After grabbing my suitcase, I make my way up to the porch, each step’s gentle creak adding to the chorus of chirping birds and dripping rainwater. I stretch on tiptoe and feel along the doorframe, like Willa instructed, until my fingertips find the cool metal of the front-door key.
I let myself in, and the door swings open, revealing an open-concept great room frozen in time. The dated kitchen décor, the long, well-loved dining table and a dozen mismatched chairs, the cozy living room with its oversized furniture, all look so loved and worn and lived in, I can feel the memories in this place. A pang of envy thrums through my chest. What must it be like to belong to something like this, to be surrounded by family and history and memories?
All I want to do is explore every inch of this place, but that giant bottle of water I drank on my drive has hit my bladder. Time to find a bathroom. Dropping my suitcase in the foyer, I head down a hallway that looks promising.
Pictures of the Bergmans flank the wall as I walk. Elin and Dr. B on their wedding day, then a series of steadily growing family portraits. First, baby Freya, her fluffy white-blonde chickadee hair and Elin’s pale blue-gray eyes. Next, baby Axel who—oh my God—is frowning adorably, dark-brown hair sticking straight up in a mohawk, his dad’s bright-green eyes narrowed in suspicion. I snort softly and stop long enough to look closer, my fingertips tracing that frown.
His frown was so fucking cute. It still is.
Forcing myself not to dwell on that, I resume my family photo tour as I walk down the hall, the pictures growing busier as the family grows, too.
There’s Ren, same copper hair as he has now and pale blue-gray Elin Bergman eyes, nestled in Freya’s arms as Axel—you guessed it—frowns at the camera. Then Ryder, who’s easily recognizable, the only one in the family with the combination of green eyes and blond hair. Not surprisingly, the next photo involves both of the wild “man cubs,” as the family calls them, who are only twelve months apart—Viggo and Oliver, like night and day, with matching blue-gray eyes but brown and blond hair, respectively. Then finally, baby Ziggy, with her dad’s copper locks and sharp green eyes, surrounded by all her siblings.
My heart twists. I’ve only known the Bergmans for a few years, since Willa and Ryder got serious, but they feel as close to a real family as I’ve ever known. And, unless things become miraculously not-awkward between Axel and me, I’m going to have to leave it behind.
I reach the last of the family photos. And I feel unreasonably sad about that.
Just as I turn away from the picture wall, I spot a door across the hallway that looks promisingly like it’s hiding a powder room. Since I got sick in high school, I’ve become an expert at scoping out bathrooms when I arrive anywhere, because you just never know when you’ll need to go. I recognize a powder room door when I see it.
Just as I reach for the handle, I hear a sound. A very human sound. Like footsteps.
Someone’s here.
Probably the someone who drove that Jeep outside. God, what is wrong with me? Why wasn’t I suspicious when I saw the car? Why am I incapable of assuming the worst?
Unless I’m just paranoid and working myself up.
I freeze, hand poised over the doorknob, and listen harder. I try to convince myself that I’m imagining things.
But then I hear it: steady, increasingly louder footsteps coming from behind the door I was about to open. This is right out of a horror movie. Some murdering fucker is coming for me from the basement.
Adrenaline floods my system, panic pricking my skin. I glance around wildly, hoping to find something I can defend myself with. My gaze flicks quickly to the hard-shell suitcase I left in the foyer. A decent weapon. I consider running toward it, hoping I’ll be able to sweep it up in time to defend myself, but too late. The door opens. I stand face-to-face with a tall man hidden in shadow, only his boots illuminated by a flashlight.
I scream because, holy shit, this is terrifying, then push the guy, hoping I can catch him off guard long enough to run away. He yells in shock and drops the flashlight. Then he reels backward, teetering on the edge of the step, arms pinwheeling at his sides.
As his head tips back in the effort to find his balance, his features catch in the flashlight’s beams. That’s when I recognize who I just shoved to his staircase doom.
Axel Bergman.
It happens in slow motion, and my imagination is running wild, picturing Axel flipping down the steps and breaking his neck. I reach for him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt in an effort to slow him down.
Here’s the thing. I’m five-eleven and—when not coming off a bad flare-up—pretty fit. Axel, though very lean, is nearly six and a half feet tall, and whatever is on those bones is muscle. Muscle, my friends, is heavy. Meaning holding on to Axel does nothing, except send me with him.
I try to stop myself from pitching forward, too, but it’s hopeless.
I fall into him, just as he arcs backward like a diver. Axel plants his hands on the slanted ceiling behind him, stopping us from plummeting down the steps.
Our bodies connect with a clattering oomph.
Oh God. He’s so big. So tall and lean and big. I feel his hard thigh muscles. The undeniable…bulk at his groin. His sharp hip bones jut into mine, my breasts are smashed against his chest, and my hands rest right over his pecs to steady myself.
Air saws in and out of our lungs, echoing around us.
“I’m so sorry,” I say hoarsely. I’m still clinging to him as we hover at an unnervingly steep angle over the stairs. “You startled me, and I just…reacted.”
He doesn’t answer me. On a grunt, he pushes off the ceiling, which thrusts his body into mine. Heat rockets beneath my skin, and the moment my heels touch down on the landing, I step away, embarrassment pinking my cheeks.
Clearing his throat, Axel picks up the dropped flashlight and turns it off. Then he steps forward and calmly shuts the basement door behind him as if we didn’t just rub bodies and nearly tumble down the steps.
“What are you doing here?” he finally says. His voice wraps around me, deep and soft as a midnight caress.
I blink dazedly, then snap out of it. “Uh…what? I’m… I’m here for a staycation. Willa said the A-frame was mine to use when I mentioned I needed somewhere to get away.”
His eyes travel me, slide down the hallway, then land on my suitcase in the foyer. A long, heavy sigh leaves him.
“Why are you here?” I ask carefully.
Swearing under his breath, he pockets the flashlight and strolls past me. “Outside.”
“Outside?” I watch his long strides make quick work of the hallway. I’m so confused.
Axel picks up my suitcase and points with the flashlight toward the front door. “Outside. Please.”
Is he seriously kicking me out?
Walking my way, he uses the suitcase to nudge me toward the door. I’m being corralled like sheep. “Please, Rooney.”
“Okay, okay. I’m going. Is something wrong?”
“Just about everything,” he mutters.
I glance over my shoulder, staring around for signs of home disaster. The place seems well-loved, but it hardly looks like it’s falling apart. Then again, looks can be deceiving. If I had a nickel for every time I made the mistake of telling someone I was sick—and they said disbelievingly, “But you look fine!”—I’d be rolling in shiny little Thomas Jeffersons.