by Caroline Lee
At the other end of the table, Dr. Hayes stood up, still holding Mom’s hand. “I want to thank you all for indulging this old man and agreeing to dine together tonight. I’m excited for the chance to get to know you all better.” He lifted his wine glass slightly. “When my Vicki proposed to me, it took a little while for me to realize that would mean I’d be gaining six extra sons, and I have to tell you, it’s one of the highlights of this whole thing. You’re all fine young men, and I’m pleased to be able to soon call you family.”
Around the table, Kristoff’s brothers kept their faces carefully neutral. Well, except Mack, who was beaming up at his idol like he was thrilled to welcome the man to the family—which, of course, he probably was. Oh, and Viggo, who wasn’t even trying to hide his eye-roll.
Dr. Hayes took a deep breath—was he nervous?—and forged ahead. “I know you all honor your father, and I admire that. But if you wanted to—maybe— I’d be pleased if you’d consider calling me, perhaps—? …Well, you’re welcome to call me ‘Pops’, is my point. It’s kind of an American thing.”
Pops. Swell.
Viggo snorted.
Pops forced a smile and lifted Mom’s hand slightly. “But anyhow…let’s toast to new family!”
He raised his glass, and swung Mom’s hand towards his. She lunged forward to grab her water goblet before Dr. Hayes could knock it over, but was smiling fondly up at the man within moments.
God help us, she really does love the dork.
“To family,” Mom repeated in her clear voice, while beaming at her fiancé.
And Dr. Hayes smiled down at her in a tableau of sickening romance. “And to my beloved Viktoria, a queen among women.”
And to Kristoff’s surprise, Mom blushed and giggled like a school girl.
He was about to join Viggo in the groaning and eye-rolling when Alek—bless him—raised his own glass. “Skaal,” the oldest prince called out, and a few of the family echoed him in the traditional toast.
Dr. Hayes sat down, smiling happily, and leaned in to whisper in Mom’s ear. Well, at least that’s over. Kristoff vowed not to watch the older couple flirt outrageously during dinner, or it might put him off his meal—which was now being served.
And why would he? He had his very own fascinating person to watch right here on his end of the table. Beside him. Cassandra.
As the meal began, his focus remained on her. Johann was on her other side at the foot of the table, but he was chatting with Toni. Made sense, since he and Alek were like clones of one another.
But Cassandra seemed even shyer than normal, and kept her attention on her plate and her food. She held her knife and fork in the American manner, and Kristoff idly wondered if Mom was going to have to break her and Dr. Hayes of that habit before they entered the family officially.
“Cassandra, right? I’m Kristoff.”
They’d been introduced before, had even conversed, but it didn’t hurt to repeat the niceties. Cassandra just blushed, and hunched her shoulders even more. He tried again.
“Thanks for hanging out with us tonight.”
She glanced sidelong at him from under her dark lashes, as if trying to guess his meaning. She had lovely brown hair, thick and shiny. Tonight, it was pulled back into a simple bun at the base of her neck, but little wisps blew around her temples and ears. He wondered if they were as soft as they looked.
Finally, she murmured, “Thank you for having me, Your Highness.”
Something about the way she said his title sent a jolt through him. Straight from his ears to his stomach to—lower. His cock jumped in his trousers, and he wanted to frown, but didn’t. She’d sounded almost…familiar.
Instead he cleared his throat and tried his best smile. “Call me Kristoff. Call us all by our names, in fact. We’re going to be family, after all.”
This time when she glanced at him, she turned just far enough for the light from the candles—because of course Mom couldn’t have a “simple family dinner” without candles and two crystal wine glasses and three forks—to catch the line of her chin. He wondered how the skin there would taste.
Whoa, down boy.
“Okay…Kristoff.”
At the sound of his name on her lips, he smiled and dug into his veal in dill sauce with gusto.
