Nordic Lessons (2 page)

Having no idea what he said, I turn to face whoever has stopped, hopefully to assist me in this horrid scenario. Before sweeping my hair back from my face I only register
large
and
lots of black
. I stare, utterly dumbfounded.

Standing not ten feet before me is the most imposing human being I have ever crossed paths with in my entire life. The word at the forefront of my mind is
massive
. Yes, massive and quite dangerous. The sensible part of my intellect screams out that I should turn, run, and lock myself inside of the automobile, yet curiously, something keeps me rooted to the spot. A potent shot of adrenaline begins to run through my body as I stare at the tall stranger. He remains still, watchful. He is so large that I have to start at the top of him and work my way down in an appreciative scan. Short, closely cropped, nearly black hair with sleek black sunglasses resting on the top of his head. A handsome, overtly masculine face featuring a full, dark goatee. It frames lips that are beautifully shaped and lightly parted.

It’s not until I connect with his eyes—smoldering eyes the exact color of Highland Scotch Whiskey—that I begin to tremble, ensnared by his molten gaze. He’s incredibly beautiful in a pure, raw male way, and I’d bet that he would be utterly terrifying when angered. I nearly shudder. I’ve just come face to face with a man who does not seem to belong in this time. His warrior-like appearance and demeanor would better suit a different age, an age of iron and strength. A time when, without those two things, one couldn’t survive.

He’s watching me with the intensity of a sniper, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that my constant trembling has nothing to do with the chill in the autumn air. Every desire locked deep within me is enflamed, as if I’ve been struck by a bolt of lightning. My body seems to respond to something perilous and primal that this fearsome man has to offer me.

Heaven help me ….

He repeats the same question, again in Norwegian, this time slower, his smooth voice so low and thick, like caramel. I struggle to decipher the language, realizing that I haven’t a clue what the foreign words could mean, yet they sound so lush rolling off his tongue. I reply with the first phrase I learned when I arrived in Oslo two weeks ago from London.

I struggle with the unfamiliar language, pushing the words out slowly, carefully. “
Beklager, jeg snakker ikke så godt Norsk.
”
I’m sorry, my Norwegian is bad.

Unfortunately for me I forever blush when I’m caught in awkward moments. I feel the warm heat winding its way up my neck to spread right across my apple cheeks. There is nothing I can do to hide it as I struggle with my labored breathing.

Silence
.
His stare is all consuming.

Was he not able to understand me?
Is my accent that bad? How awful!

I march forth, this time in English, hoping that he can catch the gist of what I am trying to convey.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Norwegian.” I attempt a small smile to try to connect with him. Perhaps he will let me borrow his mobile so I can phone for help.

Those watchful eyes narrow slightly, as if determined to know everything about me. My right hand flies to my throat to fumble nervously with the unfastened top button of my fitted cardigan. I am desperate for
any
reprieve from the tension wrought by this mysterious encounter.

A vibrating rumble of laughter escapes his well-formed lips. “I understood your Norwegian fine. You’re British?”

“Yes, I am British,” I respond, ever watchful. I’m relieved beyond belief that he speaks English.
Maybe he’s not as dangerous as he appears?

I watch him lean slightly to his right, to peer around me at the Jaguar before leveling his imposing gaze on me once again.

“Yeah, I can see that. You need some help then?”

His voice is so intense, his accent so sensual that I’m drawn into the lulling tone of it, barely comprehending his words. My eyes drift lower, taking in his black leather biker vest, adorned with a variety of patches. His powerful arms strain against the material of the black tee shirt he wears beneath the leather. His well-muscled legs, thick and toned, are encased in faded, grease-stained jeans that fit him all too well. Oh, my … his wide leather boots have a thick silver chain running across the top and down over the sides where it connects with an ‘O’ ring.
Who is this man?

My eyes slowly come back up to meet his. He stares at me, his brawny arms crossed against his wide chest. His expression is calm and stoic, impossible to read.

