by Katy Paige
He nodded politely, and then turned his attention to the menu.
He’s probably never heard of Jane Austen. Katrin propped her elbow on the table, and rested her chin in her palm, looking out over the inlet, thoughts of England circling in her head. “It doesn’t feel as Montana-ish here.”
“As in Choteau?”
“Mmm.”
“You don’t like Montana?”
“I love Montana. It’s my home. But, it’s also good to get away. This feels like a holiday. It feels like Europe.”
“Have you been to Europe?”
“Yes. Ten years ago. When I was twelve. To England. I went for two weeks to visit my cousins. My uncle Sean…Sam’s father? He worked as the curator at a museum in Chicago, and one summer he did a three-month project at a museum in London. They invited me and Kristian over for two weeks when they went on ‘holiday.’ Kris didn’t want to go, so I went alone.”
“To England? Alone?”
Katrin nodded, more to herself than to him, remembering the excitement of traveling internationally on her own. “Mmm. I used to be braver, before…anyway, it was the best adventure of my life.”
“I think you’re still pretty brave,” he said. “Wait a minute now, you’re saying England was a better adventure than Skidoo Bay?”
She looked up at him, and smiled, warmed by his compliment about her bravery, glad that—despite everything he knew about her—he didn’t see her as a victim. “A close second.”
“Where did you go on holiday?” he asked in a credible British accent.
“This place called…um, the Lake District? In the northwest corner of England, near Scotland. My aunt was a big fan of Jane Austen.”
He nodded, then said, “More of a Dickens fan myself.”
Katrin’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”
“What? You don’t think a Swedish-Norwegian guy who spends his whole life in Montana and works in law enforcement reads books?”
She hesitated then cringed, offering him a weak half-smile, and shaking her head back and forth slowly.
“Oh, wow. Look at you, Miss Snobbypants. You don’t even try to deny it!”
She giggled, embarrassed. “Snobbypants? Come on. I’ve lived here my whole life too. Let’s just call a spade a spade. The Vikings? Yep. The Broncos? Absolutely. Ice fishing? Uh-huh. The parks, huntin’ and a good burger? Sure. But, cut me a break…you don’t meet a whole lot of guys into Dickens, Erik.”
“Alright. I’ll give you that. It’s not obvious.”
“Where did this come from? From high school? You just love reading? Did you always love it?”
He sighed, sort of smiling, sort of shaking his head in embarrassment. “Here’s the deal. My sister and I are both the product of a mother who, despite her Norwegian roots and strong attachment to them, loved English literature almost as much as she loved the BBC movie adaptations of them. She struck out with my older brothers, Nils and Lars, but held me and Jenny hostage, home-schooling us together for eight years, from second grade until tenth grade. We only went to public school for the last two years of high school.
“Austen, Dickens, the Brontë sisters, Elizabeth Gaskell, Edith Wharton. Those were her favorites. I mean, we had a fair smattering of all the greats…Shakespeare, of course. C. S. Lewis. He’s Jen’s favorite, I think.” He smiled, presumably thinking of Jenny. “And the modernists too…Hemingway and Fitzgerald…Steinbeck. We probably read a book a week. When we were little, she read them out loud to us. When we were older, we’d read them independently and discuss them later.
“I know she skimped on the math and science part of our education, but we made up for that with weekends in the park with my Pappa. We learned more than most kids about the natural sciences. Heck, Jenny taught science until she got married.
“I liked some books more than others. But, honestly, I didn’t mind reading any of them. Who doesn’t like a good story?”
Kat’s proverbial jaw had hit the floor ten minutes ago when he declared he preferred Dickens to Austen. But a man this hot, this well read? Her cheeks started flushing hot with her attraction to him, and she couldn’t stop staring.
“Kat…are you…okay?”
“I’m sorry. I’m still sort of processing this.” She sipped her water, forcing herself to look away as she fanned her face.
“It’s that weird? That I’ve read a lot of books?”
