Chapter 67 – Norwegian Nights
Lucia February in Oslo redefined my understanding of cold. Not the crisp winter chill of home, but a bone–deep freeze that turned breath to crystal and made southern Italian blood feel like ice in my veins.
The flower delivery arrived precisely an eight AM. just like every moming since I’d arrived two months ago. White roses today – perfectly arranged perfectly fresh, perfectly controlled. Like everything he did.
I stood at my apartment window, watching snow drift past in lazy spirals as I debated my usual routine of dropping them straight into the garbage. The Norse goddess statue across the street wore a crown of fresh snow, her stone face as impassive as another perfectly controlled expression I was trying to forget.
“Damn it.” I grabbed a crystal vase from the cabinet- one of the few luxury items I’d allowed myself to bring. The roses filled my tiny kitchen with familiar scem as I arranged them with movements learned from countless society events.
My phone sat on
on the counter, silem as always. No messages. No eslls, Just flowers, appearing every morning like clockwork. Like some carefully programmed reminder system rather than gemuine emotion
The news app notification made me flinch slightly
“Mayor Romano Unveils Ambitious Urban Renewal Initiative
The photo showed him at a podium, perfectly composed in what I recognized as his favorite Bront suit. Not a dark wave of hair out of place as he announced plans in transform the city’s histone theater district
My theater district. The one I’d dreamed of restoring since architecture school
“Bastard,” I muttered, but there was no real hest in it just exhaustion and an ache I couldn’t seem to shake
A text from Kristin intermapted my brooding:
*Party tonight! No excuses this time, American Barbie. We’re not letting you hide in that apartment again
I smiled despite myself. My new study group had adopted me with typical Scandinavian directness, seemingly unbothered by the age gap or my complete subdity to prononance their names correctly.
I have readings to finish,” I replied, already knowing it was futile.
BORING, Olay says he’ll cry if you don’t come. Actually cry. In public. Don’t make our sweet boy suffer”
Heat rushed to my cheeks at mention of the youngest member of our group. Olay Larsson–twenty–one g
one going on forty in terms
in terms of intellectual discourse, but pure puppy dog enthusiam in every other way. Especially his persistent pursuit of the “exotic Italian princess as he insisted on calling me
“Tell him I’m still married,” I typed back, ignoring how that word made my chest tight.
Tell him yourself at the panty. 8 PM. Wear something hor.“
Three more texts arrived in quick succession – Olay begging with excessive emojis, Mari promising her famous aquavit cocktails, Erik swearing this would be the best party of the semester.
“Fine.” I conceded finally. “But no matchmaking attempts this time.”
The day passed in a blur of policy analysis lectures and urban development seminars. I threw myself into the work, grateful for the mental engagement that left no room for thoughts of home or carefully delivered flowers or perfectly controlled men in Italian suits
Und Olay slid into the seat next to me during our afternoon study group, bringing a wave of coffee shop scents and puppyish enthusiasm “Princess!” His accent made the nickname even more ridiculous. “You’re coming tonight, yes? Please say yes. I saved all my best jokes to make you laugh.”
“I already told Kristin I’d be there.” I tried to focus on my textbook, ignoring how his blue eyes lit up “And I’ve told you not to
you but to call me princess.” “But you are one!” He gestured expansively, nearly knocking over his massive coffee cup. “The way you walk, the way you dress – pure royalty” “I’m married, Olay.” The rings felt heavy on my finger both the Romano heirloom diamond and the simple band that had followed. “We’ve
discussed thic”
Separated,” he corrected with typical directness. “Living on different continents. That’s practically divorced in moden terms.” Something twisted in my chest at his casual dismissal of bonds that still felt unbreakable despite distance and silence. “It’s complicated.” “Life is complicated.” He shrugged, all youthful confidence and simple solutions. “But tonight is simple. Dancing, drinking, forgetting complicated
I found myself nodding despite my better judgment, if only to stop his pleading looks. His resulting grin could have powered half of Oslo
The pany pulsed with typical Scandinavian energy–deek minimalist decur, expensive alcohol, and beautiful people who looked like they’d stepped our of viking fashion magazines. My black cocktail dress felt almost conservative among the sea of stylish winter whites and grays.. “Drink” Kristin pressed something that smelled dangerously strong into my hand. “You’re thinking too rich again. Lean see it in your face. “I’m fine.” But I took a sip anyway, the aquavit burning pleasantly. “Just tired.”
“Laar.” She gestured toward where Olavy held coun by the window, his height making hin easy to spot. “He hadn’t taken his eyes off you all night.
Chapter 67 K
Norwegian Nights
Would it kill you to have a little fund”
“Kristin
“Married. Complicated. Blah blah blah. She rolled her eyes with food exasperation. “Taty your husband isn’t here, is he! Never heard a call from
The truth of her words hit harder than expected. I took another drink, letting the alcohol warm my perpetually cold bones.
The night blurred into a pleasant haze of music and laughter and conversation that required just enough concentration to follow the mix of English and Norwegiin. Olay appeared periodically with fresh drinks mid terrible jokes, lids enthusiasm somehow both endearing and exhausting “Dance with me!” He appeared again as midnight approached practically vibrating with energy. “Chur dance before you run away like always “I should go.” 1 demurred, glancing at my watch. “It’s late, and I have early lectures
“One dance.” He gave me those puppy dog eyes that probably worked wonders no girls his age. “Then I’ll walk you home like a perfect gentleman.
Promise
ly, so honestly. Maybe it was just tired of careful
Maybe it was the squavit. Maybe it was the late hour and the warmth of being wanted so openly, so control and measured response.
Het hum pull me onto the makeshift dance floor, his height making me feel even smaller than usual as he moved with surprising grace for someone
30 all
“See?” His smile could have lit up the winter darkness. “Mi sa terrible, dancing with a Viking.”
“You’re ridiculous. But I found myself smiling back despite everything.
The song ended, and I stepped away before he could pull me into another. Time for this princess to turn into a pumpkin
“Wrong fairy tale, he protesteil, but grabbed his coat anyway. “At least let me walk you home. These streets are icy at night”
The cold hit like a slap as we stepped ourside, snow falling mthick flakes that caught in has blond hair and probably runed my carefully straightened curls. His long legs adjusted to my shorter since as we walked through emprying streets…
“So,” he started with characteristic directness, “when will you adinu that you’re actually enjoying Norway! Despite the cold and the weird food and the impossible language
“The food isn’t weird,” I protested automatically. “Just… different.”
“Say the woman who nearly cried at her first lutefisk experience”
“Anyone would cry at fermented fish! It’s not naturali”
His laugh echoed off snow–covered builslings as we turned onto my street. The familiar sensation of being watched prickled at my neck, but I dismissed it as paranoia born of too much aquavit
“You’re good for me,” Olay declared suddenly, “Making me laugh, challenging my ideas in class, looking at me like I’m crazy when I suggest perfectly reasonable things like midnight swims in the fjord..”
“Obv-“I started, warning in my voice.
“I know, I know,” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re married Complicated. But maybe someday —
A voice cut through the snowy night, speaking Norwegian with deadly precision. Him er min kone.”
My heart stopped.
