“We should get back downstairs,” he says.
I won’t mention the kiss. It’s better this way. It was convincing. He is dedicated to his role. Good. It was very good. For the act.
“Don’t let Martin get to you, okay?” Oh no, I’m being sweet now.
Erik blinks at me and I notice a glint of vulnerability in his eyes. It’s like he needed to hear my words. I swallow hard, and we stare at each other for an uncomfortable moment.
Until I can’t stand it anymore and point a finger at his face to say, “And no more surprises, eh?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He turns around and unlocks the bathroom door.
Twelve
When Erik and I sit back in our spots at the table, Lars and his wife explain the rules of the trivia game, and we are added to the leaderboard Astrid created on her tablet. She asks what we want to be called, and we go for Team Sol & Storm. At the end of the game today, all teams will be scored, and she will update the leaderboard and send it to the group by email. Then we will keep counting points in the next events until a winner is found at the end of the Fun Season.
Erik and I are off to a bad start. We get horrible questions neither of us has a clue about. Lars and Lotte are masters, but I don’t mind that they are good. I keep a close eye on my real competitors, especially Martin and Astrid, Team Singles. They are doing better than us, and I squeeze Erik’s arm after three wrong answers, telling him we need to get in the game.
Either my pressure works, or the Asgardian gods decide to favor us. Our next four questions are all about Danish things, and Erik nails them. Two are about TV and movies, one about history, and one about the Royal family. I give him a high-five every time he is right. Erik answers the one about history so quickly I even kiss his cheek.
We are suddenly ahead, and Erik is chatting excitedly with the others about topics related to the questions. At some point, the conversation is so heated it even switches to Danish, but George calls their attention with a “Hello, this is an international zone!” and they speak English again.
I’m sipping my third glass of wine, gobbling down candy after candy, when we get a question I can answer. “Who is the only player to have won five UEFA Champions League titles?”
“Cristiano Ronaldo,” I answer. It’s correct.
Erik hugs me, and I smile. He puts my hair behind my ear, whispering, “We’ll win this thing, Sol. Look at Martin’s face.”
“I can see it.”
Martin has been quiet and bitter, bothered by Erik’s shiny presence. No clouds are looming over Erik now. Tonight, he’s in his element. It’s impossible not to want to be like him—or be with him.
Our last question is, funnily enough, about Rosenborg.
“We were there earlier today,” he says to the others with a smile, taking my hand and locking his fingers between mine. It’s such an intimate touch I lose my breath, attacked by the butterflies in my stomach. “It was a wonderful day.” I can’t tell if he means this for real, but it is true for me.
Erik touches my face with the tips of his fingers, sending shivers down my spine. He brushes my hair away from my face, and I feel an inner mayhem that is amplified by having an audience staring with interest. People I will meet in the office tomorrow who will never see me in the same way again.
I answer the quiz question, still looking at Erik, and Lars drums on the table, announcing that we are the winners. Disappointed groans are heard around the table, Simon moves our pawn to the finish line unnecessarily, and people start talking and standing up.
I see all of this from the corner of my eye because I’m still facing Erik. I hug him to celebrate our victory, happy that he didn’t give me another kiss, because I don’t know if I would have stopped after one second.
My mind is a mess of thoughts and feelings. On autopilot, I follow Erik’s lead and we stand up like the others to stretch our legs and prepare to go home. More chatting takes place in the kitchen and the living room, but I’m no longer interested in joining any conversations. I just want to go home and lie in my bed. It was a long day with many surprises.
Chiara lays a hand on my shoulder when I’m putting on my shoes. “I’m so happy for you, Sol,” she says. “The two of you are a beautiful couple.”
“Thank you, Chiara,” I say wholeheartedly. “You and Anika are also very sweet together,” I add, meaning it. “I’m happy to have met her.”
“Maybe the four of us could go out sometime.” She smiles, and Anika joins her, both ready to get out the door. Anika is as tall as Chiara, her light brown hair so long it can get stuck in her belt. She looks like an elf from The Lord of the Rings. I’ve observed the two of them holding hands, giggling, whispering to each other, and they are indeed a cute pair. I envied them whenever I looked their way during the game. The sincerity of their love...their evident partnership.
Erik and I thank Lars and his wife for the night and say bye to the rest. We are too drunk to bike, so I abandon the bicycle I rented, and Erik pushes his down the sidewalk. The walk home in the dark is long and silent.
I climb the stairs to the apartment holding the railing, basically dragging myself up. At the last steps, Erik offers me his hand. We trip inside and compete for who gets to the bottle of water in the fridge first, then we elbow each other on our way to the bathroom to be the first to the sink. We end up brushing our teeth together, too tired to care, but I kick him out when I need to pee.
Once I open the bathroom door, I collide with him. Has he been waiting for his turn right outside? I stop with my hands on his chest, and for a moment I think I will be stupid enough to grab his shirt and pull him toward my lips.
The impulse is hard to resist when he is all godlike in front of me, shirt half unbuttoned, hair slipping out of the elastic, golden strands falling in front of glassy blue eyes. But I know that if I surrender to a moment of weakness, I’ll be on the street sooner than later. Either because he kicks me out or because I won’t be able to stand such a terrifying change in our status as harmonious roommates. That’s when I know we should end this charade now.
“Goodnight, Erik.” I lower my hands slowly, letting them slide on his Herculean chest for a few more seconds than is appropriate. “Thank you for today,” I say in a tired voice, “but I won’t be needing your services again.”
“My services?” He narrows his eyes, reproachful and amused at the same time.
“Yes.” I close one of his buttons, maybe to cover his irresistibly smooth chest, maybe to keep my hands on him a little longer.
“Are you firing me?” His blue eyes pierce through mine, and their intensity makes me hold my breath. I want him to kiss me aggressively—teeth, tongue, and nails—but he just stands there, torturing me with his tantalizing stillness.
“No, I’m releasing you.” I gaze at him with as much indifference as I can gather even though I’m ablaze from groin to toes.
“Where did I fail?” His eyes look innocent now, and my wish to cover his mouth with mine increases about two hundred percent. I think of the brief—too brief—kiss he gave me out of nowhere earlier tonight. I remember how it made my lips tingle. How it flicked a switch inside me, activating a desire I almost couldn’t—can’t—keep at bay.
“You didn’t,” I whisper, too shaky, too wobbly on my legs to speak properly. “You were perfect.” And that is the problem.
I don’t know if I can keep pretending without surrendering to my attraction to him. The more convincing we are, the more we’ll delight Lars, sure, but being around Erik today...
We have to end the situation before it gets out of hand.
I gather what is left of my strength to get back to my room, as far from temptation as possible—which is not far in the confines of our home. I’m almost slipping away when he takes my hand.
