Honestly, in another life, I could live here. To be surrounded by this beauty all the time, to slow down to a simple pace of life. It’s the kind of place that makes your heart dream.
I hear the motorbike from behind me, slowly growing louder, and my ribs suddenly feel too tight. In moments the sound engulfs me and Anders pulls up, looking too cool for school, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Where are you going?” he asks me, as if I’m a stranger who needs a lift.
“Just going for a walk,” I tell him. I lift up the camera. “Taking pics.”
He manages a smile. “I’m glad you’re using it. Is there even film?”
I nod. “Used it all though.”
“Ah but that’s the kind of camera that always gives you one last shot.”
“One last shot?”
“It feels like it’s done, keeps winding. But if you press the shutter, you’ll get another pic out of it.” I lift it up, aiming it at his face. He shakes his head. “Don’t you dare waste it on me.”
I stare at him through the lens, enjoying making him uncomfortable for once. Then I lower it and give him a look like, now what? Are we going to talk about you kissing me? Or the fact that I kissed you back?
But I chicken out. “Where have you been all day?” I ask.
He nods at the mountains. “Exploring some trails. Getting dirty.”
I eye his clothes—dark jeans, a white Henley that showcases his rounded shoulders, his broad chest. Not a spec of dirt on the man. “You don’t look dirty to me.”
“Had a shower. Changed. Had to look nice for our date.”
I laugh. “Date? What are you talking about?”
He sticks a toothpick in his mouth and then jerks his chin over his shoulder. “Get on.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s happening.”
He grins at me, his eyes twinkling in a way that makes my heart skip several beats. “What happened to Miss Spontaneous, always up for an adventure?”
Gah. He’s got me there.
I flip my camera around the strap so it’s resting on my back and then I stride over to him, grabbing his shoulders as I pull myself on the motorbike. I wrap my arms around his chest, place my cheek on his shoulder blades, the backpack pressed up against me.
“You okay?” he asks, his accent sounding thicker, voice husky, and I’m getting inappropriate goosebumps.
I clear my throat. “I’m good. Let’s go.”
We move, much smoother than the other day, and after a while I lift up my head to take in the sights, the camera bouncing along my spine as we hit bumps. The ocean gleams on our right, a small fishing boat plying the waters, heading home. That is obviously just a villager catching what he can; I know we’re hours away from the actual open ocean where all the good fishing is (according to Anders, anyway).
Anders takes us over a bridge, past the town, then past the dumpling hotel, which feels so long ago now, until the houses get further apart and the road turns to gravel. I keep a tight hold on him as the road gets rougher and narrower, a river on one side of us, a forest of birch on the other. You can’t hear over the roar of the motor, so we ride in a silence that’s feeling more and more comfortable by the second. It feels right to be back here, my arms wrapped around his firm stomach, my body pressed against his. A little too right.
Eventually the valley opens up, wide, like it’s yawning. A couple of farms and red houses dot the green expanse that stretches between the mountains, the river running through it.
Anders takes us over another bridge and then we start heading along the river on the other side, the road turning to a path until eventually it peters out into a grassy area and we come to a stop in front of a small waterfall.
“Here we are,” he says, turning off the bike. Birdsong and the roar of the waterfall fill my ears.
I’m looking around in awe as he helps me off the bike.
“Is this your secret spot? Because it’s beautiful.”
He takes off his backpack and brings it over to the water’s edge, setting it down and unzipping the top. “It’s not exactly a secret. Long time ago the furniture factory used the hydro from the waterfalls on this river to power their machines. If you walk upstream for a bit, you’ll find what’s left. Someone went and put picnic tables there for the hikers in the area, but this spot is a little more private.”
I watch as he brings out a wool blanket, cornflower blue with white designs, very Scandinavian looking. “Is that your grandmother’s?” I ask him.
He shrugs, adjusting the ends. “Probably.” He gives me a quick smile. “It was my mother’s.” He nods at the blanket. “Here. Sit. I’ll be your server tonight.”
I let out a small laugh and get down on the blanket, sitting cross-legged, watching as he removes a bottle of hard liquor. “To start our night off, we’ll be having some aquavit. Have you had this yet?” He gets down on his knees, holding it out.
I shake my head, eying the bottle. It looks like strong booze, has a ship on the bottle.
“I thought Astrid would have made you drink this at some point,” he comments, bringing out a couple of shot glasses and pouring the booze in it. He hands one to me then raises the one in his hand. “Skal.”
I sniff it first. My eyes water already. It’s like turpentine and something familiar yet strange. “What the hell is in this?”
“It’s surprisingly smooth,” he says, taking a shot back, though he does wince a little. “Might put a little hair on your chest. It’s why Norwegians are
