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...
Three
Erik 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.
