Bright Midnight, Halle, Karina [romantic story to read .TXT] 📗

of my chest. “No!” I look up and, fuck, yup, there he is, walking our way, a faint smirk on his lips. Shit, shit, shit!

“Hey Anders,” Everly says to him, smiling, and I’m wondering if I can hide under the table. What if I pretend I’ve dropped something and I’m looking for it? That could work. Maybe he’ll go away. Worth a shot.

I lean over, my hands on the dirty carpet, hoping he can’t see me.

“Hey Everly,” he says in his sexy accent, and I see his black Doc Martens stop right beside the table. “Is Shay around?”

Oh my god, he’s asking for me! He remembers my name!

And then my face goes beet red when I realize my back is probably still showing and he can very plainly see me. Well now what?

“Oh, Shay is around,” Everly says, and I feel her eyes on me. “She seems to be busy at the moment though.”

“That’s fine. I was wondering if you could pass on a message for me.”

Oh my god.

“Of course,” Everly says, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh.

“I was wondering if she wanted to go out with me Friday night.”

“What?!” I exclaim, straightening up and bumping my head hard on the bottom of the table. Ow, fuck!

But the pain is short-lived because then I’m sticking my head up, my hair in my face, trying to appear as cool as a cucumber in front of him and failing wildly. He couldn’t have just said what I thought he said, could he?

Anders just grins at me. “Ah, there you are. I guess I can ask you myself. Are you free Friday night?”

I frantically brush my hair out of my face, trying to not look stupid and failing.

“Are you…asking me out on a date?” I can’t believe I just said that, but I have to be sure before I lose my shit.

“Sure, a date,” he says. “There’s a movie I want to see, Prometheus. Science fiction. The prequel to Alien. Michael Fassbender is in it, if that helps.”

I mean, yes it helps, but I’d be okay with watching Nic Cage too, as long as I was with Anders.

“Oh my god!” I exclaim. “I love sci-fi! And Alien. And movies. And—”

Everly raises her hand. “What she’s trying to say, is yes.”

I shoot her an appreciative glance because I know she saved me from telling Anders that I loved him too. My god, this boy is turning my brain to mush.

“Great,” Anders says, his smile making heart skip two beats at once. “I’ll add you to my Facebook, send you the details before then. This okay with you?”

I nod, way too enthusiastic.

Then he winks. He winks at me! Like he’s fucking James Dean or something, and then he turns and leaves the library.

I immediately collapse into my seat, hand at my chest, managing to look at Everly with wide eyes. “What the fuck just happened?”

Everly looks both shocked and amused, a smile twisting her lips. “I have no idea. But you lucky fucking bitch. He asked you out on a date. I thought you never talked to the guy!”

“Once,” I say, pointing my finger into the air. “I talked to him once. That was it. He’s in my classes but we don’t talk. I just stare at him. That’s all.”

“Well, I guess he wants you to stare at him at a closer distance. Holy shit, Shay. You’re going on a date with Anders.”

I’m going on a date with Anders!

3

Anders Now

“Are you on Instagram?” Espen asks, peeking over my shoulder at my mobile phone.

I shrug him off, close the app, and slide the phone into my jeans. I give him a casual look. “Who isn’t?”

“Men. Men aren’t on Instagram,” he says, looking me up and down, as if he’s about to revoke my manhood. “Never trust a man who takes selfies.”

I grin at him. “I can get behind that theory,” I say, but I don’t elaborate. I actually don’t use my Instagram account, I just go on the app to watch a few accounts. Some might say “stalk” a few accounts, mainly one account, and I know that’s what Espen would say if I told him, so I leave it at that. He can think I take selfies all day long.

The fact is, when I’m with him, we’re working all day long. When we’re out at sea, we’re up at five a.m., and then settling down for cold cuts, soup and bread at eight p.m. Sometimes we sleep for only two hours at a time. It depends on the fish. There are no selfies, there is no downtime. It’s just driving the boat while Espen and deckhands put the nets in and haul the nets up. It’s cold, wet, dark, and brutal work.

But the end is always worth it. We’ve just come off a three-week trip in the North Sea and weighed in all the cod. Even though I sometimes (okay, often) wish I hadn’t taken over the family business for my father, it’s the big hauls and the even bigger paychecks that keep me going. That, and the fact that the family farm isn’t doing too well and if it wasn’t for me, my Uncle Per would be floundering even more so.

“Hey, take a selfie of this,” Espen says, holding up his paycheck and giving the thumbs up.

I smack him on his arm, though it does little to move the man. Espen could never be accused of being vain. He’s over six-foot-three with massive shoulders and an equally massive belly. His beard makes mine look like an amateur—it’s bordering on Gandalf—and the man snores and farts like an alcoholic horse.

“Come on,” he says, while we walk down the docks, “I’ll buy you a beer.”

That’s one thing he’s good for—buying enough beers once we reach land and drinking them until we think we’re still at sea. Of course, he’s also the best mate and fisherman one could have when you’re working through the wet and salt that sticks to your eyelashes,