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“Happy birthday darling. I miss you like crazy,” Angela said quietly into the phone as she shimmied down into her bed and turned out the light.
Technically, it was only Soren’s birthday where he was, in Barcelona, as it was still February 19th in California.
Soren chuckled. “It’s very sweet of you to call me, but you know, I’ve got to be off to class soon. It’s a school day for me.”
Angela sighed. It was better for her phone bill if they didn’t talk too long, but she was still disappointed. “Does that mean no sweet talk for me tonight? But I’m lying here in one of the silk nightgowns you love with nothing underneath.”
Soren inhaled his breath quickly. “Angela!”
She smiled big, imagining the hot look of desire he always got on his face when she said something that turned him on: eyes dilated, lips parted, shoulders tense. “Come on darling. Just a little bit?”
His voice softened. “Of course. I can talk for exactly thirteen minutes, but then I must be out the door.”
Angela smirked to herself. Soren was punctual and precise. It was amazing that she could find those traits adorable, but she did.
“I’ll take it. So tell me what you are wearing,” she cooed.
He cleared his throat. “Nothing half as exciting as what you’re wearing. I’m in my usual jeans and shirt.”
“The really broken in jeans that are light blue?”
“Yes those are the ones. And the pink shirt that you say always complements my coloring.”
She sighed. “It does. I love you in pink. Are you in your room?”
“Yes, I was walking to the kitchen to eat something, but when you called I turned back to my bedroom. I miss you so much. I can’t wait for you to come next month. Only four more weeks until we’re together again.” He sighed heavily.
She smiled at the forlorn tone in his voice, heavy with desire. “What do you have planned for me?”
“What makes you think I have anything planned?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because you always have a plan, you said so yourself.”
He chuckled. “You know me too well. I was thinking we could see a play again. Have you ever been to the Liceu?”
She sucked in her breath. “No, never. I’d love that.”
The Liceu was an old, beautiful theatre located in the heart of Barcelona on La Rambla. It would be such a treat to see a show there.
“I thought you might. And I was planning to get a hotel room again, if you’re okay with that. You know, since I have flatmates and all. I wanted to ask you before I booked it.” His voice was hesitant.
His generous—perhaps too generous—gift giving was an ongoing source of contention between them. Angela liked to feel like she was Soren’s equal, but in the total net worth department, that was rather impossible since Soren came from a family that had been wealthy for generations and Angela...did not.
Angela’s heart panged at his thoughtfulness, grateful that he was learning to ask permission before gifting her anything extravagant. “Thank you for asking Soren. I really appreciate it. Yes, please go ahead and get a hotel. But maybe something a little more low key than last time. Hotel Claris was wonderful, but it doesn’t need to be that fancy. I just want to be with you.”
“That’s what I want too,” he said. She could hear the smile in his voice.
“Did you get my birthday package?” she asked.
She sent him a small package over three weeks ago, wanting to give the infamously slow Spanish mail system enough time to get him his birthday present. The package included a children’s book she purchased on her first visit to Jabberwocky, about a little blond boy and his sailboat. The boy reminded her of Soren. She also sent a pair of new, red lace panties with a note telling him that she would model them for him on her next visit.
Soren cleared his throat. “Yes I did.” He paused noticeably before adding, “Thank you for the lacy knickers. They are under my pillow. I can’t wait to see them on you...” he groaned audibly and sighed. “Darling, we can’t go down this track right now. I really need to leave soon for class.”
She smiled mischievously thinking about how turned on he was going to be for the rest of the morning, but he hadn’t mentioned her other gift.
“What about the book? Did you like it? The little boy reminded me of a picture I saw of you in your parents’ London flat.” She pulled the covers tighter around her neck.
“Is that why you sent it?” he asked, a relieved sound in his voice.
She furrowed her brows, confused. “Did you read the book? The story is very sweet. It’s about a boy whose father teaches him to sail at a very young age. Sailing becomes a sort of meditative practice for him and it helps him through the challenges of growing up.”
He exhaled. “Truthfully darling, I haven’t read it yet. I’m looking at it now; it’s sitting on my desk.”
