Chapter Three

Three

E rik Storm is no surfer dude.

He is a Viking.

And he is hot.

"Hi," he says, and it's impossible to tell if it's in English or Danish, as the hej greeting sounds exactly like hi . "Sol?"

I nod, smiling. He pronounces it right. My stomach leaps.

"Dansk? English?" He gets up from the bar stool to offer me his right hand. I'd usually go for a one-arm hug or, as is common in Brazil, a cheek kiss, but I shake his hand like he wants, looking at his prominent muscles. He was way skinnier in his profile picture. It was probably taken years ago.

"English," I say with no shame. Nearly everyone in Denmark speaks English. It's why I haven't bothered taking Danish lessons in my limited free time. "And yes, Sol. Well, Marisol. But people call me Sol."

I look up at his face—he must be at least six foot two while I'm five-four—caught off guard by his rough beauty. I'm used to seeing blue eyes everywhere by now, but his are especially bright. It looks as though he was sculpted by Odin himself. His nose is beautiful, his teeth are white and aligned, his eyebrows are expressive, and there is a toughness in his jaw that matches his thick beard.

A lot more beard than I would normally find interesting.

And a lot more hair too. Only now his golden-blond locks are tied up in a bun.

Well, it's good that I'm not here to date him.

"How are you doing?" I ask, trying to keep my nerves under control.

"I'm good. Take a seat," he invites, and I accommodate myself on the stool next to him. He is wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans, and the combo looks fabulous on his body.

It's an English pub, crowded at this hour, so we can't take one of the tables, but that's fine. It's cozy to sit at the bar, with the warm light of old-fashioned lamps reflecting off the wooden surfaces and duplicating in the mirror behind glinting bottles of liquor.

"Do you want a drink?" His voice is rough and deep... Rather sexy.

Don't think about that.

I'm here for the apartment. I can't throw away my future for a night with Erik Storm, no matter how Asgardian he may be.

"Sure," I say, swallowing hard.

"So, tell me a bit about yourself, Sol."

The bartender comes, and Erik orders two pints of lager for us. As I conclude that I should wait until the alcohol lightens up his mood before revealing why I'm here, I lift my glass, and we toast.

"Sk?l," he says. "It means cheers."

"I know. I've been here for almost six months."

"Where are you from?"

"Brazil. And you're Danish, I guess?"

He nods, swallowing a big mouthful. "Brazil? Wow. I've always wanted to go there."

"Rio?" It's always about Rio.

"Of course. Which city are you from?"

"Not Rio." I drink too. If I'm doing this, I better be tipsy. "Brasília," I tell him.

"The capital."

I give him an acknowledging nod. "You know that. Ten points for you."

He laughs at my random scoring—a little game I used to play with my best friend. Erik clinks his glass on mine, and we both drink.

"Is it nice in Brasília?"

"It's fine, but the nearest beach is over six hundred miles away," I say, wincing like I always do whenever I'm reminded of the biggest con of my always warm—and half the year too rainy, half too dry—hometown.

"Oh, I couldn't imagine living so far from the sea," Erik says, reflecting what I'd probably say myself if I'd lived on the coast all my life.

"Where were you in your profile photo?" I drink faster now to see if he will follow. The quicker we get inebriated, the better.

"Colombia," he says, and I lift my eyebrows.

"Oh, so you've been to South America!" I don't know why that surprises me to the point of making my heart race. He's probably lived a financially comfortable life that allowed him to travel the world. So what?

"I love your continent," he says with a light shrug and a carefree smile that makes my breathing fussy.

"Then why haven't you visited Brazil? I'm offended." I tilt my head, assessing him with a critical eye, even though I'm not truly offended. He laughs, and I attribute the unwelcome fluttering in my stomach to the beer I'm consuming too fast. It's definitely not because of the golden strands of hair slipping out of his bun and falling over his face, where he lets them be.

"It wasn't in the itinerary, sadly," he answers in a casual tone, and I'm somehow glad for the vague explanation. The lighter and more impersonal we keep this exchange, the better. "Your country deserves a dedicated trip, north to south," he adds.

I put my hair behind my ear in an instinctive reaction to looking at his loose strands, which I can't move away from his face.

"Good save," I reply, his smile convincing me of nothing but his seductive intentions, which I'm intent on keeping at bay.

We keep talking about traveling while drinking our pints. I learn that he had two "gap years" between high school and college in which he worked at a restaurant to earn money for a four-month backpacking trip across the world. Universities are free in Denmark, and his grades were good, so when he returned, he had no trouble getting into his desired program—a bachelor's degree in software engineering at the IT University of Copenhagen. Right after graduating, he started a master's in games.

