There’s no time to dwell on that though, not when Viktor is coming by in an hour.

I quickly get dressed into jeans and the blousy top I tried on last night. It’s silk or fake silk and this brilliant blue and shows off just enough cleavage without being trashy. I spend time doing my makeup again, putting just gloss on my lips in case he feels like kissing me, and then dry my hair so it falls around my shoulders in long dark waves.

Is it touchable? I run my hands through it. It’s touchable.

I won’t have any excuses for him not to touch me.

Then it’s time to start on the house.

Because it’s Sunday and I worked all day, the kids have been home all day and I haven’t been here to pick up after them. As a result, the house is an absolute disaster.

I find Rosemary and Thyme downstairs in the living room, both of them on their phones scrolling through websites, both looking bored out of their minds, and enlist them to help me.

With bribes, of course. They can both choose a meal for me to cook later in the week. It was something my mother used to do. We didn’t have the money for allowances or special rewards so what she would do is bribe us all with food. If we did X amount of work, then we could choose the dinner. As long as it wasn’t steak or lobster or something crazy, we could have it and it always worked. At least for me. I worked my ass off for my mom’s lasagna.

The twins are easy though, thank god, and within no time the entire house has been dusted and vacuumed and tidied. I take in a deep breath as I lean against the broom and wipe the sweat off my brow, admiring my work.

There’s a knock at the door.

I immediately shove the broom away and smooth down my hair.

“The Swedish Chef is here!” Callum cries out excitedly from the kitchen. “Bork, bork, bork!”

“Oh my god, Callum!” I exclaim. “No. Please stop.”

I hurry past him and open the front door before anyone else can.

Viktor is standing there in a suit.

A fucking black suit, white shirt, black tie.

He didn’t even look like this yesterday when we went out for dinner.

And in his hands are flowers.

Lavender, to be specific, in a small pot.

“These are for you,” he says, smiling at them as he hands the pot to me. “And for me too, I guess. I know our aversion to flowers and lilies now and figured lavender not only smells very different, calming, but it’s an herb as well. My mother has them all over her garden at her…house…and it brings good memories.”

I’ve only gotten flowers once, from my dad when I graduated high school, and yet somehow this little plastic pot of lavender means just as much.

“Thank you,” I tell him, subtly sniffing the purple ends. Their soothing, herbal scent fills my heart and I know this smell will forever remind me of him.

He holds up a tote bag from the local grocery store. “And here is the dinner.”

I step aside and usher him in. I may have been able to ignore the dirty thoughts I was having earlier, but I can’t ignore the way he makes my body feel. How my hair stands on end and shivers roll down my back and how just him brushing past me lets loose the butterflies that were caged in my ribs.

I follow him down the hall into the kitchen, both mesmerized by the sight of him in his suit and the scent of lavender filling the air.

“You look amazing,” I gush.

“And you look outstandingly beautiful,” he says, his eyes drinking me in until I’m squirming on the spot. He places the tote bag on the kitchen table and Callum immediately runs over to him. “Hi! Bork, bork! If you’re making lobster or crab or shrimp, I will die, you know. I will literally die.”

Viktor looks up at me in horror. “Oh no,” he says slowly. “Really?”

“It’s okay,” I tell him quickly. “Callum can eat mac and cheese.”

“I’m just kidding, Miss America,” Viktor says, breaking into a grin. “I didn’t bring any shellfish of any kind.”

“But I want mac and cheese now,” Callum whines.

“Who says I’m not making mac and cheese?” Viktor says teasingly to him. He starts bringing out items from the bag, placing them on the table. “Let’s see, we have fresh pasta. We have hard cheddars and parmesan. We have chorizo and prosciutto. Onions, garlic, rosemary and…”

“Me!” Thyme yells from the living room. Obviously eavesdropping.

He grins. “Not quite. Paprika.” He looks at me with the most adorable gleam in his eyes. “You don’t have a sister called Paprika, do you?”

“No, you’ve met them all,” I tell him. Despite what Pike had warned me about earlier, I immediately feel at ease with Viktor. The fact that he’s a prince, that I’ll be interviewing him later, barely crosses my mind.

Well, it does a little.