They both were silent as they listened to the conversations swirl around them, but that didn’t stop him from watching her as she ate. There was something about her…something about the way she held herself, something about the way she moved her hands, which was familiar somehow. And not in the we’ve-met-socially-a-few-times-and-you-knocked-that-vase-over sort of way, but a deeper, more visceral way. Like he knew her.
After a while, he didn’t think he could stand sitting beside her in silence any longer. “So, Cass—wait, Cassandra, sorry. Which do you prefer?”
Her soft smile was tempting, and she turned towards him slightly. “Either is fine. Dad calls me ‘Cassie’, which I hate.”
“Got it. Cassandra or Cass. Not Cassie.”
“And not Jellybean.”
He grinned at the nickname—must be Dr. Hayes’ again—and she blinked in surprise. And blushed again, which made him smile wider. He liked the way she didn’t look away.
“Okay, not-Jellybean,” he teased. “What is it you do? What’re your interests?” He remembered someone mentioning she had a job down in the capital city on a work visa, but he couldn’t remember what it was
To his surprise, her gaze dropped to her plate and she swallowed. Had he made her uncomfortable?
“I, um…I finished up school right before I moved here to be with Dad.”
“Really?” He remembered that she was twenty-five. That was old for college, wasn’t it? “What kind of school?”
She reached for her wine glass, and carefully lifted it to her lips. His own twitched at the sight of her being so cautious with the crystal, and he remembered her reputation for awkwardness. When her tongue flicked out to catch the last drop of red wine, his brows rose and his lips twitched again.
I could get used to seeing her do that.
He wondered if she knew how hot she was.
“I… I got my Master’s Degree from UMass.” She kept her attention on her wine glass as she returned it to its place. “That’s where Dad taught before he moved into the political spectrum.”
A Master’s Degree? Kristoff wondered if his brothers—particularly Arne—knew that little tidbit of information. Cassandra was always so unassuming, it was a surprise to learn she was an academic like her father.
“What’d you study?” He leaned forward, trying to catch her eye, not even caring that his elbows were on the table and he was ignoring his veal.
His lips curved upwards as he studied her slightly flushed smile. He wondered if it was intentional, or if she was just happy to be thinking about her schooling. It was hard to imagine smiling about going to grad school, but that was because he’d never liked school. Cassandra, on the other hand, might’ve enjoyed it as much as Arne.
“History,” she finally confessed. “I studied history, and loved it. But I don’t want to bore you.” Her chocolate-brown eyes flicked in his direction. “I could probably gush about it until your eyes glazed over.”
Once he was sure he had her attention, he smiled. Like Viggo, he knew exactly how to use his good looks to get what he wanted from a woman, and had any number of smiles at his disposable. This one was his lazy smile, the one which told her he was interested in what she had to say, and had all the time in the world to discuss it.
Her eyes widened.
Excellent.
“So history is what you’re passionate about?”
He loved the way her lips moved, mouthing the word “passionate” while she stared at him, and he resisted the urge to smirk triumphantly.
“I, um…” She blinked, then sat up straighter, her breasts pushing against the silk of her blouse and her gaze totally on him now. “I guess so. I think it’s really cool to be able to study the
past, and understand that those were real live people just like me and you.”
Kristoff leaned closer, wanting to see her expression as she became more animated. “And do you think there were ever two people just like you and me, who lived a long time ago?”
Her lips twitched a little ruefully. “You? Almost certainly. You’ve got all the best qualities in an ancient warrior. Me? Well, if there ever was a woman like me living long ago, I feel sorry for her.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? “I don’t,” Kristoff blurted. She was sexy and charming and fun to tease. “And if that warrior and that woman were sitting together, talking…” He leaned even closer, and dropped his voice to a low murmur. “Then I envy him.”
It must’ve been the right thing to say, because her eyes widened again and her pink lips formed this adorable “O” which made him think about all sorts of inappropriate-for-the-dinner-table things.