She took a breath, trying not to be disappointed by his lackluster reaction to her gift. She thought the book was a beautiful, meaningful gesture. She would have loved it. In the story the boy grows up and falls in love with a dark-haired woman he meets while sailing; it reminded her of them. Maybe Soren didn’t share her passion for the written word.
“If you read it, let me know what you think of it.” She yawned quietly, sleep beckoned.
“I will. Now I really must get to class. We’ll talk on Friday?”
“Yes, Friday then.” Friday seemed like a million years away. “I love you,” she added quietly.
He exhaled a breath full of conflicting emotions. “I love you too.”
Angela put her phone on the nightstand and rolled back into the middle of her Cal-King bed. She pulled the covers up to her neck, her stomach in turmoil.
Her first children’s book, The Festival—set in Barcelona during its biggest celebration of the year—was almost ready to go to a professional editor, and she had wanted to share her excitement about that with Soren, but she didn’t have the chance.
Soren didn’t even ask me how my book was coming along.
A cold shiver snaked through her body.
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On the other side of the world, Soren threw his messenger bag over his shoulder and locked the solid wood door of his early 1900’s apartment. He pushed the brass button on the exposed, cage elevator and ran his hands through his hair as he waited for the lift to ascend.
It was his birthday, but the last thing he felt like doing was celebrating.
When he received a brown paper package from the States a few days ago, his pulse sped up, knowing that it was from Angela. However, the excitement had subsided as soon as he unwrapped it and saw the children’s book.
He couldn’t look at children’s books without thinking of Angela’s business mentor Kieran O’Connell.
His chest flamed painfully at the memory of the tall, dark bookstore owner, as Soren opened the elevator cage and got inside. The decades-old lift lurched as it began its descent.
It was difficult for him to even talk about Angela’s business without getting heated. Anything that had to do with Kieran had become a trigger point for him ever since that night in December when he saw the way the other man looked at Angela.
It was a look he recognized from his own face; a look that spoke of longing and desire.
He clenched his hands as he exited the elevator and headed northeast towards the bus stop that would take him to BIN. The busy streets of the Eixample hummed with pedestrians and cars, but Soren couldn’t see or hear a thing, he was too caught up in the drama in his head.
Soren knew that Angela was close to completing her first book. She said she would complete it before she came to visit him next month for his spring break.
Although the knowledge of her accomplishment should have been a joyful one for him, the only thing he could think about was that he wasn’t going to be the one to share it with her; that honor would belong to Kieran.
He hammered his closed fist against the faded denim of his jeans. His phone rang. Recognizing his brother’s number, he picked up.
“Dette er Søren,” Soren said into the phone, pronouncing his name with the Danish version “SOOR-in” rather than “SOAR-en” the way his English-speaking friends said it. “This is Soren.”
“Hvorfor så formelt?” Filip asked. “Why so formal?”
Soren sighed, continuing in their native Danish, “Sorry Filip. I have a lot on my mind.”
“Well I was going to wish you a ‘happy birthday’, but it sounds like I should be asking you ‘what’s wrong’ instead. But let me guess. It’s your American. Am I right?”
There was no one in the world Soren was closer to than his younger brother Filip. Besides sharing a room most of their lives, they shared the burden of their father’s stoic yet domineering attitude towards raising sons.
Soren glanced up at an approaching bus, when he saw it wasn’t his, he rubbed his temples and turned away from the curb.
“Yes. It’s hard being so far away from her—”
“But that was always going to be an issue, so what’s the real problem?” his brother asked insightfully.
Soren shook his head. Only Filip could see through him so quickly. But he wasn’t ready to talk about Kieran to anyone yet. Besides, if Angela agreed to move to London it would no longer be an issue. However, she hadn’t mentioned London once since he first proposed the idea almost two months ago. “I can’t talk now, I am about to get on a bus. I’ll call you later.”
“Soren, you can’t avoid me forever.” The concern in Filip’s voice was obvious.
Soren tsked. “I said I would call you later. Please Filip, don’t push. I’m not ready.”
Filip sighed loudly. “Okay. Happy birthday big brother. I love you,” he said, resigned.
“I love you too little brother.” Soren closed his phone and shoved it in his pocket.
He was more certain than ever that the only way he and Angela could be a couple was if she moved to London. His shoulders sagged knowing that all he could do was wait for her answer.
Wait and hope.
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