Page 24

I linger in the hallway outside the rehab room, biting my lip and trying not to pace.

I can’t explain why I stayed behind, waiting for Ragnar, except that things felt…

unfinished. I was weird in there. Awkward.

Flustered. I got all twisted up in my head after what happened last night—what I did last night—thinking about Ragnar’s voice, Ragnar’s help.

And then, today, I came face-to-face with Ragnar’s stupid-beautiful body.

And yes, I’ve seen him shirtless before.

I’m pretty sure. Right? I just wasn’t paying attention.

Focused on rehabbing his hip, turning in my capstone, and moving on with the next season.

But when he pulled off his hoodie and stood there, sweat-shiny under the lights, with muscles and tattoos and that stupid-kind face, I lost my mind.

Not because I didn’t want it. Because I did.

I started wanting him even before I was reminded of what a beautiful man he actually is.

Not just attractive. Caring, smart, kind, able to see things other people consistently miss. That terrified me.

I shift from foot to foot, heart hammering against my ribs. I should just leave. Slip out before he sees me standing here like an idiot. But then I hear the door open, and when I look up, he’s there.

Ragnar.

Wearing his sweats and hoodie again, his copper hair damp and curling at the edges.

His chest was smooth, only a smattering of freckles and his tattoo, but that same red-orange hair trailed down under the waistband of his swim trunks.

Not that I was looking. I absolutely wasn’t looking.

I was merely… one-hundred percent looking.

He has his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pants. His head is bowed, like he’s thinking hard, but something catches his attention. I can see the way he freezes, the subtle clench of his jaw, then he looks up and his mouth curves when he sees me.

My heart gives a sick little twist, because he looks happy. To see me.

He’s moving again, walking toward me with purpose—on purpose—like I’m not a burden or a mistake. Like I didn’t just shove my whole foot in my mouth and panic myself out of the rehab room. Probably making him regret ever asking me for help.

He’s relaxed, hair falling into his sky-blue eyes.And for a moment, it looks like he’s coming to pick me up. For a date.

I shiver and squeeze my hands into fists at my sides to keep from doing something inordinately dumb, like reaching for him.

I’m not sure what the plan would be. Slip my hands under his sweatshirt and slide my fingers up the expanse of smooth, freckled skin?

Tangle my fist in the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck? Poke him in the abdomen and bolt?

He’s halfway to me when his phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. His mouth tightens slightly. There’s something almost conflicted in his expression. Like he doesn’t know if he should answer.

It has to be important. I know he doesn’t give his number out to just anyone. His agent, maybe? What time is it in Iceland?

He’s staring at me, brows pulled together. I lift my hand and give a small encouraging wave.

Go ahead. I don’t mind.

He hesitates another second, then swipes to accept the call. I hadn’t realized it was a video, but he turns, giving me his back. I can’t see the screen, but I hear a bubbly, rapid-fire voice on the other end, and the low rasp of Ragnar’s laughter.

My heart melts just seeing the way he softens at his sister. It has to be Katrín. I don’t have to see her to know she’s the one making him glow.Making him soften around the edges.

I should give them space. I don’t need to interrupt his conversation to apologize for earlier.

I can go wait by the front door, text him.

Ragnar is private. Deeply so. I shouldn’t stay here and eavesdrop, no matter how much I want to dig deep under the surface of this man, and tease out all the little facets that make him…

him. It’s not a tough decision. No matter how curious I may be, I won’t steal those pieces.

When, if, he wants to share his sister, it will mean more than if I stay here, soaking up anything I can like a thirsty sponge.

I step away. He probably won’t even notice me leave.

And that’s fine, really, but before I can move more than a few inches, Ragnar reaches out and grabs my wrist. It’s a quick, instinctive touch.

His fingers barely grazing mine before he yanks his hand back.

He doesn’t look at me until his hand drops from my skin.

I can still make out the quiet buzz of Kat through his phone.

I freeze, staring at him.

He ducks his head, cheeks pink, but he doesn’t break the conversation with his sister. He says something in Icelandic—a rush of guttural, rhythmic syllables I can’t understand—and then glances at me, eyebrows lifted.

His voice drops, soft and inviting. “W-would you w-want to say hi?”

This was not what I was expecting. The level of trust involved here must be astronomical.

