by L. R. Olson
The guards are still there when I step out of the ticket building, reminding me that this isn’t some Disney World castle, but a true former royal residence with actual jewels worth millions. But I’m not interested in jewelry. No. I want to see their world. Their bedrooms. Bathrooms. Their lives. A man stands inside the door, checking tickets and welcoming visitors. As he tells me what I need to know about the castle, I peek into the first room.
“Mummy, my tummy hurts,” a little boy whines, tugging at his mother’s hand as they wait their turn to enter the room ahead of me.
I grimace. The chamber is full of paintings. Paintings on the walls, ceilings. Paintings of people and landscapes. It’s also packed with tour groups that crowd around the area, making it impossible to move. My mom’s worried voice pops into my head and for the first time in a long while I think about germs. All those kids with snotty noses and coughs. The room has become a petri dish waiting for a weak victim like me. I can’t get sick on this trip. I refuse.
I step closer to the museum guide. “Is there anywhere else I can start the tour?”
He glances toward the crowded room, and smiles kindly. Maybe he’s a father who sees the fear in my eyes and takes pity. Or maybe he just doesn’t care that much about his job. “I’m not supposed to, but for you…” He waves his hand toward the foyer behind him. “You can start upstairs.”
Relieved, I give my thanks and move quickly toward the stairs off to the side of the foyer. I will not get sick. I will not. The steps seem new, polished and smooth as they wind up a turret. Despite the fact that this isn’t some ramshackle ruins of a haunted castle, I still feel like I’ve stepped back in time.
Through the windows on the way up the winding staircase, I can see tourists strolling around the gardens. Everyone is here for the same reason…to get lost in the past, in culture, in beauty, and for that reason I feel a bond with these strangers.
When I reach the top of the stairs I step into a large, open room. The tour groups have yet to make it to this floor and the place is blessedly quiet. Smaller chambers branch out from the main social area. These many smaller rooms along the perimeter of the building are connected, one leading to the other. I shudder to think about the lack of privacy. Servants coming and going, knowing all your business. Life of the rich and famous.
The furniture is ornate and something only the very wealthy can afford. It makes me feel like I’m a peasant, not worthy to even enter these halls. The floorboards underfoot creak with each step I take, sounding overly loud in the quiet.
I wander through the rooms, wondering about the people who have lived here. How strange that these royals have come and gone, but this castle of stone still remains. Are those richly decorated rooms lonely when the lights go out and the tourists leave? Do they hold the memories of families close? Maybe a ghost or two?
I pause in the doorway where one room connects to another, and soak in the essence. The walk has exhausted me, the stairs added to the strain. Or maybe it’s my thoughts making me weary. I should have taken it easy today, but I’m determined to get as much from this trip as I can.
“Don’t overdo it,” Mom’s voice comes back to haunt me.
Just a moment, I tell myself as I lean against the door jamb and close my eyes. It’s in that quiet moment that I realize something shocking, something awful, something completely unexpected. I’m…lonely.
For five years I’ve been surrounded. Surrounded by family, friends, nurses, doctors. I thought all I wanted was to get away. But now that I am away…I realize I want someone to share this with. I want…a relationship of some sort. Family? A friendship? A…romance?
“Please don’t lean against the walls.”
Startled, I turn toward the voice. “Excuse me?”
The guy who gave me the five kroner. The guy I thought was following me, and for a split second I think he’s tracked me down to…what? To ask me out? I wish. Probably to tell me I’m insane. No, because he’s wearing a badge and a shirt that says Rosenborg. He works here…which was why he walked the same path as I. That heated blush that has been my constant companion today flares, burning my cheeks.
“The walls.” He nods toward the door. “Please don’t lean on them.”
I straighten away from the door jamb. “Oh. Right.”
He works here. Of course. At this point I’m pretty sure the universe, God, whoever is in charge of this ridiculous world, hates me. Desperate to escape his intense gaze, I dart into the closest room. But it’s actually barely a room at all and I find myself trapped with two older women. It’s a small chamber, in which half the space is blocked off by Plexiglas walls so that only a few people can fit at once. The other women have already made claim, and it’s a tight squeeze, but I’m not about to go back out there. Not until he’s moved on, looking for another wall-leaner to reprimand.
