Page 7 of Valhalla is Full of Hunks
“You already ordered…” I mumbled ashe pulled out the chairin front of the coffee that didn’t look like it could disintegrate a spoon. “How did you know how I took my coffee?”
After getting me situated, Fen sat across from me and shrugged—looking adorably caught in the act. “It was difficult to miss the scent of pure sugar emanating from your cup at the library. I assumed you had a sweet tooth.”
He already has my number.
“Guilty again!” I cackled, snagging an infamouskanelbullarto add to my plate. Unable to wait for him, I broke off one of the twisted knots and popped the cinnamon and cardamom-flavored goodness into my mouth before moaning obscenely.
What can I say? I have a thing for cinnamon rolls.
Fen took a long sip of his sludgy black coffee, watching me with great interest as I chewed.
Wait a minute.
“This entire tray isn’t forme,is it?” I asked, horrified at the implications.
Yes, we Americans were known for our enormous portion sizes, and—also yes—I could have happily eaten the entire tray of pastries by myself. But the perfectly put-together specimen of manhood seated across from me didn’t need to know that.
A girl is entitled to her secrets.
Fen’s lips twisted in a smile as he helped himself to a jam-filled cookie. “No. I was simply giving you a head start before I devoured everything in my sights.”
Behave.
“Everything, hmm?” I teased, taking a sip of my coffee and releasing another moan at the shot of caramel he’d ordered.
His blue eyes darkened as he licked a crumb off his lips. “Yes. I also have a sweet tooth and there’s nothing I love more than sinking my fangs into tiny little sweet treats.”
I sat up straighter at that. It usually bothered me when people commented on my height—since mybigpersonality more than made up for my small stature—but Fen’s unwavering stare made me feel tiny and precious and I weirdly didn’t hate it one bit.
Except…
“I should probably tell you my name’s Iola.” I helped myself to another bite of cinnamony goodness. “Although I’ll let you get away with calling mesötnos—even if I’m not at all sweet, full disclosure.”
“Perfect,” he replied, flashing that tempting grin of his. “Neither am I.”
Oh, it is on!
As badly as I wanted to jump Fen’s bones and take him to the floor, itwasonly 10 in the godsdamn morning. So, instead of risking arrest for public indecency, I glanced around the coffee shop to take in the scene. Unsurprisingly, it was a lot of white walls, light wood, large windows, and healthy houseplants, but the vibe was an odd mixture of relaxed and energetic. This was mostly because of the sheer number of people—in no rush, apparently—who were all engaged in animated conversations over coffees and trays of treats.
“Dang, you weren’t kidding about this place being good, huh?” I mumbled around another bite. “Don’t these people work?”
Fen threw back his head and laughed, and I noticed quite a few customers give his exuberant outburst some serious side-eye.“Thisisfika,Iola.” He grinned, looking beyond pleased to be educating me. “Swedes take a twice-a-day coffee break—atruebreak—and 10 am is traditionally one of those times. It gives them the opportunity to fully enjoy the company of friends and colleagues before returning to their work, refreshed and recharged.”
Although this sounded like the complete opposite of the hustle culture I was raised in, that wasn't what caught my attention. “You said ‘them’ instead of ‘us.’” I smirked and cocked my head. “Areyounot Swedish, Fen?”
Something odd passed over his face—a momentary crack in the serene veneer—and it only made memoreintrigued by the man before me.
Spill it, dude.
“I wasn’t born here, it’s true,” he carefully replied, his expression guarded. “My family comes from one of the original Old Norse bloodlines—so old, it’s… difficult to explain.”
As if that doesn’t make me want to dig deeper.
“Do your tattoos represent your heritage?” I asked, staring at his right arm and internally drooling as it flexed while lifting his mug for another sip. I knew this could be an extremely personal question, but Fen had already proved to be unreserved, so I figured I’d shoot my shot.
“Absolutely.” He grinned over the rim of his mug, apparently more than happy to give me the tattoo tour. “Most are traditional Viking symbols for protection and victory in battle, but others are more specific tomyjourney.”
My gaze instinctively fell to the arm still resting on the table. It was nearly black with interlocking tribal designs, but I spotted distinct symbols framed by the patterns. “What’s the ‘N’ stand for?” I asked, deciding to start there.