I tell him I have no master's, only a bachelor's in design. Before I reveal that I work at Scorpio Games, I stop and gulp down the last of my beer.

"What did you do after your master's?" I ask, pretending not to know that he worked at Scorpio.

"I'll need a stronger drink before talking about that part of my story," he says jokingly, but a shadow crosses his eyes.

I smile with sympathy, but to myself, I'm thinking, Was Scorpio so bad? "Let's get you some liquor then."

"No, no," Erik says with a grin. "It's too early for that." He winks, and I feel another little quiver in my stomach, both because he can be so charming and because the implication that there might be a later for us will be crushed when I reveal that he has fallen into the trap I've set up for him.

I can't let this continue any longer. It was a mistake.

"I'm sorry... I shouldn't have invited you here."

"What are you talking about?" Erik frowns a little, amusement still playing on his lips. He's affected by the cheerful vibe of the alcohol, the laughing crowd, and the upbeat music in the background.

He thinks I'm joking, and it's tempting to let him believe that. I can't though. As I remain serious, his smile starts to fade, until his brow furrows in confusion.

"You'll hate me when I say it..." I look down to avoid his eyes.

"Say what?" His voice is louder now that the noise in the bar has increased. He comes closer to my face, making it hard for me not to look at him. We're surrounded by people. It's feeling a little claustrophobic.

"I should leave." A flush of boiling heat rises to my face, threatening to burn my cheeks. I'm getting up, but Erik holds my wrist.

"Come on, Sol. Say it. What's wrong?" He blinks, confused.

"I'm the woman who called you about the spare room in your apartment," I say, the words spilling out.

Erik bangs a hand on the counter like a true Viking. I examine his face, my heart hammering. He doesn't look angry. Wait. Is he... laughing ?

"Good job, Sol. Very clever move. Ten points for you." He lifts his empty glass. "Cheers!"

He's annoyed, yes, but also amused, as if he's mocking himself for having believed he could have a pleasant night with a girl he met on Cinder. I can't let this hurt his confidence. That's not fair. This is all on me.

"Listen." It's my turn to hold his wrist as he gets up. "I'm very sorry I did this. I regret it. It wasn't nice."

"You think so?" His sarcasm is so natural it might pass unnoticed. I keep holding him in place. It's too hot in this bar. I need to breathe the cool air outside, but I'm not leaving until he forgives me.

"I never expected to find you on Cinder. I was honestly looking to have a last night of fun, then your profile popped up, and it felt like...fate." I look down, overly aware of how much I'm flushing and perspiring. I wipe my hands on my dress.

"It's fine," he mutters. His hand is closed in a fist though.

"I'm desperate, Erik," I say, a bit more firmly, gazing at him.

"It's noticeable," he replies with an aloofness that gets on my nerves.

I stand up too, now so hot that a drop of sweat trickles down my spine. "You turned me down without even telling me why."

"That's how these things go, Sol." He opens his arms as wide as the crowded space permits. "The one who contacts you first wins."

"That's not true," I say, hiding my shame in the bottomless pit my stomach has become. "You didn't close the deal yet or you would have said so. You want the best match, not the first—"

He chuckles. "And you think you're the best match?"

"I need this room—"

"This is not charity," he interrupts me again, and I'm getting so irritated my voice is rising.

"I know that!" People are looking at us now. Erik notices and makes a gesture for me to sit down. I don't want to make a scene, so I take a deep breath, relax in my seat, and lower my voice. "Listen, I pay on time and I keep things tidy. Besides, I'm up for a promotion. We can help each other out."

Erik blinks at me with his long golden lashes, his jaw tight, and I hurry to give him the rest of my convincing speech.

"I only made this desperate move because I finally have the chance to get my dream job," I say, and as he doesn't interrupt, I continue, eyes on his. "If I have a place to live and I impress my boss in the next few months, I might get a promotion, and then I can stay here, living the life I always wanted, away from my family's influence and the lack of opportunities in my hometown." I keep speaking, afraid that if I take a break, he'll walk away. "You don't know where I came from and how hard I had to fight to arrive where I am." The words are coming out so fast I'm barely breathing. "Things never came easy for me. I'm used to moving mountains to get what I need."

Saying all this to a stranger feels awkward yet...liberating. My chest is suddenly lighter, even though my lungs are working almost as hard as they do when I go for a run on a cold Danish morning.

Erik stares at me, and I can't tell if he's moved by my monologue or if he doesn't care at all.

"Where are you living now?" he speaks at last, maintaining his poker face.