“So many mirrors,” one woman whispers in an English accent.
Bemused, I study the place where I’ve taken refuge. Sure enough, the small chamber is filled with mirrors. On the walls, on the ceiling. Hell, even on the floor.
“Pretty vain,” I mutter. It’s not until the other two women glance at me that I realize I’ve spoken aloud, invaded their conversation. “You know…to need so many mirrors. It’s vain.”
The women share a knowing glance. A smirk. “It wasn’t for his vanity, my dear.” The shorter woman leans closer. “He kept his erotic collection close by, if you get my meaning.”
“Oh.” I nod as if I understand. It takes a moment, but the truth of her comment finally nudges at my muddled mind. Realization hits a second later. My eyes widen. Mirrors. Erotic collection. “Oh.”
“Precisely,” the other woman laughs as they leave.
The small room has suddenly become much more interesting. Who knew royals could be so kinky? Immediately, my R-rated mind imagines what went on within these walls. He was a king. He could have had anyone at any time and probably did. And for a quick, ridiculous moment, I imagine Hottie stepping into the room, pulling the door closed, trapping the two of us inside…
The sound of conversation coming from the room next door interrupts my R-rated thoughts. I don’t know whether to laugh or curse my wayward imagination. Yeah, I’d have more of a chance of Bigfoot stepping into this room wanting to make out, than Hottie.
I quickly leave the chamber. Hottie is standing guard just outside the door. I freeze. Our eyes meet. I don’t miss the amusement in his gaze. He’s either read my perverted mind or overheard my conversation with the English ladies. Great. Just freaking great. I edge around him and scurry toward the stairs. I think I’ve had enough of Rosenborg for the day.
I’m headed toward the steps when my phone dings.
I sent my mom a mandatory text the moment I landed. But this isn’t from her, I realize as I pull my cell out of my pocket. My steps slow as I reach the first floor. It’s from my cousin Heidi.
Omg. Met this super hot French guy on the plane. Going to Paris. Don’t hate me.
I sigh, stuffing my phone back into my pocket. Great. Of course. My cousin, the flake, isn’t coming.
Chapter 3
Find a Scandinavian Hottie
Embarrass myself in front of Scandinavian Hottie
I’m starting to think I was right…and he is stalking me.
Spotting Scandinavian Hottie in the café steps from my apartment, I quickly avert my eyes and focus on the cashier, a pretty, young blonde who smiles at me in that reserved way Scandinavians do. Midwestern nice, I realize, not Southern. In other words, they’re polite, but they’re not going to ask what church you attend.
“Hej,” she says, proceeded by something in Danish I don’t understand.
I admit I get a secret little thrill when they automatically speak to me in Danish. It makes me feel like I belong here, it also makes me wish I had learned the language. Although that “going native” feeling is quickly ruined when I open my mouth to say Hej back, and she switches to English because I can’t even say hel
lo without sounding like an American.
“What can I get for you?” she asks.
“The breakfast tea.”
It seems like everyone here speaks multiple languages. I wish I was so talented. I pay and shift over to the side, keeping my back to Hottie. He won’t remember me, right? He sees hundreds of people a day at his job and it’s been two days.
Exhausted, I spent yesterday resting, not even leaving the apartment, but appreciating Copenhagen from the windows. Gabrielle had come and gone, we’d shared some brief, stilted conversations, but I’d slept most of the time. Today I’d woken feeling refreshed and ready to go. But I hadn’t expected to run into him again.
No, he won’t remember me. Then again, how often does he have to pay for someone to use the toilet, be accosted by that person while walking to work, and have to reprimand that same person for touching royal walls? I nibble on my lower lip in indecision.
Maybe I’m feeling cocky, maybe I’m just screwed up from the meds, but I do something stupid. “And two of those, separate bags.”