Enough so that I’m doing a quick glance around the kitchen, making sure there isn’t anything out of place. Everything looks tidy and spotless, except the fridge, which is absolutely covered with drawings and report cards and calendars and notes with a plethora of magnets holding them all down. For a second I feel a burst of pride, knowing that the fridge looked like that before my parent’s died and it still looks like that now. Perhaps I’m doing a better job than I thought.

“Do you need any help?” Callum asks Viktor as he sorts things.

Callum has never asked to help me in the kitchen before.

Viktor smiles at him appreciatively and I’m aware of how charmed they are of each other. It warms my heart.

“Well let’s see,” Viktor says and takes off his suit jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair, and starts rolling up his sleeves. His tanned, muscled forearms pop against the white fabric as he folds it around his elbow. Hot damn. Forget about warming my heart, this is warming up other places.

“What are you good at Callum?” he asks.

Callum taps his finger against his chin in thought. “Math.”

“That’s great. I meant in the kitchen.”

“Slicing things,” he says with a big smile. “Or stabbing things.” Evil giggle.

Viktor’s eyes widen briefly. “Okay, so we’ll keep you away from the knives.” He looks at me for help.

I shrug. “Beats me, he’s never wanted to help me in the kitchen.”

“Because you’re not James Bond,” Callum says.

“Well sorrrrrry,” I tell him. I can’t blame the kid. Viktor in his suit in our kitchen is probably the most exciting thing to ever happen to us.

“Have you ever grated parmesan, Callum?” Viktor asks him while rummaging through the drawers and finding the cheese grater. He raises it up triumphantly while I silently shake my head, no way. A cheese grater is just a knife with scales.

“Never mind,” Viktor says quickly, placing the cheese grater far away from him. “How about you just sit there and sing me songs. I rather liked your rendition of Dancing Queen.”

Oh god. Now that I know “Dancing Queen” was sung to his actual mother the night before she became queen, by ABBA themselves, Callum’s version seems even more crude.

“I forgot the lyrics,” Callum says with a shrug. “But I can rap.” He clears his throat like he’s about to sing an opera. “I like big poops and I cannot lie.”

I roll my eyes and give Viktor a warning look. He asked for this.

“Can I help with anything?” I ask coming around the table beside him.

“An apron would be great,” he says. His hands are already floured from handling the fresh pasta, so I grab an apron hanging in the pantry–one that has chickens all over it, my mother was obsessed with chickens–and bring it over to him.

We smile at each other as he lowers his head so I can slip the top strap over his neck. With his head at my height, I take a moment to run my hands through his hair under the guise of fixing it.

My god. This is what heaven feels like. His hair is so thick and lush and silky, the ultimate sensory experience. I get a whiff of his shampoo, something woodsy and herbal that makes me want to drool. How I want nothing more than to just grab a few strands between my fingers and give it a sharp tug. I want to see the easy-going expression on his face become something raw and wild.

He sneaks a glance up at me and I realize how inappropriate I must be touching him like this.

“Your hair was a little messed,” I say quietly, then I go behind him and tie the straps around his lower back. Damn, if Callum wasn’t sitting right there and watching this whole scene, I’d start running my hands up and down his back, feeling every hard, taut muscle, and then climb him like a jungle gym. He’s just so tall, his shoulders so broad and wide, that I feel like I take up no space at all next to him, like Viktor commands every atom in the room when he’s around.

But Callum is watching, very intently I might add, and whatever intimacy I had conjured up by putting on an apron vanishes.

I take a few steps back from Viktor and decide to go and tell the girls to help set the table. The pasta shouldn’t take too long. I bring out a bottle of red wine too, for the adults.

When Thyme and Rosemary are done, they sit down at the table and start grilling Viktor as he stirs the pasta and cheese on the stove, asking a million questions about Sweden. At least it prevents Callum from singing.

“What’s Sweden like?”

“Do you have the biggest IKEA in the world?”

“Do you know Alexander Skarsgard?”

“Do all girls have dragon tattoos?”

“Is it snowing there right now?”

“Does everyone have funny names?”

“Do you have a nickname?”

At that last one Viktor laughs.

“Actually, I do,” he admits, grating some more parmesan into the pot. By now, it’s almost ready.

“Well what is it?” I ask, hoping it’s embarrassing because it would be nice to see Viktor look flustered for once. He’s always so poised and regal.

My mind goes back to my fantasy about hair-pulling.