"In a studio apartment I need to move out of next Monday." Every time I'm reminded of this, I feel like I'm being punched in the gut. That apartment became my home—my precious sanctuary of silence and solitude—but it was never mine. "I have nowhere else to go. Not even a friend's couch." I flush when I admit this, but it's the truth. Except for Chiara, whom I chat with at the office, I haven't gotten close to anyone here. And letting him believe I have friends—or anyone else in the city who cares—wouldn't help my case.

"And you're getting a promotion?"

"Yes," I say a bit too avidly. Then I pause. "Maybe. I was going to quit, but my boss told me I might become game director if I stay."

"At Scorpio Games?" He remembers I said I work there when I called him, of course. There is bitterness in his tone, but that shouldn't surprise me. He left the company. Mark told me it was because he wanted to work on a personal project, but I'll probably never know the real reason.

"Yes. And I need that promotion."

I watch his face for any reaction. His left eyebrow trembles almost imperceptibly, but that's all.

"Why did you come to Denmark?" he asks, intertwining his fingers on the bar top. "You mentioned your family and a lack of opportunities, but why not Rio or England?"

Is he interviewing me for the room? I hope so. At the same time, I don't feel very inclined to tell him my very personal reasons for being in his country. All I've laid bare in front of him tonight was enough.

So I just give him the answer I give everyone who asks that question. "I needed a fresh start, and what better place than the happiest country in the world?"

"Is that it?" One of his eyebrows climbs in an unconvinced expression that is sexy and irritating at the same time.

I blink slowly, not letting myself be affected—that is, if my heart pounding madly doesn't count. "Well, there's Denmark's quality of life index, the free health care, the low crime rate, the work-life balance, the hygge...and games jobs that pay a good salary."

"I didn't ask you to quote a ‘Ten Reasons to Live in Denmark' blog post," he says, cold, rigid, and large as a stone. No, a statue. A pretty one. Michelangelo level. But even prettier.

Stop thinking about his inhuman beauty, Sol, for the gods' sake.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I did read plenty of those articles before deciding to come," I say, treating him with his own indifference. I sip from my glass to illustrate how much his tone doesn't bother me—even though it does.

"Then you found a job here?" I catch a glint in his eyes that wasn't there before, but I'm not entirely sure what it means.

"It was the other way around," I tell him, still in my shrug-off mode. "I got the job, then I read up on Denmark."

"How did that happen? Did Scorpio headhunt you?" He seems a tiny bit more interested now, so I sit straighter and seize the opportunity. I might not want to share, but I want him to care , and I'll do what it takes. I didn't come this far to give up.

"I used to work at this indie game studio in Brasília called Vortex Games," I tell him, running a finger around the rim of my glass. "One day, I went to a video game conference in S?o Paulo and met game developers from all over the world, including people who worked at Scorpio."

Erik nods, showing me he's listening. For the first time since I revealed why I asked him out, he looks interested in what I'm saying. There are still remnants of the poker face in his features, but now his eyes tell me he's concentrating on my words, not on a plan to get rid of me.

"I talked to the recruiter and some designers," I go on. "They liked me and I liked them. But there was one person who made the biggest impression."

I lower my eyes to the bar top, the nodes in the wood turning into shapes that build a full picture of that day in my mind.

Cristina—so beautiful, confident and successful. Mikkel, Cristina's handsome and kind Danish husband, who followed her around not only with love and devotion but with all the attention and help she needed. I watched them, fascinated—and more than a bit jealous.

"Who was it that made the biggest impression on you?" Erik asks me after my long pause.

"A game director I met," I say, looking down, thinking back to that day again.

I wasn't prepared for what I'd feel when I talked to them. To her . This successful young woman who had everything I suddenly needed in a dreamy land that felt like the one and only place to live the life I always knew I wanted.

She was proof it was possible.

"I realized I wanted to get where she'd gotten," I tell Erik.

Cristina wasn't Scandinavian. She was Spanish. She told me how she had adapted. How Denmark had changed her habits and turned her into the best version of herself. She was excited about the prospect of being a mother in the near future because Denmark was such a great country to raise children.

She convinced me. She lured me. And after that I couldn't think about anything other than getting the kind of life she had.

"What was her name?" Erik asks. "Maybe I've met her."

"Cristina." I'm about to say her last name, but Erik doesn't need it.

"I've worked with her. She left a month or two after me."

"Yeah, I never talked to her again. She wasn't there when I started. I heard she got an even better opportunity at another studio."

"Yeah, she was great." He looks down, his fingers distractedly folding a napkin. It's like his aura changes whenever Scorpio Games is mentioned. His shoulders tense up, his voice gets weaker, and his eyes roam around as if seeking a way out. I want to ask him why he left, but I'm not entitled to that question. This interview is about me.

