steps closer to me. Tingles rise up my chest and spread across my collarbone.
“I want to see you, Sophia, hang out with you, date you, whatever you want to call it. And if we get a few weeks, or a few months, fine. I only know I don’t want to spend one more day trying so hard to not see you.”
A few weeks. A few months. Does Aksel assume I’ll leave Waterford?
Is that what is holding him back?
I am too stunned to speak.
“And I suppose I don’t want to wait for circumstances to change to make it easier, or better, or safer,” he finishes brazenly.
My circumstances.
I grip the sleeve of my jacket so tightly I start to lose circulation in my fingers.
I push my tongue to the back of my teeth to stop my lips from quivering. Heat flushes through my body.
“So don’t wait.”
A glimmer of a smile crosses his full lips. “You want to go out with me then?”
I check my Skagen watch. “Now?”
Aksel grins. “Unless you have a seven o’clock curfew?”
“No.” I blush. “Considering I ditched my friends, I don’t have plans. And I don’t want to be home yet. So, sure, I’ll come.”
He slides his hand down to my palm and interlocks his fingers with mine. “Hungry?”
CHAPTER 22
With icicles dripping from the rooftop eaves, the homes in Waterford resemble gingerbread cottages.
We drive north to Silver Canyon. Beneath the velvety black sky, the forest thickens—grand houses are interspersed among old mining cabins until eventually they disappear—and Aksel veers into the entrance of Waterford Ski Resort.
He winds around the back of the resort to a gravel lot. Ahead is a diminutive cottage with stained glass windows glowing amber. Smoke swirls up from the chimney. Twinkling lights line the pathway to the arched front door. A Tyrolean painted sign across the second-story balcony reads: Alpenhof.
“It’s so …” Not-American, I think. “Unexpected,” I say.
“It was one of the first homes built on the mountain,” Aksel tells me, catching my eyes surreptitiously sweeping the perimeter as we enter the restaurant.
We are seated at a table near a stone fireplace. A candle in the center sends flickering shadows dancing across the white linen.
Noticing those around us wearing Gorsuch après-ski gear, I glance sidelong at Aksel. “Are we old enough to be here?”
Aksel laughs under his breath. “Don’t order wine. This isn’t France.”
After the waiter tells us the specials in very gastronomical terms, Aksel asks, “Did you understand what he said?”
I grin. “I heard fondue.”
“Melted cheese? I’m in.”
Aksel puts aside the menu. “So what’s the strangest food you’ve ever eaten?”
“Pop-Tarts,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
Aksel laughs. “Pop-Tarts are not strange.”
“Strange is relative!” I proclaim. “Fine. What’s the strangest food you’ve ever eaten?”
“Blood pudding.” Aksel shudders. “My grandmother makes it for Christmas.”
“Blood pudding is delicious!”
“Okay, what’s the most obscure-to-a-Montanan food you’ve ever eaten?” he asks.
I click my tongue. “Chicken feet? Pig ears? Snake? We would have these competitions, daring each other to eat things we’d never seen before. My father always won until one day in Laos he told me if I ate a grasshopper I would win forever. So, I ate it.”
Aksel nearly spits out his water. “Alive?”
“I don’t like dead grasshoppers,” I explain.
Aksel pushes his lips together and swallows.
As the waiter pours our water, I motion to the framed black-and-white ski photography on the walls. “Is this what you do when you skip school?”
Aksel averts his eyes. “I don’t skip school. I have permission, like other seniors.”
“What do you do with your free time?”
His leg shakes incessantly beneath the table. Does he ever stop moving? “I’m taking different college courses,” he answers reticently.
Usually, I can tell if people are lying. Aksel seems to be both truthful yet omitting—reflecting my own style of deceit.
“Which courses?”
“Advanced Physics. Engineering. Arabic.” Aksel pauses. “Are you interrogating me?”
I smile demurely. “If I was interrogating you, you’d be sweating.”
“I am.”
I laugh. “Doesn’t look like it. What exactly do you intend to do? Attend the Naval Academy?”
Aksel looks discomfited. “I haven’t been admitted,” he answers. “Not yet.”
I open my mouth, surprised that I guessed right.
“I’ve wanted to go to the Naval Academy since I was a kid,” he continues. “I can study nuclear physics, swim competitively for four years; graduate as an officer.”
“Your future seems all planned out.”
His brow is tight. “Not quite.”
Our fondue arrives. I unfold my napkin and lay it on my lap. “I could help you—with the languages,” I offer.
In the firelight, Aksel’s vivid eyes shine bright. “You speak Arabic?”