“I’m fine, by the way,” I manage to say between gulps of air. The smell and taste of licorice seem singed in my senses, no amount of water will wash it away.

“I know you’re fine.” He calmly takes another sip. “Like I said earlier, you’re tougher than you look.”

I cough again, my eyes water. “Holy crap,” I tell him, my hands braced against the edge of the table. “I think I saw Jesus.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich. He’s still looking at me like everything I do greatly amuses him.

“But you’re more relaxed now, no?”

Actually, he’s right. The drink was strong, but I can already feel it washing through me, this languid warmth, like sinking into a hot bath.

“Did I seem tense before?”

He gives a light shrug. “A little.”

“Yeah well don’t go getting yourself a big head. I haven’t been relaxed in a very long time.”

“Big head?”

“You know, like an ego.”

“Oh,” he says. “I see. I thought you meant like a big cock. And you can contest that I already have one.”

Phhhhhhhffff.

The gulp of water I had in my mouth just goes flying across the table in a spray.

“Oh my god,” I gasp. “I am so sorry.”

I frantically grab my napkin and start wiping down the surface.

“It’s quite alright,” he says nonchalantly as he dusts the spray off his shoulders, “this seems to be the normal reaction from you when my penis is involved.”

My hand goes to my mouth this time to stifle the laugh and anything else that wants to come out. I know my cheeks are burning up, but I think they’ve been burning up ever since I had that aquavit.

“I like it when you blush, you know,” he says, eyeing me. “It makes me wonder what else I can do to make you turn so rosy.”

“Stop,” I cry out playfully, averting my eyes.

“Oh, I can go all night long.”

I shake my head. He is unbelievable. His accent makes everything sound light and flirtatious but the wicked gleam in his eyes tell me he’s serious.

If I wasn’t hot and bothered before, I definitely am now.

Don’t forget who he is, I remind myself. Don’t forget you’re recording all of it.

I wince at the thought of playing this all back later.

“You okay?” he asks me, leaning in a bit.

“Oh yes, fine,” I tell him. “I mean, aside from spitting on you and nearly choking on the drink. What was even in that? Tastes like burning licorice and, like, dill.”

“Caraway seed,” he says, having another sip. I watch him swallow, my eyes resting in the hollow of his throat. God, he’s got a sexy throat. I can imagine his neck muscles all corded and tense when he’s coming and–

“Smaken är som baken, delad,” he rattles off in Swedish, interrupting my fantasy. “Taste is like your bum…divided.”

“Excuse me, what? Tasting my bum?”

“Only if you’re into it,” he says, a tiny, knowing smile crosses his lips, like he knows exactly what’s happening later. The thought makes me squeeze my thighs together.

Then he clears his throat. “Actually, it’s a saying. Taste is like your bum, divided. It means that…well, not everyone likes aquavit.”

I don’t think my body will ever stop feeling like it’s on fire. “How many more sayings are there?”

“We have quite a few,” he says. “We even have a family motto.”

Ah, here we are. Here is the segue. Here’s where I can get this on track to something like an interview.

“Does it involve bums or cows?” I ask warily.

That gorgeous smile widens. “I’m afraid not. Our motto is alltid mer, aldrig mindre.” He pauses. “It means always more, never less.”

“Always more, never less,” I repeat, louder, for the recorder. “I like that.”

“So do I. In the past…in the company, things were rather formal and stuffy, you might say. Everything was just for show. There was no…warmth. But my parents, my father, but especially my mother, they decided to do things a bit differently. More time with the public.”

“Public?” I ask.

“Clients,” he says smoothly. “More time with the clients. More time getting to know them. More time doing charity work and being involved with the community. Always more, never less. Always go all in, always give more of yourself, always do your best. Never settle, never cheat, never withdraw.”

It’s so weird to hear him talk about his family and job like this because I know what his actual family is, his job, his role. I could probably get a lot out of him this way, just asking questions and twisting his answers around to apply to the monarchy.

