“It’s beautiful,” she said, her hand against the glass.
I stepped closer, wrapping my arms around her from behind. “Welcome to Höga Kusten, the High Coast.”
She leaned back into me, and I savored the feel of her body. “How high are we talking?”
“Nearly three hundred meters above sea level,” I said, nuzzling her neck. “Highest coastline in the world.”
Zaila turned in my arms, her eyes searching mine. “Gunnar Evaldson, are you secretly a geography nerd as well as a hockey nerd?”
I grinned, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. “Maybe. But it’s a distant second to hockey. Want to explore?”
Her answering smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. “Lead the way.”
We spent the afternoon wandering the rugged shore, the salty air whipping Zaila’s hair into wild waves. The landscape was a study in contrasts, the jagged cliffs of red Nordingrå granite jutting out from the green forests and tapering down to the steely, volatile sea.
As we hiked along a trail, I shared stories I hadn’t thought about in years. “My brother and I used to come up here every summer,” I said, helping Zaila over a rocky stretch—she didn’t need it, but I wanted to touch her again. “We’d spend hours exploring the islands, pretending we were Viking warriors. He was ten years older, but he indulged my imagination.” I swallowed a lump of emotion. “That’s why I bought this place. To remember the good times.”
Zaila squeezed my hand. “That sounds amazing. I bet you were a fierce Viking.”
I chuckled, and the sound surprised even me. “Oh, the fiercest. Until I tripped over my own feet and fell face first into a tidepool. Karl fished me out.”
Her laughter rang clear and bright, and something in my chest loosened. It had been so long since I’d heard that sound. I wouldn’t tell her so, but the depth of her grief had worried me. It was almost as if Zaila were slipping away…
As the sun dipped towards the horizon, painting the sky in muted oranges and brilliant pinks, we made our way back to the house. Zaila’s eyes were clearer and her steps lighter. The change of scenery had seemed to work its magic.
“How about a sauna session before dinner?” I asked. We’d paused on the bench in the entryway to remove our hiking boots.
Zaila’s eyebrows shot up. “A sauna? Why, boss man, are you trying to get me naked?”
Heat crept up my neck, as if I were blushing. No, that couldn’t be. “I, uh... I mean, we don’t have to—” Holy shit. I was blushing. Zaila’s question had thrown me off kilter.
She cut me off with a kiss that was much too short but oh-so-sweet. As she pulled back, I anticipated the next one. Soon, I promised myself. This woman was my drug, more necessary than my next breath.
“Relax, Gunnar. I’m teasing. A sauna sounds perfect. But you’ll have to explain the finer points to me, what with me being American and all that.”
Getting to hold her made everything right in my world, so I once again ignored the voice deep in my mind that pointed out she was grieving, that she was on my payroll, that she was too young. None of that mattered when she made me feel whole.
Ten minutes later, we were ensconced in the cedar-lined sauna, the heat seeping into our muscles. I leaned back against the bench, closing my eyes and letting out a long breath. For the first time in what felt like decades, I allowed myself to fully relax.
“Oh my God,” Zaila’s voice broke through my haze of contentment. “Is that...is that a tattoo?”
My eyes snapped open to find her staring at my left biceps, where a small, intricate design was partially visible, peeking out from under the towel around my neck. I groaned, covering it with my hand. “Yes. A youthful mistake.”
But Zaila was already prying my fingers away, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Oh no, you don’t get to hide this. How did I miss it before?”
“I hid it,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, you did. Always giving me your good side, huh? Well, let me see.”
With a groan, I dropped my hand. The tattoo was supposed to be a tribute to my brother. I didn’t remember going to the tattoo parlor, let alone describing what I wanted—I’d been wasted for days after I buried Karl. I knew I’d considered getting a tattoo with Karl’s name and his hockey jersey number, but on my arm I had the words amor vitae, which translated to love of life, with what looked like a bent golf club instead of a hockey stick. The whole thing was embarrassing, which was why I’d kept it. Getting drunk, losing my sense of self hadn’t brought Karl back, nor had it created positive outcomes. Never again, I reminded myself each time I looked at the stupid thing.
Zaila’s lips twitched as she studied the ink. “Amor vitae,” she read. Lifting an eyebrow, she met my gaze. “Love of...golf?”
I burst out laughing. The absurdity of it all, the years I’d spent hiding this ridiculous tattoo, proved hilarious. Zaila joined in, her giggles turning into full-blown guffaws as I explained the tattoo’s ignominious origins.
“Oh, Gunnar,” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “That’s...that’s amazing.”
I pulled her close. Sweat slicked our bodies, dampening our towels, and I wished she were naked. But now wasn’t the time. Soon, I hoped. But not now. “You know what? It kind of is.”
