Chapter Two

Two

E rik Storm doesn't give me a room.

I dive into my pillow and scream in frustration. My phone chimes, a quick succession of dings that make me detangle from my sheets at lightning speed, hoping to read Erik saying, Sorry. The other person bailed. The room is yours.

But it's just Larissa, my best friend from Brazil.

Larissa: What do you mean, he said NO?

Larissa: Why?

Larissa: What exactly did he say?

I tell Larissa that I called and said, "Hi, I got your number from one of your former coworkers at Scorpio Games. I work there too. I'm looking for a room to rent in Copenhagen, and they told me you have one."

He said, "Yes, I do, but I've been talking to some people already, and I'm about to close the deal with one of them."

I then said, "Oh. But they might back out. You should interview me. I'm an excellent person to live with. And I really need a room."

I was about to pour my heart and soul into an emotional application bordering on a plea, when he cut me off. "Sorry, but I don't need to interview you. Good luck with your search." And he ended the call.

I shouldn't have mentioned that I work at Scorpio Games , I write to Larissa. That was probably the wrong thing to say.

Why would working there be a problem? Larissa asks.

I don't know , I write. He quit his job. He might not want anything to do with the people there.

You're overthinking this, Sol , she replies. He already found someone. It happens.

I groan, throwing the phone on the bed. My urge to curse compels me to babble unintelligible sounds like a cartoon character. I don't say bad words. It's a life mantra my religious mom taught me with resolute fervor.

I'm not done with you, Erik Storm.

This guy's apartment is my last chance, and I'm going to fight to make him change his mind.

I open my computer and search for him on Facebook. There are five people with variations of the name, but filtering through location and educational background, I find him—or at least the one most likely to be him. A thirty-one-year-old, long-haired, sunburned dude on a tropical beach wearing a white T-shirt, sunglasses, and surfer shorts.

I check his public posts, and the latest, the only one from this year, is about the apartment. He posted it a week ago, and it's written in Danish, but I translate it, confirming that he has been asking his friends if anyone is interested in living with him. There are no pictures of the place, just the rent (not too bad), the neighborhood (?sterbro, very central), and when it's possible to move in (ASAP). It sounds great. I need it.

I call him again the next morning. Maybe if I invite him for lunch, he'll say yes, and we'll be able to talk properly. But he doesn't pick up. I consider texting him, but Larissa says I should stop before he thinks I'm a creep.

I stare at my phone screen, sighing. On impulse, my thumb opens Cinder, the dating app topping the charts in Denmark since its release seven years ago. It's just like Tinder, but its Cinderella theme was both so praised and so mocked that many people decided to try it—and then it became so popular it's the top choice of those looking for a date in Copenhagen. I find it fun and, at the same time, uninspiring. I wish there was a dating app with less focus on looks and more on matching like-minded people.

That's because you're not supposed to look for a life partner in those apps , Larissa said one day when we were discussing the subject. Most people there are just looking for a hot person to spend the night with.

I'm aware of that, of course, but I'm an incurable romantic who keeps telling herself she'll eventually match with a cute Dane who also didn't delete the app because he's a hopeless optimist.

I study my Cinder profile. My picture is great, and I'll forever claim it's because Larissa is a talented photographer, while she'll always say it's because I'm the best model she could have.

In the photo, I'm smiling brightly, laughing at something Larissa had said. My skin is darker, tanned by an excellent Brazilian summer, and my hair is falling nicely over my shoulders in loose waves, all dark brown—before the honey-colored ombré I let Flor do on me one afternoon when there were no customers in the salon and we got bored. It hasn't even been a year since I posed for that picture, yet I already feel like it's not a faithful image of who I am now.

Knowing these might be my last days in Copenhagen gives me the unanticipated wish to be naughty. To enjoy this wonderful city while I can. To kiss a hot Danish guy. And maybe do a little more...

My heartbeat rises as I watch the typographic Cinder logo glint over the slogan : Find the one who fits your glass slipper.

For once, I won't be Cinderella looking for her Prince Charming.

I go to my profile settings, and under the "I'm looking for" section, I uncheck Relationship and tap on Casual Encounter.

If I'm not staying, there's no point in finding my soulmate in Denmark. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't bring back memories of one dreamy date. I'm on my third "like" when the next man on the list makes my heart stop.

Erik Storm.

It's the same surfer dude photo from his Facebook profile. I'm not usually attracted to men with long hair, and his face is barely visible in the picture. But his level of attractiveness doesn't matter. That's not what's keeping me in his profile.

It's the chance to talk to him in person.

I chew on my lower lip, staring at his picture.

Should I do it?

It would be wrong...

I do it. I give him a glass slipper.

Giggling into my hands like a teenager, I spin in the desk chair, round and round, until I'm dizzy. He won't like me back anyway...

He likes me back.

I jump to my feet. Holy Fairy Godmother.

You are a match! — the notification pops up on my screen. Two glass slippers meet, twinkling as they form a pair, and a message prompts me to interact with Erik Storm.

I spend a minute laughing and pacing the room, then I send him a date request. Tonight at 9:00 p.m., at a pub in the city center. It's in three hours. He would never say yes...

He accepts it.

I laugh out loud again. Unbelievable.

He doesn't know I'm the woman bugging him about the apartment. I never gave him my name. When he finds out, he'll probably flee. But I'm desperate. I can't let this opportunity slip by.

It's fate...