The waitress comes by with the onion rings and then takes our orders. I haven’t had a steak in ages, so I ask for a nice juicy rib-eye with a baked potato and asparagus. My mouth is practically watering even ordering it.

“It’s nice to see a girl who likes to eat,” he remarks.

“Hey, most girls love to eat,” I point out. “But I do especially because it’s so rare I get to eat something this good, like a steak. God, I can practically taste it already.”

“Do you do most of the cooking at your house?” he asks.

“Yeah, usually,” I tell him, picking at the onion rings. It’s taking great restraint not to devour them all. “If not, Pike does. It’s usually more me than him but he helps out.”

“Must be lucky to have his support. He seems old enough.”

“He’s eighteen,” I tell him.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” And though I know how old he is because I spent all day googling him, I have to ask. “And you?”

“Thirty,” he says. “And your brothers and sisters, how old are they?”

I dip my onion ring in and out of the ranch dressing and list off their names and ages.

“Wow.” Viktor sits back in his seat, running his hand through his hair. “I admire you.”

I shrug it off. He means well, but I hate that term. “There’s nothing to admire. I’m just doing what I have to do. Anyone in my position would do the same.”

“No,” he says and a darkness flits across his eyes. “They wouldn’t. People are inherently selfish at heart, even with family. They’ll push others away in order to save themselves.”

I pause with the onion ring and stare at him, wondering what brought this out. Despite the always more, never less motto, was there problems in his own family. Did it have something to do with his brother?

I know I probably shouldn’t ask this next question but in journalism school we were taught that the dangerous questions are the right ones to ask. “Do you have any siblings?”

He looks like I just slapped his face and he pales before my eyes, a world of pain crushing his features. I instantly regret the question.

He opens his mouth to say something and I don’t want to put him on the spot. “Have you always lived in Stockholm?” I ask quickly, trying to cover it up.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “To both. I was born in Stockholm and while I’ve traveled around Europe, it has always been my home base. And yes, I had a brother.”

I swallow uneasily, looking away from his eyes. They’ve turned so haunting, I feel haunted in return. “Had?”

“He died just over a month ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him.

“Thank you,” he says. “And thank you for not asking how.”

I manage a weak smile. Even though a journalist would ask how, especially since the real reports are conflicting, as someone who lost loved ones, I know better. If we want people to know, we’ll tell them. “I understand.”

“I know you do,” he says. “Maybe that’s why…”

“Why what?”

He shrugs and finishes the rest of his drink. “I don’t know.” He puts the glass down and shoots me a furtive glance. “I feel drawn to you, Maggie. In ways I can’t quite explain. And maybe that explains it.”

Drawn to me? If we weren’t just talking about something so serious I think I would be swooning in my seat.

“You know the other day,” he says, “I was in Vegas. I’d always wanted to go, and it was a natural stopover on the highway. But I barely made it into the hotel. There was a wedding, and everyone had these flowers and the smell…”

“White lilies,” I whisper absently, the images of them in front of the caskets clouding my mind, bringing with it all the memories of pain.

“Yes.” He frowns and sits up straighter, leaning forward on his elbows. “How did you know?”

I take in a deep breath and blink. I don’t want to cry here, not now.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything,” he says.

“No, it’s fine. Really. I just needed a moment. Sometimes I think I’m always needing a moment.” I let out a shaky breath. “We had white lilies at the funeral for my parents. It’s common here. It’s the symbol of innocence and I guess people think there’s innocence in death, even though the way my parents died was anything but innocent. Anyway, I can’t smell them either without being transported to that day. They’re forever tainted to me. And the problem is, a lot of flowers smell similar to lilies, at least to me.”

“So what you’re saying is, you’re not a girl who loves getting flowers.”

I let out a soft laugh. “No. That’s never been me.”

The smile fades from his face. “Well, now I know how it affects me too. When I smelled them, suddenly I was brought back to everything I’ve been running away from and I had to get out of there. That’s how I ended up here, with extra medication in my system and a lovely girl who took pity on me.”