I point to a pastry with icing and almonds. She rings me up and I take my two bags, my meager offering. There’s a small table right next to Hottie. Convenient. Maybe the universe has finally decided to give me a break and stop making my life a cosmic joke. I sit at the table, trying to be suave and elegant as I sink into my chair. He doesn’t even glance my way.
He’s focused on a book. It looks like math. He must be in college. I was good at math…once. The best in my class. Better, even, than the boys, which really pissed off my sexist eighth grade math teacher. At one time I’d loved school. I loved studying. Loved learning. Maybe he only likes smart girls. Women in college, studying fancy things like law.
If I hesitate, my courage will fade. He’s so damn good looking, surely he has a girlfriend. He’s not just hot, but he’s European hot. Sophisticated, worldly. Even though he’s not much older than me, he seems it. But I’m just saying thanks, right? It’s not like I’m asking him back to my apartment…yet.
It’s jump into the deep end, or stay on the shore. I take in a trembling breath. Now or never. I lean closer to his table, my chair tilts. There’s one frantic moment when I think I’ll fall and I throw my hands wide, knocking his book to the floor. It hits the ground with a loud thud that startles the entire café. The feet of my chair slam back to the ground as I regain my balance.
My breath is coming out in harsh, frantic pants that sound overly loud in the quiet café. He’s staring at me. Shocked. Confused. I’m not sure. The entire café is watching. I can feel their attention like spiders crawling up my back. So, apparently the universe isn’t done making a mockery of my life.
“Sorry,” I mutter, scooping up his book and setting it on the table. There’s that blush again, working its way up my neck and toward my face. “I mean…hi. I just…wanted to say thanks…”
His brows draw together. He looks completely confused. The heat makes it to my face and I know my cheeks are bright red. He doesn’t remember me. I could have bought my tea and pastry, eaten in peace without him even realizing I was there. But he’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer to his unspoken question.
“The bathroom…I mean…toilet…two days ago…you paid for me.”
Jesus. Mother of god! We’ve had three interactions. All horrifyingly embarrassing, but some less so than the others. Why the hell did I have to mention the toilet? Nothing says romance like bladder control.
“Oh. Right.”
He glances at the pastry I’m offering. He has really thick lashes. It’s ridiculous. And did I mention his blue eyes? Sharp cheekbones, chiseled chin. Lips firm, yet with the slightest hint of softness. Perfection. My heart hammers, my body growing warm. I haven’t felt attraction in so long it’s a strange and almost unfamiliar sensation. But I know it. You can’t forget that feeling.
“I greatly appreciate the gesture,” he hesitates. “But I’m allergic to almonds.”
I laugh, a burst of noise that takes us both by surprise. I’ve made a fool of myself so many times in front of this guy, what does it matter at this point? But it does matter because I realize I’ve become a complete moron when it comes to socializing. So much for making friends. “Of course you are.”
He’s watching me curiously, as if I’m a scientific specimen and he a biologist, or maybe like a doctor looks at a psych patient. Whatever analogy is going through his mind, it’s so blatantly obvious that he thinks I’m a complete idiot.
I shove my hand in my pocket, feeling rather desperate. “Well then…here.” I hold out the coin, only to realize it has a ten embossed on the surface, not a five. Why didn’t I just slink off when I could? “Interest.”
He closes his book, his gaze filled with amusement. I’ve become one of those bumbling fools that make Americans look bad. Zach would be so disappointed. I’ve brought shame to my culture. The chatter has resumed, but it’s a small café and the couple seated at the table next to us is watching with open interest, understanding every embarrassing word I fumble to say.
“It’s ok, really,” he says.
So far he’s been a man of few words, and despite the fact that I find him somewhat annoying at this point, I can’t help but admit I like his voice. It’s deep, smooth, with the slightest tinge of an accent. I want to hear him say more, but before I can come up with a topic of conversation, before I can even think of a way to make things right, he stands, picks up his drink and book, and rudely leaves.
