One
Lottie
The lights wereon in Mikkel Siemensen’s house.
Lottie stopped in the road, her heart skipping a beat.Finally. After months of being away, the man she was searching for was home.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and killed the Taylor Swift song, then texted Mrs. Enstad, who was watching the babies while Lottie was at work.
Her Norwegian was rusty, but the older woman’s English was worse, so they made do with a broken version of both. Lottie managed to compose a message that said,Can you watch Aksel and Elise for half an hour longer?
At least she hoped that was what she’d written. Even after six years in the country, her grasp of the weird vowel letters was shaky at best.
Yes, they’re asleep.
The answer lit up her screen, and Lottie breathed a sigh of relief. If this was her one chance to catch the babies’ father while he was in town, she had to grasp it with both hands. Rooting through her purse, she unearthed a slightly wrinkled envelope holding the papers she needed him to sign. There was a coffee stain on the letter, and the edges had gone all soft and fuzzy, but she’d been carrying the thing around in her bag for five months, hoping she’d finally meet him.
Damn the man.
Lottie gritted her teeth and stomped off in the direction of the pretty cottage on the shore. Mikkel Siemensen had been one of her very few bad decisions in life. Usually, she was the picture of propriety, and if you searched for ‘dependable’ in a dictionary, the entry would have her photo next to it. But last February, when the nights had been so awfully dark and cold, she’d gone home with him one evening after a couple of drinks at the bar. Her friends had cheered her on; the Siemensen men were supposedly fantastic in bed.
Sleeping with Mikkel had certainly been memorable, in that she’d never had a lover with that much endurance. She’d been on the pill at the time, and after her third orgasm, her good judgment had flown out the window. She’d questioned him on his health, then allowed him to take her bare against the wall. And on the couch. And on the rug in front of his fireplace.
Lottie swallowed, stamping hard on her misplaced lust. The man was a ratbag and completely irresponsible. There would benoreminiscing about his strong, tattooed arms or his long, thick…
No.
This was a man who’d refused to acknowledge her ‘situation,’ as he’d called it, even after she’d shown him a sonogram of the twins. They’d been pea-sized at the time, and she hadn’t been showing yet, but he’d merely scoffed at her and told her the babies weren’t his. Now she would force him to get a paternity test, and he’d have to pay child support. Or she’d be able to get benefits from the government. Norwegian authorities were good at taking care of single mothers.
Maybe if hesawthe babies, he’d like them.
She couldn’t imagine there was anyone who would hate her beautiful twins. Their soft blond hair smelled sweet, and their chubby hands had little dimples in place of knuckles. Aksel had learned to roll from his back to his tummy just that week, and Elise would soon follow, eager even now to copy her brother.
Keeping them had been the best—and hardest—decision she’d ever made.
Now she stood at the front door of Mikkel’s house, her heart hammering. This was it. Her speech, the one she’d rehearsed, was composed to let him know just how disappointed she was, but would also encourage him to take an active role in his kids’ lives. She didn’t want her kiddos growing up without their dad. Maybe he was just afraid of responsibility. They could work together on that, if only he gave them some time. She had one chance to make a case for her babies. She couldn’t screw this up.
The door flew open. Light spilled out, flooding the steps and momentarily blinding Lottie. It was April, and while the days were lengthening even here in the north, it was dusk now, and cold. The warmth radiating from the cabin pulled her in, and she stepped forward.
“Hi, Mikkel.”
The man in the doorway retreated, and the light glinted off his red hair.
Red.
Mikkel’s hair was a pale blond, and short. Or it had been the last time she’d seen him. The stranger in front of her was built similarly, a mountain of a man, but his hair was long enough to be scraped back into a bun. And red, a deep, burnished copper that could only be natural.
“You’re not Mikkel.”
He snorted. “And you’re trespassing.”
“Sorry.” That came out in English. She corrected herself and added in Norwegian, “I’m trying to find Mikkel. Is he around?”
The man scanned her from head to toe, his expression wary. Lottie blushed, feeling he’d judged and dismissed her all in one glance.
“No,” he replied. Then he went to close the door.
“Wait!” She pounced ahead and threw her weight against the wood. “Please, wait.”