His sister is sacred to him. I know that.

The team knows that. Anyone paying attention knows that she’s his entire world.

It’s one of my favorite things about this stoic man.

No matter the distance between them, the miles, the ocean, the country lines, Kat is his.

His to take care of, to love, to protect, to support.

It doesn’t take a therapist to know his loyalty to his sister speaks directly to the part of my heart that aches to be someone’s priority. Just once.

I nod, too stunned to trust my voice, and bite my lip so my smile doesn’t scare them both away.

He smiles for both of us, boyish and shy, and turns the phone toward me.

The screen shows a preteen girl with the same bright blue eyes as Ragnar, and a mop of reddish curls barely contained by a sparkly pink headband.

She squeals the second she sees me and I freeze like a deer in headlights.

“Oh my gosh, you’re so pretty!” she says—in English, thank God—and my cheeks go up in flames. “I love your…” she points to her eyes, frowning the same way her big brother does.“ Hvae kallareu tetta? ”

I hope she doesn’t mean to ask me… she may have basically mastered two languages, and a smattering of a third, but there are some days even English foils me.

Just the other day, I forgot the word “bagel” and called it a “bead donut” in the drive thru.

At least the cashier got a good chuckle… and understood what I wanted.

“Glasses.” Ragnar says the word. Letting his gaze slip from his phone to me and back again.

I grin as Kat rolls her eyes. Literally asked him for the answer, annoyed when he comes through for her.The perfect little sister.

“ ég vissi tae .” She looks like she wants to set him on fire with her mind. I adore her already.

“ Af hover ju ae spyrja ?”

“I love your glasses,” she says to me.

“Thank you,” I laugh, pushing the pink-sparkled frames up my nose and tugging my braid over my shoulder. Anything to keep my hands busy. “They’re my favorite thing about me most days.”

“And your hair!” she gasps. “You have pink hair!”

I tilt my head and show her the streak tucked into my braid.

“Just a little,” I say. “Is pink your favorite color?”

She’s nodding enthusiastically, like a little bobble head. Her curls whip around the frame of the call and I get dizzy for a moment, watching her delight.

“It was,” she admits, ducking her eyes down in a way I’ve memorized about her older brother. “Now I like purple and blue. And sometimes yellow.”

She shoots off a rapid fire question at her brother, who bites his lips to keep from smiling. His eyes shift from me to his sister and back again. He says something back on a laugh and she pouts, lower lip pushing out in a way psychologists should definitely study. It works that well.

“She w-wants to dye her h-h-hair p-pink.” Ragnar tells me, his voice raspy, as it hits my eardrums. The look on his face says he’s not sure about it.

“They make kid-safe hair dye.” I tell him. “Also clip ins.”

“No.” Kat shakes her head so hard she’s a blur. “I want it all pink.”

“I always wanted to do my whole head too,” I say, drawing her attention back to me.

“You are a grownup?” She asks, head tilted like a curious puppy. “You don’t need to ask for permission?”

Technically, no. I shrug.

“It wouldn’t exactly be… professional,” I say.

The upkeep would be intense. I do not have it in me to do hours-long appointments every month.

I barely remember to wash it as is. Dyeing a strip at the nape of my neck was the perfect compromise.

I got to have some pink. It’s mostly hidden when I’m at work—although maybe not well enough if Kat noticed immediately—and even I can handle bleaching a square inch of hair.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ragnar frown slightly. Maybe I’m not doing a good enough job convincing baby ólaffson to avoid the hair dye. Well, in that case, letting us video chat was probably a bad idea.

“W-who t-told you that?” he asks, sounding genuinely baffled. “That p-pink h-h-hair is u-unprofessional.”

I shrug, trying to make it seem like it’s not a big deal. It’s not. I’m over it. There are way bigger things going on in the world right now. “Everyone?”

“That w-was a qu-question. N-not an a-a-answer.” He takes a step closer to me. “Bill? G-Greg?”

I shake my head. It would have been easier if hair color was a hard and fast rule.

I know it is at the school where Quinn works.

They apparently tried to talk her out of the red.

Before she pointed out it grew in that color.

It’s harder to know how to fall in line, when the suggestions are just that. Guidelines as opposed to actual rules.

It wasn’t my boss. Or the owner of the team. It was my parents.