned. I roll my eyes, taking a deep breath. “Who do you imagine I have to charm and dazzle to get the keys to one of these cars?”
Pippa pulls the ends of her pink cardigan closer, shivering. “Maybe that gentleman?”
She points behind me. I turn and spot a blond man in a dark winter coat approaching. He doesn’t seem to recognize me until he’s only a few feet away. Then he slows his pace, his gaze sliding between me and Pippa.
We’ve been splashed across the front page of every tabloid for a few days. His expression grows tense as he approaches.
“Your royal highness,” he greets me. “Do you have a question about one of the cars, sir?”
Taking a step toward Pippa, I grab her around the waist. “My fiancée here was wondering if we might test drive one.”
Pippa shoots me a flat look, elbowing me in the ribcage. I grin at her.
“Oh, I’m not sure… I mean…” The man grows red-faced. “Let me ask.”
I nudge Pippa. “See?”
She shakes her head at me. “You are so spoiled. You know that, right?”
I wink at her, enjoying holding her close for a moment. “If you don’t complain about it, I will let you drive a bit.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I can’t drive.”
Nodding to the returning employee, I disagree. “He’s got the keys right there.”
“No, I mean—“
I cut her off, raising a hand to the dark-jacketed man. “Toss them!”
He looks vaguely nervous but he does toss a set of keys high in the air. “He
re you go, your royal highness. I didn’t realize that this car collection belonged to your father, sir.”
Pippa glances at me, her eyebrows rising. “Wait, really?”
I shrug. “It’s okay. Tell me, which car do these belong to?”
He gives a tiny bow. “The lime green Porsche, sir.”
My eyes land on it, a few rows away. There is certainly no mistaking it for anything else. I grin. “Oh, that’ll do nicely.”
Jerking my head toward the car, I wiggle my brows at Pippa. She scrunches up her face as she follows me over to it. I go to the passenger side door, getting in.
“Lars!” I hear Pippa complain. “Seriously, I can’t drive. I don’t know how.”
“And I heard you the first time. Get in. There is no time to learn like the present.”
I pat the leather seat beside me. She huffs but reluctantly climbs in the car, sitting in the injection-molded seat. She glances around, the keys still clutched in one hand.
“Are you sure that this is okay?”
I point to the ignition. “Yes. Put the key in.”
Scrunching up her face, she does. She turns the key, as if expecting the car to start up.
“It’s a manual transmission, little witch,” I tell her. “Look at the gas pedal.”
She bites her lip, looking down. “I see three pedals.”
I lean over, touching her leg. It’s very little contact, but still enough to make my pulse race. “Look, the one closest to me is the clutch. The gas is in the middle. The brake is on the far side.”
She arches a brow. “Why don’t they make it simpler?”
I smirk a little at her. “Why ruin the fun?”
“Okay.” She wrinkles her nose. “What now?”
“Push down on the clutch and hold it down. The one near me. Ja. Now the key should turn.”
She does it a bit clunky, pressing down the clutch and the brake all the way to the floor. When the engine turns on, she looks at me. “Did I do it right?”
“Ja, ja. I mean. You got the thing running, at least. Ease up on the clutch. It only takes a light touch…”
