What the Heart Wants (Sample)

Chapter One - "Max 2 personer"

Everyone knows that a woman shouldn't be out walking alone in the middle of the night. Especially if she's from Detroit, which I was.

Yet where did I find myself? Alone, in the middle of Stockholm somewhere around 4:00 am, and not for the first time this week. But it was light out. At least that was my reasoning when I stuffed my pepper spray into my pocket before closing the apartment door behind me.

It wasn't just the canopy of trees overhead or the muted sound that pulled me out this early, onto the winding paths of Vasaparken. Everything about the light in Stockholm was different. A gentle mist had settled low along the steep hills of the city park, veiling the tops of the impossibly tall pine trees that lined the sidewalk.

I took the lens cap off my camera and pointed it up at the trees, looking through the viewfinder. For the last few years now, I had developed a preference for the starkness of black and white, the depth and texture that it could capture, but a week in Stockholm had changed that. It was the fullness, the clear, deep blue sky and the endless layers of greens in the trees that I looked for at all hours of the day. Since I had arrived, the sun seemed to never completely disappear, only fading into a slow twilight and then inching back up again, just barely having sunk below the horizon. It was as if I had come to some sort of mystical world, one I had been given all to myself in these early mornings.

Though clearly this was a mystical world without the dangers of wandering alone at night. How else could I explain my obvious disregard for the rule that had been drilled into my mind since I was a child: don't go out alone at night, not even in a clean European city that felt more storybook than real.

Especially not if the person in question had a rather traditional Mexican father...which I did. Whether or not I agreed with this rule, it was hard to forget completely. But the jet lag that had stubbornly followed since my recent arrival from Michigan meant that I found myself waking up at odd hours of the night anyway. And this was what I had traveled across the Atlantic for, wasn't it? Adventure, photography, and freedom.

I looked through my photos, studying each one on the tiny screen, until I scrolled too far. Instead of this mystical land, Brad was staring back at me. I had taken one last photo of him before I left, and clearly he hadn't been happy about it. Or, rather, he hadn't been happy with me. He had tried all methods of persuasion to get me to stay. After all, persuasion was what he was good at.

I let out a sigh of frustration. I was not going to waste my time in Stockholm on Brad.

My thoughts were interrupted by rowdy shouts from a group of men passing by. I hadn't noticed them coming up the park path, and now they were too close to completely avoid. They all looked larger than average, though Sweden seemed to be full of this size of guy. I put my hand on the pepper spray in my pocket and looked up at the group.

"Vill du komma hem med mig?" called a guy in a baseball hat. This earned a few chuckles from the group.

Shit. I had no idea what that meant, but by the tone, I could tell it wasn't anything good. My heart was pumping the message, danger, danger, loud in my ears. The best thing to do was to stay quiet and see what happened. But while the rest of the group continued to walk on, Baseball Cap stopped not far from me, clearly waiting for his answer.

Was this just going to pass, or was he serious? I took a shaky breath, clutching my pepper spray tighter. He didn't move. Then, from out of the crowd, another guy came forward—a big, blond, living stereotype of a Nordic Viking. Husky shoulders. Ripped muscles peeking out from the sleeves of his t-shirt. I stared as he slowly approached, his eyes fixed on Baseball Cap, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.

"Låt henne va'."

Whatever Viking Guy had said had an effect. Baseball Cap turned to look at Viking Guy. He glanced one more time at me and then turned away to join the group again.

Viking Guy turned and faced me for the first time. His shaggy blond hair fell over deep blue eyes, almost hiding them, but when he looked right at me, they were bright and clear. Whoa. My heart pounded harder, though it was no longer out of fear. No, this guy's look was entirely different from Baseball Cap's. Despite the fact that the park at night was just about the least appropriate place to size up a man, a very large one, in fact, I was doing just that...before I caught myself. My cheeks flushed, and I gave him a little smile I hoped would show gratitude. His eyes still fixed on mine, he gave me a hint of a smile that made my heart jump again. Then Viking Guy took a visible breath and nodded, turning away. The group walked down the path and across the street, toward the subway station.

I closed my eyes and took a couple more shaky breaths. I had pepper spray. I would have used it if Baseball Cap had come closer.

Something rustled behind me, and I whipped around, but it was just a leaf scraping the sidewalk. I looked down at my camera. The magic of my morning was long gone. The mist was beginning to dissolve from Vasaparken's hills, and the first cars sped down Odengatan. And I was a little shaken up. Time to go back.

I crossed the empty street and walked up to a formal-looking stone building, one of many, old and tightly packed into the long block. Looking up, I counted the windows until I came to a balcony on the third floor. My balcony—for this month, at least. I punched in the building code and walked through the entry, towards the stairs. My body was begging to give in to sleep. Just a few more minutes, and I'd be in bed.

I gazed up the marble steps that spiraled along the rounded walls of the stairwell and disappeared. Waaaay too many stairs. I glanced over at the tiny elevator next to me and frowned. As a rule, I had taken the steps all week, half-afraid of shutting myself into the tiny box, made for "max. 2 personer"—even I could read that much Swedish. The elevator looked as old as the building itself, but today, my weary legs got the better of me.

I pulled on the wooden door and slid open the metal gate just beyond it. The door closed behind me, and I pushed my floor number and crossed my fingers. Nothing happened. I pushed it again. Nothing. I groaned. It wasn't the first time this week that I had spent a good while trying to figure out how basic things worked here—the coffee pot, the shower handle and even the light switch, for God's sake. I fought twinges of frustration as I jiggled the metal gate and pushed the button one more time. The elevator still didn't move.

I gritted my teeth and resigned myself to the stairs. But as I was about to grab the handle of the heavy wooden door, it was yanked out of reach. Before I could step out, a bulk of a man pushed his way in. The "max 2 personer" sign clearly didn't have a guy like this in mind, but he didn't seem to care. I shrank back into the corner of the elevator, looking for a little more space.

He managed to close the gate with a satisfying click, and the elevator jolted to life on the first try. I flattened myself against the back of the wooden, closet-like space, the view directly in front of me blocked by the broad shoulders that pulled at the seams of this man's t-shirt. Without thinking, my gaze lingered on these shoulders and the thick, muscular arms that almost brushed against my. Something made me look away, my heart pounding. I took a deep breath, and the smell of beer and stale cigarettes assaulted me. Ugh. At first the man seemed not to notice my presence, but then he muttered something in Swedish—to me, I assumed, since no one else was there.

The elevator creaked and rattled as it made its way upuntil, with a ding, the little carriage came to a sudden stop at my floor. How Iwould squeeze myself around this hulk of a man? And how did he know my floor?But as I considered these questions, he opened the gate and stepped out,letting the door close unceremoniously onto me.