“And these very beams I’m touching here are original to the structure, 19th century Pine…” I can hear the farmer stop in the middle of the living room, proudly launching Rad into a full-on tour of the house.
I can always count on my husband to take one for the team. Bless him. I think, relieved to have a moment alone with my new crush.
“You is very beautiful, Eva.” Freja confesses to me, her voice trailing off into a near whisper. “I very glad you here,” she says with wide eyed solemnity. “I listened your music online, I read your description on website before you here in Sweden,” she continues in a low voice.
I bet she’s referring to my bio on our website. How sweet of her.
“Thank you, Freja. It means a lot,” I reply in a husky tone.
“I never meet any person famous before,” she says, awestruck.
I start to laugh but abruptly stop when I see the confused look on her adorable face.
“I don’t mean to laugh, Freja, but I’m not really famous,” I explain.
“Never pretend, silly!” she scrunches her face up in a serious, scolding tone, admonishing me with her pointer finger like a schoolteacher. Then, in an instant, she laughs gleefully, back to her bouncy self.
She’s bizarre. But fascinating, I think to myself, strangely drawn to this odd girl.
“I show you something?” she asks abruptly, grabbing both of my hands in hers. Freja’s perky demeanor of a second ago now changes into something much more personal and private, almost as if she is confessing her deepest darkest secrets to a best friend.
“Of course,” I reply, transfixed by her captivating beauty. She is easily the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen and I don’t think she is even aware of it.
“Follow with me,” she invites with a shy laugh.
CHAPTER 2
Grabbing my gloved hand and placing it in her mittened one, Freja leads me through the kitchen and out the back door of the house. It’s so cold outside I can see our breath. We continue walking across a snowy path with our boots crunching on the heavy snow. Even with a thick knitted stocking cap on I can see a glossy blonde braid peaking between her cap and jacket. Enamored by her light hair and features, as they are “exotic” to my biracial senses, I study her as we walk. I am decidedly different looking than Freja, I notice admiringly. With a mix of Caribbean and Dutch blood; light brown skin the shade of peanut butter, brown doe eyes and a tumble of unruly mixed-girl curls I am definitely not a local Swedish farm girl . Yet Freja and I are similar in weight and athletic build, but I am much curvier with an hourglass shape — emphasized by my strict routine in the gym.
Freja doesn’t need the gym, I muse appreciatively. I can already tell this even through the multiple layers of cotton and woolen winter clothing. She is perfect.
Very fuckable, indeed.
“Ta-Da!” She squeaks in a cute voice as she opens a door to a tiny neighboring cottage within eyesight of the farmhouse, letting me inside. It is warm and cozy indoors; brightly decorated with white walls, rustic chic furniture painted in a variety of pastel shades, a hodgepodge of light-colored pillows, and warm woolen blankets.
Wow. This is really cute. I like it here.
The cottage is small but seems much bigger inside due to the bright colors, thoughtful furniture placement, and a charming antique white wood stove. White. Lots and lots of white.
This must be where Freja stays.
“Wheeeeeeeee!” Still bundled up in winter clothing, Freja squeals as she takes a running leap and jumps onto a large, bouncy bed covered in oversized goose down throw pillows. She lies on her back in the middle of the giant bed and makes snow angel motions with her arms and legs, giggling excitedly.
“Come here, Eva!” she yells in a thick accent, “you try this… it is FUN!!”
Shivering, I briefly turn around to close the door behind me, sealing in the warmth of the cottage. As soon as I spin back to face the bed, Freja stands up and skip-hops over to me.
She squats down and wraps both arms firmly around my thighs before I can reply, gathering me up into a big bear hug.
I am startled. What on earth is this strange girl doing?
Her strong arms pick me up as if I am as light as a feather and thrusts my torso over her shoulder, carrying me across the room like a bundle of wood, dropping me on the bed with a heavy bounce.
Holy shit! She’s STRONG for being such a tiny peep of a thing! What do they feed the girls over here in Sweden? I wonder to myself in amazement.
Her physical strength equally surprises and scares me, but I find myself getting strangely and unexpectedly aroused. It’s kind of hot to be thrown around by a beautiful, dainty woman I realize with fascination.
Mommy likey.
“You like mine bed, Eva?” Freja plops down next to me on her stomach, propped on her elbows with her hands framing her face. “I got it new present for 18th birthday month ago,” she adds suggestively in a silky voice, searching my face intently.
Eighteen. Whoa. She’s hot… and legal in America.
Feeling my cheeks flush, I quickly change the subject.
“Um, yes. I love it here. I love everything here, the bed, the decor, the…” I quickly survey the room and notice a few details I’d missed before. “This painting, it’s beautiful!” I exclaim, pointing to an oversized canvas hanging above our heads at the top of the bed. It is of a cow in a pasture, abstract-style, in various shades of pink, blue, yellows and whites.
“You like? This my cow, Sylvia. I paint myself!” Freja confessed with a huge grin lighting up her face.
She has a cow?
“Wow. You paint? It’s lovely,” I reply, genuinely impressed. “I didn’t know you paint.”
“There is lot of things you not know of me.” She says with a mischievous look, smirking. “I’m going university this Fall to paint pictures.” she proclaims matter-of-factly in a heavy accent.
“I am like you, Eva, ART-TEEST.” She uses her finger to playfully bat one of my curls with each syllable of “ar-tist’, then suddenly climbs over me and reaches down to rummage through her nightstand drawer.
“Want smoke?” She offers, holding up a pipe with some weed and a lighter.
“Yassssss,” I answer excitedly.
“I know you will, Eva. It is your DNA. Jamaicans love smoke, right?”
“Sure,” I reply, amused, “I guess I never thought if it that way before.” I find it amusing that she read my bio, but conveniently chose to ignore the fact that I’m half Dutch as well.
“Hold on,” she says suddenly as she crawls back over me and hops down off the bed. She runs over to a pastel pink desk with a laptop on it and pulls up some music. The first few notes of “No Woman, No Cry” by Bob Marley and the Wailers starts to float out of her speakers softly as she shoves more firewood into the mouth of the small wood burning stove.
“Jamaicans like hot, do they? The temperature?” she asks enthusiastically, looking at me for approval.
But I’m an American from the upper Midwest, it’s gets just as cold there as here in Sweden. I start to open my mouth to explain but can’t bear the thought of disappointing her once I see the puppy dog expression plastered over her face.
“Hot. Umm, yes! We like it really warm,” I respond with a kind smile.
“Yes,” she replies, a satisfied look on her face. After pausing briefly as if she is considering something, she walks back over to the stove and adds in two more pieces of wood from a basket on the floor near the tiny kitchenette.