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One
JAMES
It’s bloody cold, I’ll tell you that much.
I’m standing on the side of a runway in what feels like the middle of Norway, and I’ve been freezing my bollocks off for a good twenty minutes at least. It’s early December but there’s already a fresh layer of snow on the ground, and though it’s nearly three in the afternoon, the sun is already setting, suspending the air in this murky kind of twilight. My new employer, Magnus, the Crown Prince of Norway, arranged for a private jet to take me from London to this tiny airstrip, and I’m supposed to meet one of his advisors who will take me to the nearby Skaugum Estate, where the prince and princess live, my future home for the foreseeable future.
I gather my coat collar tighter around me, snowflakes sticking in my hair, wishing I had brought a scarf. When I did my research about Norway, everyone always said that it wasn’t as cold as the stereotype and that it rarely snowed in December, but boy were they fucking wrong.
Finally a black SUV screeches to a stop outside the chain-link fence, and a man practically falls out of the vehicle, his shoes slipping on the ice. He holds on to the hood, arms splayed, legs slowly sliding apart before he manages to take another step. He straightens up unsteadily, then looks at the ground between us, seeming to have second thoughts.
“Mr. Hunter?” he yells over in a light Norwegian accent.
“That’s me,” I tell him. “Are you Ottar?”
“Ja,” he says. “Would you mind if I stayed here? I don’t think my shoes can handle the ice.”
I stare at him for a moment. He’s on the portly side, though he has a boyish face and black glasses. But the more I stare at him, the more I realize that half his face is banged up. Maybe it’s best that he stays where he is.
“Not a problem,” I tell him, picking up my suitcase handle and carefully walking over to the fence and going through the gate. At least my black boots have an ample amount of tread, which is more than he has. I don’t know why someone here wouldn’t know how to dress for the elements, but I guess I’m about to find out.
“Mr. Hunter,” Ottar says, smiling hastily as I approach, sticking out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Norway.”
I stop and shake his hand. “Please, call me James,” I tell him. Now that I’m up close, I can finally get a good look at him. He’s got a black eye and a bunch of scratches along his cheeks. “I don’t mean to pry, but are you okay? You look bloody mangled.”
He laughs and then points at his face. “Oh right, my face. Long story. But I’m fine. Here, let me get your bag.”
Ottar takes my suitcase from me and then starts the very long, laborious process of walking alongside the SUV, his hand propped against the car for support as he tries to balance on the ice.
“I can just put it in the back seat,” I tell him.
He attempts a dismissive wave, but that movement alone sends one leg flying forward and the other leg flying backward, and it’s only by the grace of a Norse god that he doesn’t end up doing splits.
“Hellvete,” he swears.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” I ask, biting back a smile.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says quickly, letting out an awkward laugh. “Just hurt myself the other day, so I’m a bit, uh, overly cautious, as one might say.”
One might say that he has a reason to be overly cautious and that the best course of action is to just abandon the suitcase and make it back to the safety of the driver’s seat.
But I’m a man with my own pride, and I’m not about to interfere with the pride of someone else. So I wait, leaning against the SUV, watching as Ottar very carefully makes it to the back of the car and then opens the trunk, throwing my bag in. There are a few more twists and turns and near splits, and then he manages to pull himself back to me.
“Shall we?” he asks, opening my door with a triumphant smile.
And that’s when he totally loses ground, holding on to the handle for dear life while the rest of him slides under the door, heels first.
Bloody hell.
I reach over and grab him by the elbows, hauling him up. He’s not light as a feather, I’ll say that much.
“Tussen takk,” he says sheepishly, his cheeks going pink. “That’s Norwegian for thank you. You know any Norwegian?”
I step inside the car. “Not a word.” I’d had a brief affair with a wild Norwegian woman but only got away with knowing swear words.
“Ah,” he says. He shuts the door, almost falling again, then finally pulls himself into the driver’s seat, letting out a massive exhale of relief. “I’m sure you’ll learn fast. At any rate, everyone speaks English fluently, so it won’t be a problem if you don’t. Except for Einar, Magnus’s bodyguard. But you probably wouldn’t get more than a few words out of him anyway.”
He starts the car and thankfully the tires have more tread than Ottar’s shoes.