God, his eyes really are golden, like those of an Amazonian panther ….

I feel the heat in my cheeks, realizing that he has been patiently waiting for an answer.

“Oh, well, I certainly don’t wish to impose on you. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, would you allow me to make a call from your mobile? You see, the battery on mine died just before my brother’s Jaguar did; hence my current predicament.”

He ignores my question and responds, “I can get the Jag to a garage for you.”

“That’s very gracious of you, but it won’t start. I need a tow truck.”

“You’re wrong.”

I tilt my head and whisper, “Sorry?”

“I’m definitely not gracious, woman. I’ll ask again, do you want me to have it taken to a garage?”

I’m at a loss for what to say, uncertain of where a Jaguar dealership may be in Oslo, much less if one even exists here.
Not gracious?

“May I ask your name?”

“Mikkel.”

“Mr. Mikkel,” I begin but I’m cut off mid-question by an unmistakably dominant tone.

“No. Just. Mikkel.”

I suck in a slow breath to calm my galloping heartbeat. I begin again cautiously, “Right then, Mikkel, perhaps I could just use your mobile to call an auto repair garage? Please, I really don’t wish to be any trouble. It’s Friday evening and I’m certain that you have some place to be, yes?”

He whips his mobile out of the inside pocket of his black leather vest. He touches the screen and places the phone up to his right ear. His eyes never leave mine as he speaks fast and low. Once again, with the rolling Norwegian.

As a new transplant to Oslo I have already begun my introductory Norwegian lessons at the University, but it’s a slow process. Three evenings a week worth of hour-long classes are a far cry from trying to decipher a rapidly spoken conversation with a native.

I manage to catch the words ‘woman’ and ‘Jaguar.’ I sincerely hope this biker person is not in with a ring of thieves.
What if they want to steal my brother’s Jag?
My heart pounds harder as I break his stare to scan the darkening sky, desperate to come up with just
one
alternative option.
Perhaps I should try to flag down a passing motorist.

He ends the call and speaks to me slowly, confidently. “Okay, a wrecker is coming now for the Jag. Get your things and come with me.”

I stare at him and finally manage to stammer out, “I’m s-sorry?”

“What’s your name?”

“My name?”

“Yeah, woman. Your name.”

“Elora. My name is Elora.”

“Elora, is my English that fucking thick that you can’t understand that I already told you that a truck is on the way for the Jag?”

Humiliation consumes me as heat once again suffuses my cheeks. “I-I can understand you just fine, Mikkel.”

“Good. Now get your gear and let’s get out of here. It’s almost dark and I don’t like the idea of standing on the shoulder of the motorway any longer than absolutely necessary. Understood?”

I watch as he breathes in deeply through his attractive, perfectly linear nose before adding in a slightly less scary tone, “I won’t hurt you.”

I blink once at his statement before asking, “But, but what about my brother’s automobile? Is the garage nearby? What about the cost?”

“It’s headed to a reputable garage. That’s all you need to know tonight. Anything else?”

I look down at the gravel and back up to meet his eyes, appreciating his pure, masculine beauty that’s already sculpted in the shadows of twilight. “Thank you, but I’ll wait here for the driver. Perhaps I can catch a ride into town with him and call a taxi or a bus from there. I suppose this is goodbye. Thank you for the call, and have a nice evening Mikkel.”

I watch in fascination as both of his thick shoulders jerk back slightly before he plants his huge hands on the front of his denim-clad hips. Those unusual eyes pin me with an unyielding stare.

In a growling tone, he addresses me, “Woman, you most certainly will
not
be doing that. For the third
fucking
time, get your bag and get your sweet ass on the back of my ride.” My jaw drops as he hikes his right thumb over his shoulder toward his sleek motorcycle. I can’t miss the annoyance in his voice as he adds, “I don’t want us to be run the fuck over or have my ride crushed by a texting teenager on the side of the fucking E18 tonight.”