This time I’m more offended than embarrassed. I know I’m no beauty queen, but I’m not fucking Quasimodo either. And sure, perhaps I accused him of being a stalker, but I apologized. And yeah, maybe I touched the royal walls, but how was I supposed to know that freaking walls were protected?
I grab my tea and the bags of pastries. “Screw him,” I mutter, ignoring the curious glances of the few people close enough to hear. Awesome. I’ve provided the morning’s entertainment, and because everyone speaks English, they know exactly what’s happened. “Two pastries for me.”
But even I know I sound pathetic. I stand and head out the door, determined to forget the guy. Sure enough, he’s standing right outside the café, messing with his phone. I’m thinking about either darting back into the café, or pushing him into oncoming traffic when he glances up, an odd look in his gaze. Wariness. Suspicion. Probably wonders if I’m stalking him again.
I know I should leave. Just turn in the opposite direction and walk away, Hope. Walk away. But of course I don’t because knowing I’m terminal has made me bold. Stupid, yes, but also bold. “You know, I really am not trying to make your life miserable.”
He only smiles this mysterious little crooked smile that makes him look a thousand times hotter, then puts his earbuds in his ears and does what I should have done… leaves without a word. I watch him go, realizing with disgust that the smile he gives me is the same sort of smile I gave my grandma when she had dementia and put peanut butter on the cats to wash them.
I’m not sure whether to laugh or crawl under the nearest rock and hide. He’s tall. Over six feet. His shoulders are broad, his hair styled longer on top and shorter on the sides, in a messy undercut that makes me want to run my fingers through the locks.
My gaze dips lower. I’ve never understood the appeal of a guy’s ass until I see his. Tight, muscled. I’m feeling hot, restless, and I know it has nothing to do with my illness. Yep, attraction, pure and simple. I might not be experienced, but I know enough to realize when I want a guy. Of course the guy I’m attracted to finds me repulsive.
It’s not until he pauses on the street corner that I realize he’s wearing his work shirt. Hell, he’s headed to the castle. Two other college-aged guys appear, coming to a stop next to him. They’re talking and laughing as if they’ve known each other a long, long time.
For a brief moment I wonder wistfully what it would be like to have a social life. To have friends, inside jokes. Then suddenly they’re all looking at me. I freeze like a de
er in headlights. Scandinavian Hottie says something and smiles. His friends laugh. I’m obviously the butt of their joke.
“Shit.”
I spin around and head down the next road to avoid them. The plan for the morning had been to have breakfast in the park, but I know he’s headed that way. I hesitate at a corner where two cobbled roads come together. Should I go home?
The urge to return to the comfort of my small apartment is strong, but I resist. Damn him. I’m not giving up on my day, my dreams, because of one arrogant Scandinavian. I start north again. The park is big. I’ll tuck away behind the trees and hope he won’t see me. Besides, I’ve learned my lesson. I sure as hell won’t approach him again.
Determined, I scurry across the street toward the park but as much as I tell myself I won’t think about him, my mind keeps wandering back to that handsome face. Too handsome, now that I think rationally about it. I don’t need a guy that good looking. No woman wants to date a man prettier than she is. Yep, it’s definitely a good thing he was an asshole. Apparently hot guys in Denmark are pretty much like hot American males.
Except Matt, a soft breeze whispers.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
I find the path between the tall, willowy trees. Matt is honorable and good. Why did I break up with him again? Because I don’t want to ruin his life. Because I’m not sure if he loves me or if I’m his charity project, and honestly I don’t want to find out.
I veer off between the trees and find a spot on the grass where the sun shines brightly. The day is warm. Perfect. Already I feel at ease in this country. I won’t let my confusing relationship with Matt ruin my day. And I won’t let rude, arrogant Danish boys destroy my vacation.
I spread my jacket on the grass, and lay on my stomach, pulling out my Copenhagen guide book. I’m trying to decide if I can figure out how the train works so I can travel outside the city when a shadow falls over me.
“Hello, Roomie!”
Startled, I look up. It’s Gabrielle. I’m not sure if I’m happy to see her or not. “Hey…you.”