Chapter 1

Eric

I t was a farce. A complete and utter disgrace. As I staggered and skidded among the chunks of snow, I could feel the entire universe laughing at me.

My cottage was only seven hundred meters away from the school, providing for a healthy but not overly strenuous walk to work and back. I'd double and triple-checked on Google Maps. I'd thought I was so lucky to land such a convenient living arrangement. Ha, right. I could hear the goblins cackling.

It was supposed to be spring, dammit!

The road was somewhat cleared but covered with a thin layer of black ice and lined with the snowplow's leavings. My elegant leather Chelsea booties—because that was what I'd wear on my first day to work—glided over the slick surface like a well-lubed… Don't even think those jokes . You'll end up saying them in front of your new boss. I paused, took a deep breath, then ventured another careful step.

There was no sidewalk. The municipality Gryta, located 58 minutes 97 degrees north, 12 minutes 3 degrees east, in Sweden, had three hundred registered inhabitants. Only a few of them lived in what was considered the actual village, and the rest resided in remote households somewhere in the surrounding forests. Hence, the only sidewalk in a fifty-mile radius was the stretch between the old church and the parish hall—which doubled as a community center and a library that opened on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays .

I paused, eyeing my shoes. What had I been thinking? It was minus five! What did it matter that it was April and this type of weather wasn't expected until November based on the long-term statistics I'd checked? What kind of loon moved to the middle of nowhere in Sweden without proper gear?

Me. This loon.

My great-grandfather was turning in his grave.

To complete my humiliation, when I took another precarious step, waving my messenger bag around, I spotted a person further away on the other side of the road, staring at me.

He was dressed appropriately in a parka, sturdy cargo pants, chunky, heavy-duty winter boots, and thick gloves. Gloves, dammit. I swayed, and with both feet on the ground, I temporarily found some balance. In a fit of defiance, I stared back at the stranger.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with lean, long legs, light-brown hair sticking out from underneath his hat, and a short, thick beard. Of course he had a beard. He also carried a wide shovel in one hand and a bucket in the other. He was hot in the way straight construction workers were before they punched you in the face for looking at them for too long. Tilting his head to the side, he appraised me, from my too-thin soles to my impeccably styled hair, and then he smiled. Widely.

I huffed.

Yes, objectively, I looked like a ridiculous fool, but I refused to be laughed at.

Gathering as much dignity as I could, I resumed my journey with new determination. I was acutely aware of the stranger's eyes on me as I strode past him, keeping in the deeper snow so I wouldn't slip and land on my ass in front of an audience. By the time I reached the school's door, my socks were soaked.

"Eric! You're here. Finally! Oh, I'm so happy."

Madeleine, the headmaster and Swedish teacher, all but tackle-hugged me in the doorway. "Oh dear, you must be freezing. The weather is crazy, isn't it?"

She patted my shoulders and arms as if brushing off imaginary snow before she seemed to catch herself. Swedes were rumored to be cold and detached. Not Madeleine. Since our first video call last autumn, she'd elevated herself into the role of my new best friend and the protective auntie I'd never had. She was tiny, loud, and wore an overexcited smile on her makeup-free, round face.

"Come, come." She ushered me inside, her reddish-brown curls bouncing. "We're having fika before the monsters arrive." Did she mean the children?

The common room for personnel had faded linoleum floors and smelled of cinnamon, butter, and burned coffee. Two other people sat on the aged sofa. I recognized the faces from the website.

"This is Eric, everyone," Madeleine said in Swedish. I introduced myself and shook hands.

Gunilla, the administrator, had a gray bob, rosy apple cheeks, and what seemed to be a pearl of sugar from a cinnamon bun in the corner of her dark-pink lips. She wore a woolen sweater and, yep, hiking cargo pants.

" Hej! It's nice to finally meet you, Eric. We're glad to have you." Where Madeleine was slightly manic, Gunilla was the proper one. Her schoolgirl English carried a strong Swedish accent while Madeleine was fluent.

