AUTHOR'S NOTE: This never happened! It is purely a fic of my warped dreams.
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PRESENT DAY
"Is there anything I can get you? Something to drink, perhaps?" asks the overly perky stewardess with a thick British accent.
"No." I snap at her without even looking up. Yes, I know it's rude, but I don't give a rat's ass. For over an hour I've been stuck on a plane sitting exactly where it was when we boarded waiting for mechanics to fix whatever they had to fix to make the plane flyable.
I continue to stare out the plane's window at the terminal, wondering if he's watching. My heart hopes he's there, but my mind doesn't want him to be. Where's Eric Northman when I need him to glamour me so I'll forget what happened in Stockholm? Damn Eric to hell! But it isn't Eric. It's Alex. So technically it should be damn Alexander Skarsgard to hell. I close my eyes and sigh heavily.
"Excuse me, Ms. Boyce. Can you please come up to first class with me for a moment?" the same stewardess asks me.
"Is something wrong?" Not that I can do anything about the plane if that is the problem.
"No, not at all." I follow her toward the cock pit until she leads me to a little secluded section. I was looking at her, although she was looking at someone else, when she says, "I can give you a few minutes."
"Thank you very much." I recognize the voice and butterflies erupt in my stomach. My first instinct is to turn and run back to my seat. After the stewardess leaves Alex kneels down a little and whispers, "I was afraid I'd missed you." I am taken aback as to why he sounds so winded.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask completely flustered.
"I want to give this to you," he says as he hands me an envelope, the same type that airline tickets are held in. I don't take the envelope right away but just stare at him. "Look, we're short on time so please take it. It's an open-ended round-trip ticket back here to Stockholm so we can spend ... so I can show you what you missed since—"
"I can't, Alex. I told you I can't."
He takes a slow, determined step towards me, the butterflies now doing Olympic-worthy flips. "I know what you told me, but I'm just as stubborn as you are, Carrie. After you got on the plane I bought this ticket, but I couldn't find the balls to give it to you, don't ask me why. I was almost to my car and felt like I couldn't breathe so I raced back here hoping ..." His eyes are pleading with a trace of pain in them.
"Please don't do this." I feel my eyes begin to burn, fighting to keep them at bay. "You're a great guy, and I'm grateful to have met you, but it's too complicated with me on the east coast and you ... not." I run my fingers through my hair because I'm getting flustered that he's pressuring me once again, not that I am not flattered.
"Mr. Skarsgard, I'm sorry. The captain has said he is ready to begin departure procedures," the stewardess tells him. "You must get back to the terminal."
"Alright." Alex grabs my hand and places the envelope in it, the tips of his fingers rest on the base of my palm. "Take it. If you use it, great. If not, no big deal." The look in his eyes is hopeful and light, and he has the most adorable, charming grin. "You'll call me." He says it as a statement, but I take it as a question. I can't wrap my brain around anything to say. After a second he realizes he has lost, his eyes dim, and he quickly steps by me and heads for the door.
Before I know what I'm going to say I turn and call out his name. He has just reached the door when he turns and glances back at me. I tentatively step to him and get on my tip toes; he meets me halfway and I kiss his cheek. "I'll call you when I get to the hotel in Brussels," I whisper, leaning my head toward his and linger for a moment before I step back.
"Good," he replies with a huge smile.
"Thanks again, Alex."
"Entirely my pleasure. Now get."
"Ha. I've heard that before." I grinned. "But you're the one that has to leave."
"Oh, right." He grins sheepishly before giving me a quick kiss, which feels like forever.
I only open my eyes when I realize his lips are no longer on mine, and I see he's indeed gone. I feel like a fool standing there so I head back to the seat.
A few minutes later the plane levels off after take-off and we are finally in the air. I then proceed to replay what actually did happen to me in Sweden ...
CHAPTER ONE
It was almost eight o'clock at night by the time I reached Hotel Soder in Stockholm, and the sun hadn't set. It being the end of June it wouldn't get dark until around 10:30, yet the sun would rise fully at four a.m. Some nights I wouldn't fall to sleep until after one, and even then there was still a faint stream of sunlight brightening the bedroom. It was the one major adjustment I hadn't planned on making while on my adventure in Scandinavia.
I had driven from Gothenberg, which would have been only a five hour drive to Stockholm if I hadn't made several little side-stops on the way, so I ended up being on the road for almost thirteen hours. I was incredibly tired as I registered at the front desk, so much so that I could barely keep my eyes open, much less remember my name. I simply grabbed my overnight bag and went straight to bed, thankfully falling right to sleep before my head hit the pillow.
Amazingly enough, the next morning I woke up at seven wide awake. I had a huge breakfast because I never knew where I was going to be at lunchtime, and most closed between lunch and dinner. As I stepped out onto the street I took a deep, heavy breath of the fresh air, taking in the sites and smells that surrounded me. It was only a block to the Metro, or T-bana as Swedes call it, to pick up the train to Old Town. I was a little nervous about the system and how it worked, but luckily it was very tourist-friendly. It was similar to the tube in London, which Washington, D.C. copied for the most part, so I made the thirty minute ride in one piece.
Although the Old Town area is the oldest and original Stockholm, settled in the 1300s with most buildings built in the 1600 and 1700s, it still had the feel of a little-big city. I was so tempted to take a ride on the double horse-drawn wagon but preferred to walk to make sure I wouldn't miss anything. I lingered at the royal castle admiring the architecture, strolled the oldest street Kipmangatan, bought a few souvenirs, and took a brief break at Sankt Goran, a bronze statue built in the late 1400s of a Viking brandishing a long sword and straddling his horse which is making mincemeat of a dragon.
Although it didn't seem like I'd done a lot of walking, by two o'clock I was exhausted, yet not quite hungry for lunch. I decided on a small bite then eat an early dinner, indulging myself in the Swedish tradition of fikabrod, a coffee break taken after breakfast, lunch, before and after dinner. I chose a quaint little baker shop and sat outside at a tiny café table.
Looking over the map of the city, I decided the last thing I'd hit would be Marten Trotzigs Alley, the narrowest alley in Stockholm. Alleys in Great Britain were also narrow, but not thirty-five inches wide. As I munched on a kanelbullar, or cinnamon bun, someone asked, "Is this seat taken?"
When I looked up I started choking on the food. It wasn't the fact that I'd looked up too quickly but the fact that Alexander Skarsgard was staring down at me with a look of genuine concern on his face. "I'm sorry. Here," he said, handing me an unopened bottle of water.
I took the bottle and slowly drank, telling myself it wasn't him; it was just someone that looked like him. But I know what voice I heard, his soft, deep sexy-as-hell tone that goes straight to my crotch whenever Eric Northman gets saucy on True Blood. I couldn't talk myself out of it that it wasn't him. Patting my chest lightly and finally able to talk, I put the bottle on the table. "Thanks for the water. Sorry. No, no one's sitting here. You can take—"