"What is your role?" Erik's gaze finds mine again.

"Level designer," I answer in a tone I judge as neutral, but the minimal way his lips stretch up reveals he saw right through me, all the way into the corner where I bury my hostile feelings toward my current position.

"And now you have the opportunity to get the job you actually want?" His gaze stays firm on mine as he studies me. I fight against the urge to look away. This is how you win , a voice in my head encourages me. Laying yourself bare.

"Yes," I answer his question, swallowing hard because I feel like I'm naked under this man's stare, and such a thought makes me blush from head to toe. Gosh, Sol. Pull. Yourself. Together.

"And then you'll find your fairy-tale ending in the happiest country in the world?"

I empty my lungs with a sound that resembles laughter. I'm not letting his teasing, his skepticism, get to me. "Yeah, exactly. Dream life, dream career, and maybe even a prince. Sadly, the princes and counts of Denmark are either already married or too young for me. But you never know."

Erik pretends not to laugh, but I see the corners of his mouth turning up. His approval of my humor makes me want to smile too, but I stop myself.

"I'm sure you have dreams too," I say, looking at him. "Come on, Erik, help me save mine."

He puts on another poker face, this one gentler but impenetrable nonetheless.

I add a new entry to my "desperate moves" list. "I'll pay you two thousand crowns more for the rent."

He snorts. "I won't extort you."

" Please , Erik." I hate begging, but I'm doing it.

He takes a deep breath and leans very close to my face. He smells of beer and some fresh citrusy cologne that gets my hormones dancing. I repress them.

"Since we are being honest with each other, I'll tell you why I turned you down." As he is basically whispering, I get my ear closer to his mouth, eager to hear the truth. "Because you're a woman," he says, and I almost fall off my stool. The anger that was gone returns in a boiling wave.

"What? I can't believe that's—" but he doesn't let me rage out.

"It was unfair, I know. I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions when having so little knowledge, but I was right in the end." I shake my head in disbelief, and he raises his hand to make a point. "I don't want to live with an attractive, straight, cis woman, okay? I assumed you were that by your voice, which was wrong, but I was right in the end." He sounds much less confident now, embarrassed even.

I laugh to digest all I heard. "That is simply—"

"Don't judge me when you don't know my history," he says, clear and sharp as a razor.

And then I understand everything.

"Your former roommate broke your heart, didn't she?"

Erik's short, mirthless laugh and the way he averts his eyes tell me I'm right.

"Why do you even want to be a game director?" he asks me out of the blue. The interview—or should I say interrogation —is not over yet, it seems.

I fix my posture and look straight into his eyes. He needs to see how much I care. "Because I want to have creative freedom and decision-making power over a project." Martin's smug face pops into my mind, and I smirk. "And it wouldn't be bad to wipe the smile off Martin's face."

Erik goes rigid. "Who?"

"My nemesis." I shiver as if Martin disgusts me. "The guy I'm competing with for the promotion."

Erik's mouth opens in an O. "So, you have competition, and Martin..."

"Olesen, big jerk, will try to take me down, but I won't let him. No, sir."

A crease deepens on Erik's forehead. He nods slowly, thoughtful. "Do you smoke?" he asks suddenly. "Own a pet? Any habits I should know about?"

I blink at him, surprised.

"No to all three." My heart is thumping. Is he considering me? "I'm a sweet, respectful, considerate person free of addictions. I'm the best roommate you could ask for."

He drums his fingers on the table, lips pursed, forehead furrowed in thought. I keep looking at him with a straight posture, waiting patiently.

"I respect your hustle, your dream," he says, getting my already fast-beating heart to the speed of a hummingbird's. "I have dreams of my own, of course. And I like you," he adds reluctantly, and my stomach does a cartwheel in response. "The other deal did fall through, so..."

"So...?" I encourage him. Just stop killing me and say it already.

"I'll choose you."

I can't help my smile. Erik isn't done though.

"But listen well." He leans closer again, his eyes locked on mine. "You in your room, me in mine. Shared kitchen, shared bathroom, but boundaries are always in place. Do you understand?"

I nod, so overwhelmed I keep the silly smile on my face.

"I have rules," he continues, "and I'll share them with you. But there's one absolutely nonnegotiable condition." Erik takes his jacket off the counter, and at this point, I'm not smiling anymore. Or feeling any part of my body. He points his index finger at my nose after putting on the jacket. "We will never, ever be romantically involved."

I stare into his glassy blue eyes. I can easily stay away from him. He is an attractive Viking, but I'm a Prince Charming girl.

"Do we have a deal?" Erik Storm holds his hand out to me.

I shake it. "Deal."