Inger, a stately woman of about sixty who taught grades one to three, frowned at my soaked shoes. She, too, wore what looked to be hiking pants and thick woolen socks in her Birkenstocks. My suit jacket and Chelsea booties looked more out of place by the second.

"Are you going to wear that all day?" she asked in Swedish.

I felt my face get flushed. "De kommer att torka." They will dry . Was that correct? "I underestimated how cold it can get in the spring."

She gave a hearty chuckle and slapped my shoulder with a force that sent me forward a few inches. Or centimeters. "You'll learn. It's not spring yet."

Madeleine handed me a mug of coffee so dark it could summon demons and a plate with a big, round cinnamon roll. "Kanelbulle? You're not gluten intolerant, are you?"

"No."

"Do you have any allergies? I forgot to ask."

"No. I eat everything."

Her shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank goodness. "

The scent was mouthwatering—butter and caramelized sugar blended with cinnamon. It smelled like Christmas. I gratefully bit into the roll and complimented the baker.

"This is amazing. I'd love to have the recipe."

"Oh, you bake? That's nice," Gunilla said with moderate enthusiasm.

"It's a family secret." Madeleine winked. Inger rolled her eyes and refilled her coffee cup.

The school in Gryta catered to ages six to twelve, with kids commuting from neighboring areas. Due to the size of the school, some grades were taught in parallel, sharing classrooms, which would get challenging. I was to teach art and English. Madeleine was very proud to have recruited a native speaker and hadn't blinked twice when I'd explained my struggles with acquiring a proper license in Sweden. The staff shortage was such that people working without teaching licenses were becoming the rule and not the exception. I'd have to sort it out if I wanted a more reasonable salary, but it would take at least one more year.

The team at Gryta school consisted of five middle-aged women, four teachers and one administrator, plus me. I needed the ladies to like me, so I smiled, nodded, ate the rolls, and drank the lethal coffee searing a hole into my stomach tissue. When Anna-Ulrika and Eva arrived, I even accepted a p?t?r —a second cup—this time with milk. The drink made me warm and slightly queasy, and I sweated under my suit jacket as Eva grilled me about my cottage, Inger interrupting with her sarcastic comments.

"I hope you're not afraid of mice."

Madeleine threw her a pointed look.

I swallowed the last piece of cinnamon roll and smiled politely. "I'm not keen on sharing my house with them, but no, not afraid."

"Gustaf used to rent the place to Germans in the summer before he sold it," Inger said. "You'll have your hands full."

I blinked. Because of the Germans? I didn't dare to ask for clarification .

"What Inger means is that the cottage might not have been ideally maintained," Madeleine said. "If you have any problems, just let me know. There are plenty of people here in the village who'll be eager to help."

"Thank you, Madeleine. That's very kind of you. So far, everything seems fine. No mice."

Inger stood, took the empty plate from me, and carried it to the dishwasher. I was about to thank her, but she spoke up before I could. "Didn't see much firewood under the roof when I walked by a couple of days ago. You'd better stock up."

The cottage had electric heating, but I wasn't going to argue with my colleague on my first morning at work.

"I will, thank you."

The group of well-meaning ladies made me feel a little like that time my Stockholm friends invited me for a game of paintball. I never knew from which side I'd be shot at and was running out of ammunition. I was grateful when the gathering was over and classes started.

When I had fifteen kids facing me in class, I was in my element. This I could do. They were sufficiently intrigued by a new teacher, a male and a foreigner to boot, so they paid attention more than they would later.

I explained who I was and a few basic rules I insisted on in my classroom, then I asked if they had any questions.

A freckled twelve-year-old girl lifted her hand. "Why are you wearing a suit jacket?" she said in flawless English, looking me up and down with the sort of disdain only a tween can produce. Nina was her name. I wondered if she was related to Inger.

"I needed to make a good impression on the headmaster and the other teachers. Do you like it?" I twirled, and the kids laughed.

