Sharp teeth sank into Emil’s ungloved pinky finger, and he jerked his hand away with a yelp.
“Number three: discretion is paramount,” Astrid carried on doggedly. “It’s almost noble how you wish to protect a woman’s reputation.”
He flapped his stinging hand and shot daggers at Astrid. “Perhaps I have no interest in being trapped in marriage. Imagine becoming shackled to a harpy like you.”
Without waiting for a reply, he leaned down, hauled a wooden crate crammed with rattling crockery off the ground, and balanced it on his shoulder. His stomach balked at the quick movement, but he gritted his teeth and stepped onto the floating boardwalk jutting into the lake.
“Wait for me!”
“Not a chance.”
He strode forward, the gently undulating planks guiding him past a series of moored, uninhabited houseboats, and then past a territorial trio of white-headed gulls perched on the knobby handrail. They launched into the crisp winter air with a guttural squawk and flurry of slate and ivory wingtips, but he didn’t flinch. The rhythmic, purposeful clack of Astrid’s heels racing after him quickly replaced their clamor.
“Rule number four,” she belted into the hushed community. “No commitments.”
His sweet baby sister had grown into a she-devil.
The best he could do now was get her inside and out of Beata’s earshot. Bracing the crate with one hand, he slowed in front of the back entrance to the floating home, a two-story cottage sheathed with gray, lapped cedar siding and white trim. The door, which he’d left ajar with the hopes that one last airing out would permanently banish any lingering odors, swayed back and forth with a low creak. What he wouldn’t give to duck inside and shut the door in his smirking sister’s face.
“Careful,” he said over his shoulder instead. “There are ice patches afoot.”
Miraculously, the risk of a December dip was enough to slow her trot. Before she could launch into his fifth and final rule, he swung open the white gate leading to the cedar-planked deck and indicated for her to go ahead. She obliged, crossing under the gable overhang and through the door to the kitchen. Emil followed, lowered the crate to the floor, and met Astrid’s dancing eyes with a long-suffering sigh.
“Go ahead.”
“Rule number five: absolutely no cuddling.”
“That’s all of them. Are you happy with yourself?”
“Very much so. But what’s wrong with cuddling?”
“It tends to make women fall in love with me,” he said dryly. “You’re finished now? No more teasing in front of Mor?”
Her lips puckered into a pout. “I suppose.”
“Good.” He removed his coat and scarf, then sank onto his haunches. “Now, which of these jars has the syrup? I’ve earned it.”
When Beata arrived at the houseboat a short while later, Emil was mixing boiled water and ginger syrup in a mug.
“Hej, älskling,” she said brightly.
“Min lilla mor,” he replied, tilting his cheek down for her kiss.
“I heard laughing as I walked up,” she continued in Swedish. “What are you two going on about?”
“Emil was teaching me about the perils of cuddling women.”
“Cuddling?” She cut Emil a glance. “That better not be a euphemism for something else.”
“Like what? Sexual relations?”
“Astrid Hannah Anderson!” Beata’s dramatic gasp would do a stage actress proud. “I’ll not hear one word more. Emil, how could you speak to your innocent little sister like that?”
“Why am I being blamed for Astrid’s illicit knowledge?”
“Because you’ll always be my troublemaker,” his mother said simply. “No matter how many men you put in jail at the Tacoma police department. Before you quit—again.”
His temples pounded with renewed urgency. “Please don’t start.”