Mission accomplished. He sat back in his chair with a grin—this one satisfied—and stretched his arm around the back of her chair. Ancient warrior, huh? He could get used to that…
“So, if history is what you’re passionate about, Cassandra”—he liked the way she shivered a little when he said her name—“What part of history is your favorite—your focus? What are you most passionate about?”
Still staring wide-eyed at him, she whispered, “Viking men.”
A pause, a blink, and his smile grew into a genuine one at her confession. Ancient warriors and Viking men, eh?
But then she blinked as if realizing what she’d said, and groaned out loud. She didn’t quite hide her face, but waved her hands up and outwards, like she was trying to wipe away the words. “Nordic masculinity, I mean! I’m sorry! I—It’s just— I studied— Gah!”
He was still grinning. “Nordic masculinity?” He raised a brow. “What does that entail?”
“Oh God,” she groaned, right before she buried her face in her hands.
From across the table, one of his brothers said something, causing Aunt Marina to burst into laughter. Kristoff shifted slightly, his attention caught, and sure enough, Marina was giggling with Britta over something Arne had said. When Britta caught Kristoff looking, she flashed a sexy come-hither smile.
He knew enough about smiles to know when one was fake, and most of Britta’s were; intended to intrigue and enthrall…then ensnare.
No thank you.
He turned back to Cassandra, much more intrigued by her adorable, honest embarrassment than he would ever be by Britta’s calculating seduction.
With his arm still over the back of Cass’s chair, it was easy enough to brush his fingertips against the top of her shoulder blades. The touch startled her, so that she jerked upright and must’ve slammed her knee against the table leg. The china jumped, and he caught her fork before it tumbled to the ground.
“Sorry! Sorry…” She scrambled to reach for the displaced silverware, her earlier embarrassment forgotten, and ended up gripping Kristoff’s hand around the utensil.
They both froze for a moment, the touch unexpected and somehow pure. His gaze flicked to hers, and when he realized she was holding her breath, his lips twitched.
She let him go like she’d been burned. “Sorry,” she repeated.
“I’m not,” he murmured.
He could see her pulse pounding in that little divot at the base of her neck, and watched her swallow again. She was nervous as hell, that much was obvious, and he couldn’t decide between trying to set her at ease and trying to push her to do something outrageous again…like grab his hand.
Under the guise of replacing her fork in the correct position, he leaned a little closer. From here he could catch a tantalizing whiff of her scent. Coconut, maybe?
“Tell me about Nordic masculinity,” he coaxed. “The history, I mean.” It was probably better to set her at ease, to be able to see the real Cassandra.
She took a deep breath and shifted so she was turned slightly towards him. “You really want to know?”
“I do.” He nodded solemnly. “I’m fascinated by the idea someone could study something like that.”
“Like what? History?” She bristled slightly.
Hiding his grin, he hurried to reassure her. “History so specific. I mean, ‘Nordic masculinity’ is like, what? Basically a philosophy, right? And you can study the history of it?”
“You can study the history of anything. I mean, social history teaches us that we can study the history of baked chicken recipes, for goodness’ sakes!”
Kristoff chuckled and reached for his wine glass, taking a lazy sip. Surely she was joking—chicken? He was careful to keep his stance casual—and his arm still over the back of her chair—as he replaced the goblet. “So tell me about the history of Nordic masculinity. Do you study Viking men, or more modern?”
“Both.” She shifted awkwardly again, her hands in her lap. “My Master’s thesis was specifically on Viking burials and what they tell us about the balance of power in Viking societies, but the history of how masculinity has been defined—and the changes in those definitions—is fascinating.”
“Like what?” he murmured, making sure his attention was focused on Cassandra, even when Britta’s caustic laughter sounded in the background.
Cass hadn’t noticed. “Well…” She shrugged. “Viking men were big and bold and ferocious, right?”
“Right. I’m descended from Magnus the Great, you know.” He puffed his chest out comically.
She smiled at his joke. “I can tell, yes. You’re every inch the Viking.”
