Page 32

“Roots, Moonie. I want roots. My career bounces me around from place to place to work on thing to thing. I knew that when I took the job with WorldEnge. I’m fine with that, as long as I have a place to come home to.

A place to call my own. It’s not easy to keep picking up your life and moving all around, you know? ”

I do. Which is why it may seem crazy that every cent I put in my bank account from MBA is getting me one step closer to moving back to Ocean Beach.

Truth is, I’d move across the country tenfold if it meant seeing seals on my walks and having a glass of wine with Yas on the regular.

I’m tired of the air hurting my face when I go outside.

“I gave up my Swedish friends and my whole routine when I came to Chicago,” Ollie goes on to explain.

“Ditto,” I interject.

“Sure, I got really busy with school and what not, but now that I’m an adult and all my training is behind me, I realize just how important a good foundation is—and that starts with a place to call home. I love Chicago. Which is why a little pocket of the city called North Park is calling my name.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s way up on the north side; a quaint Swedish neighborhood. Old, cute houses. Shops that sell clogs. A diner that serves pannkakor 24/7.”

“They can’t be as good as these.”

“Even I can admit Tre Kronor knows their Nordic. We’ll have to go sometime. You can be the judge which is better.”

I like when Ollie surprises me by referencing doing things together in the future. This , I remind myself, is why I spent a hundred bucks mixing up some good, old-fashioned cock block spray.

“Well if you change your mind about laying down roots in a house of your own, I smell the makings of a hit HGTV series.”

Ollie goes in for another scoop of lingonberry as I explain the concept.

“Think about it: lowly big city apartments get made over by a hot Swedish handyman? I mean, I’d tune into that weekend marathon.”

“I’m not exactly keen on you referring to me as a ‘handyman,’ but I am okay with you thinking I’m a hot Swede .”

Oof. I did say that, didn’t I?

My face instantly flushes as I drop eye contact down to the small remaining schmear of lingonberry on my plate.

“It’s okay, Moonie. In fact, while we’re exchanging pleasantries, you should know that I think you’re a very attractive American woman.”

A very attractive American woman.

It’s been a while since a guy has complimented me. And even though this one sounds like the first sentence of a report-spam email persuading me to transfer money into an account overseas, it feels good. I smile.

“Hard to take me seriously?” he asks when I accidentally don’t say anything back.

“Even harder with the lingonberry stain on your shirt.”

Ollie drops his gaze to his white tee.

“Well, that’s embarrassing.”

Ollie peels his shirt off as he stands up from the breakfast table, bringing the rest of that arm tattoo into full frame. Rose petals and leaves on the bottom lead into the face of a directional compass. Suffice to say, embarrassing has never looked so good.

“I’m going to toss this in the laundry. I’ll be right back.”

As Ollie steps out of frame, I reach into my bag and pull out my smudge spray. Something about seeing my crush shirtless in his apartment while I’m drunk on egg coffee and Swedish pancakes creates an immediate urge to inconspicuously spritz my palms once more under the table for good measure.

I also grab my phone for a quick time check. When I do, I see a text from Nora.

Liv’s pregnant.

I resist the urge to say back, I know. She’ll lose her ever-loving shit if she finds out that Liv confided in me first this time.

Are you thinking it’s from the spell? I ask.

It’s ABSOLUTELY from the spell, she fires back.

I send her the emoji of the face with the zipped lips and she gives it a thumbs-up.

Oh, and one more thing…

I can see Nora is still typing when Ollie returns to the dining area.

“Sorry, it’s my other sister. They’re very needy today,” I explain, showing him the phone in my hand.

“Oh yeah? What’s she want?”

Just then, her text finally populates my screen and I summarize it for Ollie.

“Well, apparently, for me to take her boys trick-or-treating tomorrow. She and her husband got a last-minute reservation at Tre Dita at The St. Regis and want to ‘make a kid-free moment of it’.”

“That’s right. It’s Halloween tomorrow. The American thing.”

“Gimme a sec. I just need to text her back that it’s a hard-no.”

“Why not?”

“Because. She and Esteban can forgo eating at a fancy restaurant just this one time. It’s like parental fine print. If you have kids, you take them trick-or-treating on Halloween—plain and simple.”

“Wait,” he says, putting his hand over my phone, preventing me from typing anymore. “What if we take them?”

“You want to go trick-or-treating with two kids who are best known for peeing all over the toilet seat?”

“Sure. After all, I’ve never been trick-or-treating. And I really love Kit-Kats.”

I stare at him as I ponder the option. Do I want spend more time with Ollie? Of course. Do I want that time to be defined by two kids dressed up as god-knows-what on perpetual sugar highs? No. But if that’s what it takes…

“Fine. Come over around three tomorrow?”

“Perfect. I’m excited. Oh, and I should have asked earlier. Did you want to see the rest of my place?” he asks as I put the finishing characters on my text back to Nora. “It’ll take about thirty seconds but I can give you the grand tour if you’d like.”

There’s a twinkle in his eye that I haven’t seen before. Perhaps it has something to do with his bedroom being part of the “grand tour.” Or, maybe he just wants to show me how to install a toilet flapper?

“I’d love to.”

It doesn’t take long for the tour of his apartment to lead to a semi-predictable stop in his bedroom. I take a seat on the edge of his bed as he peruses his dresser drawers for a fresh t-shirt to change into. Once he’s fully-clothed again (womp, womp), he sits down next to me.

“So that’s the place,” he says. “What do you think?”

“I’d definitely rent it for at least double what the guy was getting before.”

“Just wait until I install the bidet. I’ve got to put my European touch on something in this apartment.”

“Me?”

The suggestion that Ollie make a move on me comes up like acid reflux. I can’t take it back. Nor can I tell if he finds it flirty or cringeworthy.

Ollie cocks his head to the left and looks at me, contemplating my invitation.

His sweet, deep stare into my eyes makes me wonder what visions of his own he’s seeing right now, as a soft smile sprouts from his mouth.

He may be taking his time, but I am no longer worried he’s going to reject my invitation to advance.

“Come here,” he finally says, as he abruptly pushes my lips to meet his.

As I’ve said before, I find marching orders from Ollie to be incredibly sexy.

When our lips lock, the air gets sucked out of the room in the best possible way.

I immediately throw my hands around the back of his neck like I’ll be in some sort of a freefall if I don’t hang on tightly.

His hair feels soft between my fingers. He puts his strong hands behind my back and gently guides my head toward his pillow.

This is my new favorite first kiss.

Once we’re laying down, Ollie slings a leg over mine.

He takes little breaks between passionate swirls with his tongue.

His hand finds mine and we interlace fingers.

It’s too soon to tell if clothes will come off, but I’m pleased to report that what is staying on is my smudge spray.

I see nothing when I close my eyes and continue to kiss him.

Mere moments into this, and I can already tell Ollie is a pro—his style is delicate, yet intentional.

As much as I try to stay in the moment, my mind can’t help but wonder what the full Ollie Experience is like.

How swift can he unhook a bra? What color is his underwear?

What does his tongue feel like in other places? I want answers.

Be patient, I tell myself as I return to the present. It’s the reminder I need to put some real stock into the power of my future visions. I saw us together, so it will happen. That is my gift, after all.