The Map of My Heart (Sample)

Chapter Three - "Not yet."

"Here it is," said Niklas, opening the glass door for me.

I stepped inside the tiny restaurant. There were a handful of tables, all neatly set with white linens and long-stemmed wine glasses, all empty. The smell of garlic and olive oil mingled in the air, drawing me in a few more steps. I was hungry, really hungry, despite the early hour.

"No lounge chairs," I whispered.

"But it looks like we beat the crowds," he said, his voice rumbling in my ear.

Damn, how did he still have this effect on me? Nothing about what he said even bordered on suggestive. Apparently, all he had to do to turn me on was stand close behind me and speak in that deep, rough voice. I swallowed, fighting the urge to lean back against the spread of muscles across his chest. He wouldn't resist.

I looked up at the hostess, waiting for our attention. She was everything I wasn't: tall, blond, and put together. The woman's gaze traveled from my creased jeans and tank top to my messy ponytail. She looked over at Niklas, and her gaze rested on him for a moment longer than necessary. While the activity of the day had bumped my look down to disheveled, Niklas's sex appeal clearly didn't diminish with a little scruff. Quite the opposite. Niklas didn't seem to notice his effect or else he was ignoring it. He turned to look at the collection of black-and-white photos of Italy that hung low on the walls.

"Just the two of us," I said, getting the hostess's attention. "Can we sit by the window?"

"Of course."

The woman led them to the front corner of the restaurant. I followed, whispering to Niklas over my shoulder, "Maybe we should have showered before we came."

I felt his hand slip over my hip as we made our way around the little tables. He leaned forward, his lips close to my ear.

"I like you like this," he said, moving his hand underneath the hem of my shirt, brushing his fingers against my warm skin, still moist with sweat, before he stepped away to pull out the chair for me. The hostess glanced once more at Niklas before retreating.

As the server brought our drinks, I leaned back in my chair and looked out the window, onto the narrow street. A family strolled by, wandering down the sloping sidewalk, peeking into narrow shop windows and glancing at the map the mother was holding. A gentle breeze floated through one of the open windows. I looked over at Niklas. He leaned back in his chair, too, eyes closed, smiling a little.

"Want to know my favorite thing about San Francisco so far?" I said.

"All the hills?"

I sighed. "Not even close. It's the fact that everyone speaks English. I know that doesn't make me sound very adventurous, but it's a relief knowing that when we go to a restaurant, I'll get what I think I've ordered."

Niklas nodded. "When I first returned to Sweden for the hockey tournament, I'd walk down the street thinking, 'that guy's speaking Swedish!' before I remembered that I was back in Sweden. I had been in Detroit so long that hearing my native language was a shock."

I laughed, but when I met Niklas's eyes, he gave me a wary look. "But the novelty goes away quickly."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean when you decide where you're going to live, language isn't very important. You'd learn whatever the language, wherever you live."

I recognized the stubborn single-mindedness behind his gentle push. We were going to have the conversation.

"Like Swedish, you mean?" I raised an eyebrow.

"For example," he said. The corners of his mouth quirked up into a little smile.