Page 5 of A Copenhagen Snowmance

Chapter Four

“Did you follow me?” he growls.

The situation is bizarre, neither of them knowing quite what to do.

He doesn’t seem to be the kind of man who slams doors in the face of distressed women.

On the other hand, and quite fairly, he doesn’t seem inclined to let such women into his home either, especially when he only has a tiny towel to defend himself.

“Absolutely not,” she manages, in something she wishes was less sobby, but it’s out of her control. The snot isn’t helping. The burr of his English tells her he’s a Scot. She suspects he’ll recognise her accented English as being that of a local. “This is just a weird coincidence.”

The arch of his right brow says he does not believe her.

He waits, silent. And glowering.

“I wasn’t following you before, either,” she adds, her earlier wish to set him straight coming back to her.

“We were just heading in the same direction.” She spots his big Nordic parka hanging behind him in the hallway, the condiment apocalypse wiped off it, but a dark stain remaining.

“The coat thing was an accident.” That scowl of his is back.

His eyes look behind her now, to see if he is being pranked.

“I did apologise,” she reminds him. It is hard to stay focused on stemming her tears and also being contrite, when his cold, and thus very hard, nipples are right in her eye line.

That said, the animosity vibrating off him is helping.

Looking back at her now, presumably satisfied he isn’t about to be rushed by thieves, he gruffly asks, “What is it you want?”

Now, now she knows it’s him in the house, she isn’t so sure. Does she want to go into the house with someone who thinks she’s a stalker and clearly dislikes her? Anna half turns back to the street. Could she knock on a neighbour’s door instead? She’d have so much explaining to do.

Some cold meltwater from her hat drips down her forehead and catches in her eye, making her blink even more than in her efforts to stem the hot tears.

“Do I know you?” he prompts.

“No. Yes. Sort of. But no,” she rambles, turning back, possibly a little delirious now with the cold, and looking beyond him again, through the sliver of the doorway he doesn’t naturally fill. She wants to see what it looks like. She wants to be inside in the warmth.

His eyebrows draw together. She isn’t making any sense. And of course, she isn’t; this entire day has been nonsense. “I’m Anna. Anna Lundholm. I own this house. Your landlord, I guess.”

“Really?” The frown remains. “My landlord lives in London.” He folds his arms across his chest in a show of strength or to preserve warmth, she supposes, then remembers the towel, and swiftly moves his hand down again to hold onto the knot.

“Yes, true, but we met at the airport, remember?” she can’t help but point out.

“I was in town for the day, and the weather happened, and I can’t fly home, and I can’t get a hotel room anywhere.

” Thankfully, in the one well-timed occurrence of the day, her teeth start chattering again.

“And I am so wet and cold, I couldn’t think of what else to do but come home and knock.

” So, OK, her use of the word home is deliberate and an intentional pull of the heartstrings, though whether he even has any remains undetermined.

Anna feels she’s getting a grip of things.

He still doesn’t look convinced.

“What colour is the bathroom?” he demands.

“Which one?” she counters, drawing the back of her hand across her nose to wipe the snot. It’s not pretty, but needs must, and it comes across as feisty, which she’ll take, having just sobbed on a stranger’s doorstep.

“Main.”

“White. But there’s a mosaic on the wall that’s shades of blue.” She’d done it herself. It had seemed a good idea at the time, copied from something she’d seen in Greece, but very quickly used up all her patience and had taken months for her to complete.

“Kitchen?”

“White. But the accessories are grey.” She sees his intention, but she’s flipping cold and doesn’t have time for this. “Look, either of those things I could have seen on old lettings ad pictures. But I can tell you the third step on the second staircase squeaks like a bitch.”

His face relaxes. Fractionally.

“Anna, did you say?” She nods. He sighs. Deeply. “I’m freezing my tits off here.” Yes, she can see. And Same, she thinks, but keeps it to herself. “Come in, warm up and we’ll work out what to do with you.” The delivery is slightly begrudging, but Anna graciously chooses to overlook it.

* * *

She waits in her own entrance hall, as the guy sprints back up the stairs then re-emerges in under two minutes in joggers and pulling a sweatshirt down over his chest. She averts her eyes from the last sliver of skin, but she’s surprised herself at how much she’s ogled.