When her eyes roamed over his chest, Kristoff had to resist the urge to sit up straighter, and instead fought to maintain his careful air of nonchalance to put her at ease. He wanted her to admire him.
“So, Viking men…?” he prompted.
“Well, funerary goods and burial locations—like the Oseberg long boat—have proven that not only were women likely just as powerful and respected in Viking societies, but not all men were warriors. That was kinda mind-blowing to a lot of historians, to realize that some men were buried with fabrics and beads instead of weapons.”
“So not all Viking men were the warriors we think of?”
“Definitely not. But that doesn’t totally help when it comes to studying masculinity, because that’s more of an ideal, right?” She was definitely more at ease now, relaxing as her hands came up to gesture while she spoke. “For all we know, those men weren’t considered the masculine ideal.”
“But for all we know, they were.”
Her brows drew in slightly as she studied him. Had he said something wrong?
“You’re right.”
“Then why are you frowning?” he asked with a teasing grin, closing his fingers around his goblet stem once more to keep from reaching out to smooth the little divot between her brows.
“Because I didn’t expect someone like you to make that argument.”
“Someone like me?”
“A Viking.” She waved her hand at him. “Look at you! You’re right out of the tenth century, with that hair and those muscles and—and your—your sports.”
His grin grew. “I sail, too.”
“See? Viking.” She was fighting a smile. “So I would’ve guessed you’d make the argument that Viking men were warriors, through and through.”
He nodded. “I see. But I’m also a modern man.” He jerked his chin at Johan, who was chatting with Toni. “I’ve got an almost-sister-in-law who could kick my ass, and a few brothers who’re more comfortable with books and diplomacy than testing their strength against the elements.”
“Exactly! In order to really study Nordic masculinity, we need to follow it through to the present day and how the interpretation has changed.”
She sat straight, unintentionally leaning towards him. He loved the way her eyes began to sparkle, and she waved her hands excitedly as she spoke.
“Today’s masculinity is very different from the Viking ideal of the past, so we need to ask
ourselves what changed, or if it’s possible nothing changed, and this multi-tiered masculinity, with the wide definition, is actually a hold-over from the past, and that Viking masculinity was just as varied!”
At the last word, her hand thrust out and knocked into the crystal salt and pepper shakers placed between her and Johan. They tottered and startled her enough to whip around to steady them. “Oh, shi—sugar!”
Kristoff stared at her, surprised by the intense desire he’d felt as he’d watched her talk about her passion. He’d wanted to get to know Cass better, and he was. Oh, was he.
Smiling, he reached over and captured her hand as it fluttered around the shakers. “I believe it’s salt, Cass,” he said with a straight face.
“What?”
She turned to him, conveniently missing the way several of his family members had looked up at the commotion. Britta was sneering at the two of them, and that in itself was reason enough for Kristoff to keep a hold of Cass’s hand.
“Salt.” He grinned charmingly and began to rub little circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. “You said ‘sugar’.”
“I…” She glanced down at their still-joined hands. “I just said that because—because—”
Because she hadn’t wanted to curse. “I know.” His grin grew as he lifted her hand to kiss the back of her knuckles, and right before his lips touched her skin, he inhaled.
Coconut oil.
A dozen sensations hit him at once, as the scent dragged him back to that dark room and the mystery massage therapist who’d come up with the idea to solve his problem with the Regatta and Enriching Children.
They were frozen, her hand at his lips, and he was sure they were being watched.
While holding her gaze, he murmured against her skin, “Would you care to go for a walk with me, Cassandra?”
“What, now?”
“I’m suddenly quite sufficed when it comes to veal. But I am hungry for answers.” He lowered her hand, and when she bit her lower lip in confusion, he had to swallow down a groan. “Like why, for instance, your hand smells of massage oil.”
Those lovely chocolate-brown eyes widened, then closed tightly on a wince. When she peeked again, he captured her gaze and raised one brow in question.