Nina shrugged. "Nobody wears suits here. Only to funerals."

"That's good to know. I wouldn't want people to think someone died."

Nina's lips twitched .

Yep, I'd be fine. At least until they pinpointed all my weaknesses. The kids were a varied group, not only in age but also in interests and talents. I found myself looking forward to getting to know them.

The excited feeling held me through the death-defying trek from the school back to the cottage.

My cottage, a three-hundred-year-old wooden farmhouse, boasted a view over the village and surrounding pastures, a small garden with old, gnarly apple trees, and a dilapidated but cute little shed. It was a definitive step-up from the lonely, square room I'd rented in a noisy Stockholm suburb for the past couple of years.

For the first time in my life, I owned my home. I had running water, an electric boiler, a newly renovated bathroom with a spacious shower stall, and an antique wood-burning stove in the kitchen beside a modern induction one. I hadn't yet tried the fireplace in the living room, but it looked lovely with a large glass door and a neat pile of birch logs I'd arranged next to it. I did indeed have electric heating in the bathroom, living room, and upstairs in the bedroom.

Before I started on dinner, I opened the app showing my daily electric consumption and, conveniently, prices. It looked like a lot for the short few days I'd lived here. Then I tapped a toggle button that said to include taxes and transfer charges and did a double-take.

Inger was right. I should stock up on firewood. Otherwise, I'd burn a third of my income on electricity bills alone.

Gustaf, the previous owner, had assured me that the fireplace in the living room and the iron stove in the kitchen had been inspected last year and were ready to be used. I slipped on my sneakers and made the short hike through the snow to the shed in my garden, where I found a spiderweb-covered basket. I filled it with a few pieces of wood from the depleted pile under a roof by the outside wall of the cottage and brought it to the living room.

The first few attempts to light a fire were as humiliating as my morning trip to work. When the kitchen filled with smoke, I had to open the windows so the fire alarm wouldn't go off. Now, my kitchen was chillier than before I'd started. I gave up on the iron stove and tried the fireplace in the living room .

After all, I had Wi-Fi and YouTube. Feeling accomplished, I lit the damp birch wood just fine on the fifth try.

But I'd need more firewood. Despondent, I checked the weather prognosis. The first two weeks in April said around zero, down to minus seven at night. I was about to message Madeleine when I heard what sounded like a large vehicle on the gravel road outside. My cottage was the last on this road. Farther west, there was nothing but forest and lakes all the way to Norway.

Squinting through the window, I spotted a tractor with a snowplow attached to it. I shrugged into a coat and put on my already-wet sneakers before I stepped outside. I need winter boots, dammit.

"Can I help you?" I yelled.

The driver couldn't hear me since he wore noise-canceling headphones. He jumped down from the cabin, and when he spotted me, he pulled his headphones off. It was the same man who'd witnessed my dance along the road this morning. Humiliatingly enough, I felt my face flush.

"Hi. Can you move it?" He asked in Swedish and gestured to my car.

"Um, hello. Yes, of course. Let me get my keys."

My seven-year-old Volvo, my second most important purchase since I'd moved to Sweden, was parked on my property, but since I didn't want to get stuck in the snowbank, I'd left it close to the gravel road. I'd thought it would be okay—I hadn't expected anyone to be driving past into the forest in this weather. But the wide plow couldn't pass, not without causing significant damage to my car.

When I returned with my keys, the man extended a meaty hand my way. "I'm Bj?rn. I didn't say hi before."

The beard, the shoulders, the height. It figured his name would literally mean bear.

I let my fingers be crushed by his paw.

"Eric. Nice to meet you."

I quickly let go. It was an old habit that had paid off in the past. If the guy was straight, I avoided prolonged eye contact and kept the touch to a minimum.

"You're the new teacher? "

"Yes." As if he didn't already know.