His rigid demeanor and heated words leave little room for misinterpretation. My fingers fly up to press against my lips. I have never in my twenty-eight years had a man speak to me in such an arrogant fashion. I glance quickly around, weighing my options. The darkness is hanging heavily between us. He’s cast in long shadows now and I realize that he’s right; we could easily be hit. The shoulder we are standing on is only slightly wider than the width of the Jag. We are effectively sandwiched between the motorway and a steep slope. I’m still apprehensive and am about to offer another objection when a loud, hulking wrecker comes in slowly off the road. Its engine emits a loud growl as it comes to a halt behind Mikkel. He turns to nod once in acknowledgment of the blond guy who’s seated high up off the ground in the cab of the wide truck.

I turn away to walk back and gather my handbag from the front passenger seat. Thankfully, the strap is long enough that I’m able to sling it over me, cross-body style.

I’m getting in that wrecker.

I turn to make my way back to him and he calls out loudly over the whir of the engine, “Leave the keys in the ignition.”

I swallow before answering, “I’ll give him the keys once I’m in the cab of the wrecker.”

His eyes tighten to narrow slashes and his shoulders flex back slightly. “No. There’s no room. He brought his dog. This conversation is over, Elora. Get. On. My. Ride.”

I’m frightened and clutch my handbag against me as the handsome blond guy, followed closely by a huge mastiff, hops down from the cab of the still running wrecker.

He looks down at the ground and sighs heavily before glancing back up to say, “I’ll have him follow us into town, if it makes you feel better. Jesus Christ, female, I’m just trying to help you out, not fucking get my hands up your damn tight-ass skirt.”

I need the ride, pure and simple.

I let out a deep sigh that he doesn’t miss. “Oh. All right then. If he’ll follow us then I’ll come with you.”
It’s just a lift into town, nothing more
. Regardless of how frightening he is, I need his assistance. I turn back to place the key in the Jag ignition as I call out over my shoulder. “Let me just pop my flat key off the ring; otherwise I’ll be out on the street tonight.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see him waiting, motionless. The darkness that is settling in around him like a velvet cloak suits his dangerous countenance far more than the tranquility of daylight. I lean down and push the key into the ignition. Sucking in a deep breath for reassurance, I walk the fifteen feet back to him. As I draw nearer I’m so infused with adrenaline that I feel lightheaded. I halt, close to his unique motorcycle and await further instructions. He’s speaking rapidly to his friend in Norwegian, pointing at the Jaguar then back to the wrecker. The supremely hot blond guy speaks in a low rumble, pointing up to the sky before inclining his head to Mikkel’s motorcycle. The oversized dog sits obediently on its chestnut colored haunches beside the blond man.

Mikkel turns back to me. “Elora, this is Bern. Bern, Elora. He’ll have the Jag up on the wrecker in fifteen minutes. We can wait here for him or ride ahead. It’ll be pitch black soon. Your call.”

Crossing my arms and rubbing my hands up and down to ward off the chill, I make my decision. “No, it’s fine. I trust that he’ll get it to the garage. We can head into the city now.” I step forward and extend my hand, saying, “Nice to meet you, Bern. I appreciate the help tonight.”

He wipes his hand several times down the front of his jeans before taking mine briefly and nodding once before releasing my palm. I watch him walk over to the Jag, the loyal dog right on his heels.

These Norwegian men are so difficult to read!

Mikkel takes the final step, closing the gap between us as I lift my face to stare up at him. I’m awestruck. He’s far taller than my brother, who is precisely six foot two. I’m skittish beyond words as I stare up into those burning, golden eyes.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Elora.”

I blink because his tone is noticeably gentler, although his voice is still impossibly deep. Somehow, though it seems mad to trust him, I sense that he’s honest.

“I’m trying not to be afraid, Mikkel.” Glancing around him at his ride I say, “I, um, well this is a tad embarrassing, but I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before. Should you get on first or should I?”