Very, very true.
Sotrue. The truest.
Hmmm.
Lying to himself had grown easier over time, what with all his recent practice, but he’d never gotten better at believing the lies. A shame, that.
He crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing her balefully. “Keep taunting me about the roof, and I’ll force-feed you seaweed, Pippi.”
Maintaining a threatening demeanor became significantly more difficult at that point, since Maria produced a glass jar of herring, seemingly from midair, and shook it approximately an inch from his nose.
No closer, though, because she didn’t touch him off camera, and he returned that favor.
“So help me,skitstövel, if you call me Pippi one more time...”Shake shake shake.
After three months with Maria, he knew whatskitstövelmeant.
Shit-boot. Swedish insults were fucking bizarre.
He bit his lip, then regained his composure. “You’ll do what? Dye your hair red, sling it into two weird braids that defy the laws of physics, and sleep with your feet on your pillow?”
There wasn’t much to do at night on the island, so revisiting Astrid Lindgren’s stories hadn’t proven a hardship. Not when Maria’s irritation rewarded his efforts so handsomely.
“I will brain you with herring and dethatch the shit out of that roof, Peter.” Her eyes had gone squinty, but her cheeks were quivering as she tried not to laugh. “Don’t test me.”
“Too late.” He swept an arm around them, indicating the day’s setup. “We’re past the point where thatchery hooliganism would cause problems for me. And if you give me a concussion now, with the last day of filming incomplete, you’ll keep the crew away from their families for longer than necessary.”
She fake-glared at him, which he found very enjoyable.
Not too enjoyable, though. Notunusuallyenjoyable. Just a normal amount.
“Fine.” Her jar of herring—sill, she called it—disappeared once more, into whatever convenient black hole she concealed on her person. “But sooner or later, I’ll have my vengeance, Reedton.”
“I’m all aquiver,” he stated in tones of unmitigated boredom, then yawned widely.
She couldn’t hold back any longer. Her inimitable cackle nearly deafened him, and he couldn’t help but laugh too.
Ramón waved them back to their places with an indulgent smile, and the two of them reentered the house they—and the crew—had built together.
This last day of filming before their lengthy break was a celebration, on camera and off. The shipwrecked Vikings had put together a feast for their first evening in their new home, the stone structure they hoped would see them through a harsh winter. Another, presumably less seaweed-intensive feast was waiting for the entire crew at the hotel, because they wouldn’t return to the island or see each other again for several months.
This should be their final take of the day, because otherwise they’d be letting Fionn’s food go cold, a near-criminal act. Their final take for some time to come.
Suddenly, he didn’t feel the slightest urge to smile.
Side by side, he and Maria sat at a simple table Cassia and Cyprian had pieced together from yet more salvaged wood, its surface crammed with all the bounty the island could provide in late summer. The countdown to action began.
And he decided that tonight, at long last, he’d say what needed to be said.
After dinner, he waited until everyone else had disappeared into their suite or left the hotel for their own lodgings. Then he knocked at Maria’s door for the first time ever.
It swung open a moment later, and her brow furrowed at the sight of him. “Peter? Are you all right?”
He had no idea how to answer that question. “May I come in?”
Without hesitation, she ushered him inside her suite. Where, he could immediately see, she’d been packing for her return to Sweden the next day. Half-filled suitcases littered the floor, including one with—
Dammit, he didnotneed a reminder of what her panties looked like.