I would have chatted with him, but I was freezing in my sneakers while he wore a parka and those boots I'd envied him. Who was I kidding? I was torn between attraction and rudimentary fear. And I still carried residual humiliation from this morning. I sneaked past him and skidded to my car.

I started my little Volvo and checked my surroundings.

The snowbank rose on both sides. The shoveled driveway ended a mere two feet in front of me, but it was wide, so I could angle my car more diagonally, and that way, it wouldn't stick out into the road. I'd grab a shovel and make the parking place bigger tomorrow. Now I only had to get out of this Bj?rn's way.

I double-checked all angles and put the Volvo in reverse. Then I drove forward, turning very slightly to the left.

It took five seconds, and I was stuck in the snow.

Staring in front of me, I took a deep breath.

I was destined to humiliate myself in front of this guy as much as humanly possible. The clueless American in the Swedish countryside, the hapless gay boy who didn't even know what kind of shoes to wear.

I gave the engine one last tickle, hoping it would miraculously pull me out of the literal ditch. I wasn't Swedish, but the damned car was! I had winter tires—I wasn't a complete dimwit. Shouldn't that mean something?

Apparently not. The front wheels spun aggressively, only digging deeper into the snow.

With a sigh, I stepped out of the car.

"Sorry," I mumbled. I met the man's gaze, expecting scorn, but the bastard was grinning.

"Want me to pull you out?" he asked, pointing to his tractor. He was having the time of his life at my expense.

"No, thanks. I was thinking I could leave it like this until the snow melts."

He frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it. When he realized I was being sarcastic, he gave me a nod. "Right. Okay. I'll get the rope. "

To his credit, he dragged me out onto the plowed ground and helped me shovel the snow off the edges of my parking place so I could park further away from the narrow road. He only made one comment on my shoes but didn't laugh at me anymore.

I thanked him, trying not to focus on his flushed, bearded face too much, and headed back to the cottage.

"You should stock up on firewood," he called after me. "It might freeze during the nights until May."

With my back to him, I scrunched up my face and swallowed a curse. When I turned to him, my expression was hopefully smooth again.

"I'm aware. I have twelve unpacked boxes in my living room and can't find my screwdriver. The window in my bedroom doesn't close properly, and the sink in the kitchen leaks. The stove smokes when I try to light it. I don't even have an axe or a saw yet, but yes, I need firewood because while the heating works, the electricity will cost me most of my salary. Everything is on my to-do list, but thanks for the reminder."

He gaped at me, his expression blank.

Did I just unload my frustration on the guy? My heart thumped. Would he snap? Fuck. Why did I just say all that?

Bj?rn shuffled from foot to foot and scratched behind his ear. "Right. The stove in the kitchen. That could be what we call kallpropp in the chimney. Just burn some newspaper or cardboard to push the cold air up."

I blinked. A cold plug? I could google that. "Sorry for the…" I pointed at my car.

"That's fine. You seem to have your hands full. Good luck."

Another grin, this time slightly insecure, which made him look cute, dammit. I couldn't get away fast enough.

"Thank you for the help," I said quickly. "Have a nice evening."

"You too."

I closed the door behind me and toed off my soaked sneakers. The tractor rumbled past, and the noise died out as Bj?rn drove off into the forest, probably to hunt wolves and moose with his bare hands. I took off my socks, hung them to dry over a chair, and climbed under the blanket on the sofa.

"No crushing on straight Viking lumberjacks," I told myself and opened my laptop.

Step one. Firewood.

Step two. Shoe store.

Step three. Hardware store. I'd need a separate list for that one.

Half an hour later, I had my own pair of chunky winter boots ordered. The firewood, however, was a challenge. I'd have to drive to the nearest town and buy sacks for the eye-watering price of one hundred and forty Swedish crowns per fifteen kilos. I had no idea how much that was in volume, but looking at the blurry picture on the website, one sack wouldn't last me more than a couple of days.

I'd have to swallow my pride and ask Madeleine tomorrow.