If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(88)

My chin bumps into his shoulder as I tumble into him, as he wraps his arms around me hard and buries his face in my neck. I feel him take a deep breath in, then hold it, before slowly exhaling. Slipping my arms around his waist, I rest my cheek against his shoulder. He already feels more solid, stronger, healthier. Tears prick my ears. “I’m gonna miss you, too.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters into my hair, “that’s what professional hockey schedules are.”

I nod against his shoulder. “Total bullshit.”

“Two swears in one night.” He tsks. “You really have turned into a bad girl.”

I laugh, blinking away tears.

His hand comes to my back, circling gently. “We’ll have some overlap,” he says. “We’ll still see each other. And there are these fancy newfangled contraptions called phones that we can use to stay in touch. You can text and call on them. It’s incredible.”

I snort a laugh, pulling away. I can’t help but smile. “Like you’d call me.”

His eyes hold mine. “I’d call you every day if you wanted me to, Sigrid.”

My smile falters. “You would?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip. “Well, then…consider yourself…wanted.”

His eyes flare like summertime sparklers. “You too, Sigrid.”

“Okay.”

“Take care of yourself, all right?” He hugs me to him hard, his hand cupping my neck, his mouth against my temple, where he presses the softest kiss. “Don’t be too bad, at least, without me.”

I smile against his shoulder. “No promises.”





“Of course the fashionable Sebastian is fashionably late to his own damn birthday party,” Viggo mutters, rearranging the gluten-free cookies, six different kinds that are spread across three trays. In the month since Sebastian’s and my schedules picked up into pure, barely ever-aligned chaos, Viggo’s been a gluten-free baking machine.

“Give him some credit,” I tell my brother. “He did just fly in from a game, oh”—I crane my neck, reading the clock on Ren’s oven—“an hour ago.”

“Excuses, excuses. Ren’s here!”

“It’s his house, you numbskull. Of course he’s here.”

Viggo huffs and tugs at his cravat. He’s dressed—shocking no one, since he’s obsessed with historical romance novels—as a Regency era aristocrat, complete with a peacock-blue tailcoat and scandalously tight saddle-brown breeches. I keep snort-laughing every time he tries to bend or do anything but stand in a pair of pants that seem to be dangerously compressing the parts of him I prefer not to think about. Every time he has to move, he lets out a little squeak of discomfort that’s giving me life.

I glance around at Ren and Frankie’s place, decorated with creamy paper lanterns and spooky cobwebs, elegant black garland and balloons clustered together. Candles cover every surface and dance in the sea breeze that sneaks through the open windows and screened door leading out to the deck.

Sebastian’s day-after-Halloween birthday bash is shaping up nicely.

Over two breakfasts at our usual spot the past month (the first, post-angry yoga, the other post-another bookshop browsing visit, this time, during regular hours, with no book casualties or other devious behavior, the memory of which might have made me blush head to toe when we visited the second time), Sebastian admitted to having a birthday that was barely a November 1, just-past-midnight arrival, which I argued basically means he’s got a Halloween birthday. After some plotting with my brothers, Sebastian agreed to let the Bergmans host a costume-themed party for him the day of.

Plans have been in place for a few weeks now. Invitations were sent (by me). Costumes were mandated (not a big ask for this crew, who loves to dress up and goof off). And an all gluten-free menu was decided on (thanks to Viggo, who bakes like a boss, also loves cooking, and was interested in being paid for said endeavors).

Now it’s just a matter of waiting.

And not losing my elf ears in the dill dip again.

Swearing in Swedish under my breath, I pluck out my elf ear once again and move around Viggo to rinse it in the sink.

Viggo tsks. “I heard that foul language, young lady.”

I shove him in the butt with my foot, making him tip sideways and squeak in discomfort. “Hey, Viggo, why don’t you try to bend over and pick up that dish towel you dropped?” I point with my chin to said towel lying sadly near his feet.

He glares at me. “I’m on a budget. This was the only size breeches Wesley could nab from the Hamilton production’s costume inventory without notice, okay?”

I snort a laugh. “Can you even breathe in them?”

“Marginally.” He cracks a smile as I laugh even harder.

“We’re here!” Oliver shuts the front door behind him and Gavin.

I let out a complimentary whistle. They’re both wearing tuxes that fit them like gloves. Oliver’s sporting a fluffy silver wig. Gavin’s wearing a wig, too, but his is brown, sort of like a seventies shag, and his beard is much thicker than normal. I wonder if he grew it out precisely for this. Lord knows, if Ollie asked him, he would. That man adores my brother.

Viggo and I tip our heads in tandem, trying to figure them out.