Ogling has been soundly off the cards lately.

“Give me your coat,” he says. She unpeels the dripping coat from her body. “That’s what you’ve been wearing?” he asks incredulously. “I thought you Danes knew how to dress for the weather.” She resists the urge to snarl.

She hands him the coat and he obviously regrets his offer the moment his hand comes into contact with the wet wool. His is no poker face; it’s virtually subtitled. He hangs it on a peg, though.

“I … forgot,” is the only real excuse she has. “And it was just supposed to be a quick in-and-out trip.” That mantra has not worked. She also hands him her sopping hat, its pompom a sorry state.

He looks critically at her. “Your clothes are wet, too.” He makes it sound like she’s done it on purpose, to annoy him.

“I am aware,” she mumbles.

His eyes move towards the open kitchen-diner living room, and she senses his reluctance. But his manners are stronger, it seems.

“Tea?” he asks, ushering her further in. “Or are you still mainlining coffee at this hour, like a true Dane?”

She’s been drinking tea in the evening since she’d been away at efterskole, between the end of her senior school and college.

“Tea would be great, thank you.” Just the thought of hot tea is almost enough to bring her to tears again. She’s still feeling stupid about the over-clothes and very aware of the wet remaining clothes, every movement clammy and cold.

The room is mainly as she remembers it, the pale wood dining table and chairs and pendant lights.

It was a great space for dinner parties.

Today, one end of the table is covered by piles of work papers and the other a space where she supposes he eats.

The room is lived in without being messy, orderly in its daily use.

Her mormor’s Swiss cheese plant is still going in one corner, which makes her smile.

The kitchen has way fewer things cluttering the tops than when she lived here.

It’s tidier than her London kitchen, so she supposes it must be a “her” thing.

A large rechargeable candle flickers in the window.

That’s his and she likes it, what it represents.

But best of all, it’s the memories the room offers that have her staring for a long moment, memories of being here with Vivi and Mads, but also with Carl and the life they had here.

Lounging on the sofa at the far wall, basking in the morning sunshine with cups of coffee, stroking a purring P?lse, and watching the birds in the courtyard garden.

There’s a knitted throw hanging over the arm of the sofa, and Anna has to rein in the overwhelming desire to wrap her sodden body in it.

“Do you need some dry clothes?” he prompts, knocking her out of her reverie. “Something while you tumble yours?” Her black merino-wool V-neck and black trousers are dry-clean only. Neither of them are going near the tumble dryer.

“Thank you … er…” She’s standing in the kitchen with a man whose name she doesn’t know. Or at least she can’t remember. She’d digi-signed the lease documents the agent had sent her in a hurry, keen to get it out of her head. Was his surname MacKinlay?

He takes the hint, with a grunt. “James. Jamie MacDonald.” He doesn’t look at her as he makes the tea.

He uses loose leaves and a strainer, the tea leaves having been spooned from a small brown paper bag.

He’s either been gifted it or self-selected the blend in a shop.

She likes the idea of him assessing the scents before making his choice. It’s something she’d always done, too.

“Jamie, thank you. But I’m thinking I can maybe change into some of my clothes stored in the room upstairs.”

He frowns for a second, then understands. “You mean the sex room?” he asks and Anna has to cough her caught breath. Her mind spins through the rooms upstairs and wonders what he’s done to one of them. Surely there were terms and conditions in the lease about that kind of redecorating?

Jamie places a steaming cup in front of her. Her hands are around the ceramic cup in a short second.

“The room with the padlock. That’s what my friends call it. No one knows what’s behind the door.” He’s not laughing as such, not at her, certainly, but she senses amusement there. Like he is capable of humour.

“Oh.” Now she sees.

“The estate agent said it was your stuff, but it put other viewers off. They were expecting a body or something torturous behind it. They’ve been reading too much Nordic Noir.

But their loss was my gain, so…” This is the most he’s spoken to her so far, so she suspects he’s genuinely pleased with his luck.

To be fair, he’s got a great house here, in a central location.

The houses are much sought-after, which is ironic, given they were built as lowly workers’ terraces, three families to each house.

She hadn’t been aware of viewers not taking to the house, she’d left the agent to it.