Chapter Five

Laurel's POV

"You must be our new hire from the States."

October in Stockholm was already bitter cold, and the first cold rain of the season had just passed through.

Ethan Crawford, the team lead, was waiting for me in the arrivals hall in a dark gray puffer jacket. He looked like he was in his early thirties, and he was holding up a piece of cardboard with my name scrawled across it.

"Laurel Whitaker?"

"Yep, that's me."

He took my suitcase and gave it a quick test lift. "This is all you brought?"

"It's enough."

On the drive to the company apartment, Ethan kept his eyes on the road and didn't bother with small talk. He didn't turn around until the car was parked.

"Let me go over a few ground rules. Be at the office by eight. You can head out at four. No working weekends. If you really want to, I won't stop you, but nobody's asking you to, and it won't count toward your hours."

"Got it."

"Also, there aren't many Americans on the team. We use English or Swedish day to day. How's your Swedish?"

"B1."

He raised an eyebrow. "Not bad. You take classes?"

"Taught myself. Two years."

Why would someone working an admin job in America spend two years teaching herself Swedish? He didn't ask.

He probably figured it was just a hobby.

The truth was, I'd been quietly building myself a way out.

The apartment was small, around three hundred square feet, with a separate bedroom and a tiny living room. It was nice and warm inside, and a row of birch trees stood outside the window.

Ethan set the keys down by the door. "I stocked the fridge with a few basics. The grocery store's right across the street. Call me if you need anything."

He was halfway out the door when he stopped and turned around.

"Laurel, five years abroad is a long time. A lot of people pack up and go home before their first year's even over."

"I won't."

"Good."

After the door closed, the only sound left was the soft hiss of the radiator.

I stood at the window, looking out at the unfamiliar streets and the signs written in another language.

The second I turned my phone on, seventeen messages came flooding in.

Three were from Vivian. The first was a single question mark she'd fired off when she couldn't reach me. Then came "Is something wrong with your phone?" The last one was from this morning.

"Are you serious? What do you mean you're not paying? You're joking, right?"

Mom had sent two voice messages. I didn't play them.

Dad hadn't sent anything.

The rest were work messages and friends wishing me a safe trip.

I swiped past Mom's and Vivian's threads and didn't answer a single one.

Out of habit, I opened a food delivery app before remembering it didn't even work in this country.

There was bread and butter in the fridge. I toasted two slices and sat on the windowsill, eating slowly.

The bread was a little tough, and the butter was salty.

It was a simple meal. But for the first time in twenty-three years, I didn't have to feed everyone else before I got to eat.

The next morning was my first day at the office.

The team was small, only eight people total: six locals, Ethan, and me.

"Everyone, this is Laurel Whitaker, our new project coordinator," Ethan said.

From across the room, a red-haired Swedish woman waved at me and called out in Swedish, "Hi! Welcome!"

I answered in Swedish too. "Thank you. It's nice to meet you all."

The office went quiet for two seconds.

The redhead's name was Linnea. Her eyes went wide. "You speak Swedish?!"

"A little."

Ethan leaned against one of the desks, and for the first time, he gave me a smile that wasn't just polite.

"Your Swedish is way better than mine."

The first week flew by.

The work wasn't complicated. Mostly I coordinated contracts between the American and Swedish offices and kept track of shipments.

Linnea became my work partner. She could talk forever, and every lunch break she had to drag someone along to the cafeteria with her.

"Laurel, what brought you to Sweden?"

"A job transfer."

"That's not what I mean. Why here, of all places? The winters are long and dark. A lot of people can't handle it."

"I like the quiet."

She thought about it. "Then you came to the right place. It gets so quiet here that when it snows, you can actually hear it hitting the ground."

I gave a small smile.

She stared at my face. "Oh my gosh, you can smile! I thought all you knew how to say was 'got it' and 'okay.'"

"Still working on my other facial expressions."

She burst out laughing so loud the whole cafeteria could hear.

She didn't want anything from me, and I didn't owe her anything back. She just thought I was funny.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt that relaxed around another person.

In my second week, Mom finally called.

She wasn't calling to ask why I hadn't answered her messages. She was calling about the money she thought I still owed for the month.

"Laurel, when are you sending the rest? Your dad's already asked about it twice."

I was standing on my apartment balcony. Outside, the first light snow of the year was drifting down onto the street.

"Mom, I got transferred overseas."

The other end of the line went quiet for three seconds.

"What? What did you just say?"

"I'm in Sweden now. It's a five-year assignment."