“Weird? No!” Hot? Yes! “It’s just…unusual. I’ve never met anyone as well read as you. And all of your mom’s favorites are my favorites too.”
He grinned, like he had an idea. “North and South?”
“Swoon!” Katrin put her palms on her chest. “John Thornton!”
“Darcy or Wickham?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Darcy.”
“Anne Elliott or Jane Eyre?”
“Oooo! Jane’s so...self-righteous and prickly. I have to go with Anne.”
“A fan of Captain Wentworth too?”
She shrugged and pursed her lips, shaking her head. “Not really. He almost moved on without Anne.”
“Anne broke his heart rejecting him.”
“He made her pay for it. Making her believe he wanted Louisa Musgrove? That was punishment enough.”
“Come on. That was just to make Anne jealous. To get those feelings to the surface again. He loved her all along. He says so in the letter he writes to her at the end.”
She tilted her head to the side, staring at him with wonder. “Maybe.”
“Heathcliff or Gatsby?”
Katrin looked at him thoughtfully. Both dark, brooding, desperate, unfulfilled. But, one rough and ragged, and the other smooth as silk. Rough over smooth for me.
“Heathcliff,” she sighed.
Erik raised his eyebrows and smiled at her, pleased.
“My turn!”
“Okay. Try to stump me. You can’t.”
“Elizabeth or Jane?”
“Lizzie. You’re not even trying.”
“Lady Catherine or Lady Russell?”
He winced. “Well-intentioned interfering or pompous interfering. Well-intentioned’s got to be better, so I guess Lady Russell.”
Katrin smiled, delighted. How is this happening? He knew the characters every bit as well as she! “Fagin or Scrooge?”
He scoffed. “Okay. Now you’re getting interesting. Ummm. Fagin. At least he was consistent. Scrappy and genuine, whether you liked him or not. I don’t buy that malarkey that people can change overnight. People are who they are.”
Malarkey, huh? When you changed your whole life overnight, leaving Gardiner for Kalispell. Hmm…
“Wickham or Willoughby?”
“They’re the same character. It’s a draw.”
“Are they the same?”
“Sure. Charming. Pretty. Soulless.”
“I don’t know.” Katrin looked down at the table, considering the two characters. “Willoughby loved Marianne. I don’t think Wickham loved anyone but himself.”
“Fair point, I guess, but you’re splitting hairs.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. They married—or didn’t marry—for money. In the end, they both made the same choice.”
“Not exactly. Wickham didn’t love Lydia, but he married her for Darcy’s money. Willoughby actually loved Marianne, but if he had chosen her, his aunt would have disowned him.”
“Exactly my point. It all came down to cash. And, while we’re on the topic, did Willoughby love Marianne? He certainly didn’t love her enough,” he said, derisively, his voice low and passionate. “If he had, the money wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing would have mattered. He would have made a commitment to her and nothing could have gotten in his way. Not money, not health, he would have—”
“He would have been penniless.”
“Well, that’s a crap reason to make a life decision.”
Katrin was surprised by the force behind Erik’s words. Again, he was contradicting himself and his “no picket fences”
speech in the car last week. How could a man so set against love and commitment be so moved by characters who abuse it?
“You would have admired Willoughby for turning his back on his aunt’s money and choosing Marianne?”
“It would have been honest.”
“You would have admired him for choosing love over money? Would that have been a better reason to make his decision? Love?”
He stared at her for a moment, and then looked down, refusing to answer. She waited. She wanted to hear what he had to say. It felt like an eternity before he raised his head. Exit passionate discourse, cue sardonic smirk.
“I guess. If that’s your thing.”
“But, it’s not your thing?”
He shrugged, and his smile had faded. “Love is risky.”
“Love is worth it,” she murmured. “Look at your sister. It worked out for her.”
Erik stared at the table working his jaw and Katrin wanted to understand why.
“Erik…isn’t that a good thing?”
“Did it work out for you, Kat?” His face was cool, expressionless.
She jerked back as though he’d slapped her. He stared at her intently, those ice blue eyes gem-like, sparkling and stone cold. She shook her head, answering in a whisper, “No. No, it didn’t.”
No, it hadn’t worked out with Wade, that’s for sure.
For a moment, she felt small and vulnerable and defeated. Then something occurred to her that took all of the sting out of his words. This wasn’t about her. It was about him, and she learned something true and basic about Erik in that moment. He wasn’t trying to be mean. He was scared. Big, strong Erik Lindstrom wasn’t only scared of commitment; he was terrified of falling in love.
This made her regard him tenderly, as she would a lost child who lashed out in fear. “Maybe I made some bad choices. I loved Wade, and yes, I got hurt, and sure, it made me question myself. But, I’ll heal, Erik. I’m healing right now. I’m not going to let Wade consign me to a life of walking wounded. He doesn’t deserve that victory over me. I’m going to fall in love again. I’m scared of many, many things, but not that.” How far dare she push this conversation? She mustered her courage for the next question. “Why are you so scared of love?”
If possible, his expression became even more glacial, his voice frigid and decisive. “I already told you once before. I’m not. I’m just not interested.”
Narrow, Arctic pools of clear blue ice captured her eyes and held them for a beat before looking angrily away, but not before she’d seen what she already knew to be true. He was lying. Love terrified him.
She had pushed him too far.
“We don’t have to talk about it anymore.” He didn’t respond and shifted away from her. She tried again. “Your mother sounds amazing.”
“She was.” He didn’t look up and his tone didn’t brook further inquiry. He’s really angry.
“You could practically be an English professor. I’ve never met anyone who…” He didn’t acknowledge her comment, so she let her voice trail off.
She had offended him, and she was sorry. She was caught up in the excitement of the subject matter, yes, but more than that, she couldn’t resist the opportunity to try to get to know him better, to break down the wall that he kept maintained so meticulously around his heart and find a common ground between the man who made her insides so hot, but kept his feelings on ice. She searched her mind for a way to find the teasing banter she had killed by confronting him so baldly. Then she had an idea.
“Last question…”
He gave her a sour, bored look askance, but didn’t turn away.
“Favorite scene in Lady Chatterley’s Lover?” She licked her lips, then bit her bottom lip, and lifted her eyebrows in challenge, teasing him to answer honestly. If he was forced to read the others, he would have eventually gotten around to that one, maybe as she did, under the covers, with a flashlight, insides turning to jelly at the sheer eroticism of the writing.
He stared at her, shifting his body back toward her, eyes slowly dilating, flicking his glance from her eyes to her lips, then back again.
She watched the transformation of his face with fascination, the shift from cold to cool to warm to hot, from closed to open, from angry to pliant. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, which sent a tremor through her, spiraling out from the depths of her body, her nerve endings at attention, hopeful, wishful.
Still holding her eyes, he whispered with a low, thick, deliberate rumble. “Under the trees.”
Katrin didn’t realize she was holding her breath until it came out in a single, urgent release, hot on her dry lips. She picked up her water glass and sipped it, watching him over the rim of the glass.
He stared at her, holding her eyes mercilessly as his lips moved, softly reciting the words that led to Lady Chatterley and the games keeper, Mellors, incredibly explicit, insanely erotic tryst under a copse of trees. “‘She didn't have the heart anymore to fight...She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving.’ Shall I keep going?”
“N-no,” she murmured with wide eyes, tilting back her glass for another sip. Fierce, not loving. No wonder he had memorized that line. It was everything Erik wanted to be.
A slow smile—lazy, sexy, confident—spread across his face, and she felt her cheeks growing hot under his scrutiny. Under the trees. In the history of time, had words ever been so sexy? So unbelievably hot?
She finally put her glass down and looked away from him, out at the lake, fingering the cold droplets of condensation on the side of her water glass. The intensely erotic scenes from the book were cycling through her head, but she wished she could think of something else so that her heart would stop thumping and she could compose herself.
The waitress appeared and they ordered quickly. Erik turned to Katrin, gesturing to the wine list in his hand, his wolfish eyes flicking to her breasts and lingering before slowly looking up at her face again.
“Should we get a bottle?”
She shook her head, mutely. She didn’t realize the door she was opening when she asked her question. She meant to cajole him from a dark mood, but she had instantly changed the vibe, the electricity, between them. With unintentional accuracy, she had uncovered another important piece of information about Erik Lindstrom: This is how it is with him. Sex is the key to breaking down his walls. Being emotional is off-limits, being physical is safe.
He folded the Wine List closed and returned it to the waitress, keeping his eyes trained on Katrin, staring at her like a predator, like she was dinner.
“Quit it.” She tried to sound confident.
“Quit what?” he asked, but his eyes crinkled at her command, which made his face seem more approachable, less stark and hungry.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
He shook his head back and forth slowly, eyebrows raised. “Nope.”
“We’re friends. You don’t want anything more than that.”
“I never said that.”
“You did so. In the car.”
“No. You misunderstood. I said I didn’t want picket fences.”
“Oh,” she murmured, nodding, feeling more confident, more in control. “I see. You don’t do commitment, but everything else’s up for grabs? Is that about right?”
He shrugged, holding her eyes. “I’m easy.”
“No kidding.”
Erik chuckled at her, and just like that, the tension started breaking. “No kidding, Älskling.”
“Hmm.” Älskling, again. He was as confusing as hail in the summertime. Icy, but hot. Frightened, but strong. Physically available, but emotionally closed. Full of contradictions.
Katrin raised her eyebrows at him then looked at the water, breathing in, crossing her legs away from him, toward the inlet. “Well, I’m not. Easy.”
“Clearly.”
“Clearly? What does that mean? Cold? Unattractive?” Her back was up. Clearly? Clearly she was the sort of girl a man would leave at the altar? Clea
rly she wasn’t as hot for him as he was for her? You’re wrong there, Erik. Clearly what?
“You’re going to be insulted that I don’t think you’re easy?” He regarded her thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side, sexy smile returning slyly. Her insides went to mush, in riot, with the way he was looking at her, like she was something that he wanted, and having her was just a matter of time. “Unattractive? Now that’s just ridiculous. Cold? No, Kat. You’re not cold. But, you’re the marrying kind.”
“I was,” she answered simply.
He reached over and took her hand, turning it over, rubbing her palm with the pad of his thumb. “You are.”
His thumb moved in circles, and she felt that warmth start in her tummy again, coursing through her veins, feeding all the channels of her body with heat. Toes, fingertips, the shell of her ear, her nipples, her—
She wanted to close her eyes, shut out the rest of the world, the restaurant, the lake, the town, even Erik, who was so complicated, so damaged. She just wanted to concentrate on the feelings being generated from his simple touch, mesmerizing her with every rotation, pulling her toward him, closer to him, to a very, very bad decision.
Erik pulled his hand away abruptly and spoke tersely. “And I’m not.”
Katrin nodded, biting her lower lip, longing for his touch again, hoping he wouldn’t see it in her eyes. Erik lifted his glass of water and smiled at Katrin.
“To getting what we want.”
Have it your way, Erik. She smiled back. “And to friendship.”
Katrin was fairly sure she noticed a slight narrowing of his eyes before they clinked glasses and sipped.
Chapter 6
She tried to pay for her share, but he wasn’t having that.
And when she said he could just drop her off at the entrance to the park, he had insisted he would walk her all the way in to meet her friends.
If he was honest with himself, he’d admit how much he was starting to dread—yes, dread—driving away from her. He put it out of his mind; his feelings for her were too confusing to sort through right now.
When she had pulled that stunt with Lady Chatterley’s Lover, it had taken every ounce of his self-control not to jump across that table, grab her, crush her up against his body and kiss her mercilessly. She was so far under his skin, he was starting to feel lost. She was sweet and small, provocative, exciting, a little bit irritating and brave, and damn, he admired her. More than that, he wanted her, which was incredibly inconvenient.