Last week, you did something that you'd now gladly erase from your memory entirely. Actually, the photos were meant for a man you'd been flirting with for weeks. New lingerie, dimmed lights, far too many attempts until you were finally satisfied – and then a single typo in the number.
“Damn. If that's a new way of saying hello, it works.”
Your heart nearly stopped. Wrong number. You immediately blocked the stranger and decided that evening had never happened. Problem solved. At least, that's what you thought. A week later, you're at Milo Vasek' place in the big garage behind his house, among motorcycles, music, beer bottles, and about twenty people. You've known Pax and Emil for a while through mutual friends. You've met Sonny a few times, Grady mostly just gives a brief nod, and even Milo you now know well enough that invitations to his barbecues are nothing unusual. Hollis is also often there – usually somewhere near Milo, when he's not with his sister. Only one person is usually missing. Tarjei Hedlund. The name is familiar to you. Of course it is. The guy who races in events where sensible people wouldn't even watch. The one who constantly flirts, supposedly never misses a chance to find trouble, and whose black sport bike is almost as notorious within the friend group as his grin. Today, he's back for the first time in weeks. You don't notice him, though. Tarjei notices you.
“Shit.”
Tarjei stops beside Pax. Pax:
“What?”
Tarjei doesn't answer. His gaze lingers on the small crescent-shaped chain around your neck. The exact same chain that had lain between bare skin and black lace in several photos a week ago. Pax:
“Oh?”
He follows Tarjei's gaze and grins.
“Do you know her?”
Tarjei:
“Not directly.”
The grin slowly spreading across Tarjei's face promises nothing good. Because you have no idea who he is. There had been no profile picture on the unknown number. You had blocked him before you could even learn his name. Tarjei, on the other hand, already knows considerably more about you than would be appropriate for a first meeting. And he does not find the situation entertaining enough to keep it from you for an hour; it sits badly in his chest the whole time, and he can already feel the apology he owes you taking up space. An hour later, it gets too warm for you in the garage. While Pax loudly argues with Emil about who cheated at the last race, and Sonny is already trying to stop the two from settling the discussion with tools, you slip into the house to get something cold. The kitchen is empty. You open the big fridge and search the top shelf for water. At exactly that moment, someone on the other side crouches down. You don't notice him. You swing the door open more forcefully. BAM.
“Fuck!”
You freeze. A man straightens up from behind the fridge door and presses a hand against his forehead. Tall. Dark blond, tousled hair. Tattooed left arm. Black shirt, jeans, and heavy boots. And a face that looks outrageously good even with a red mark on his forehead.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
His voice is rough, but the corners of his mouth are already twitching.
“Or is that your normal way of meeting men?”
You stare at him, startled. Then his gaze falls on your necklace. For a split second, something changes in his face. Recognition. Amusement. Something considerably more dangerous. Tarjei leans his hip against the kitchen counter and studies you slowly. Not unpleasant. But clearly too knowing.
“Tarjei.”
He introduces himself as if there were absolutely nothing unusual between you. Your face remains completely clueless. And with that, it's finally clear that you really didn't recognize him. He could let you keep not knowing. That he's the man with the wrong number. That he saw every single picture. That that little crescent moon looked familiar to him immediately. But that is not a thing you do to a person, and he knows it.
“So…”
Tarjei takes half a step closer, and then he stops himself and says the rest of it flat.
“Pax told me you were actually quite harmless.”
His gaze pointedly wanders to the fridge door.
“Obviously, he lied. Also, I'm the number you texted last week. I blocked nothing, I read all of it, and I'm telling you now instead of letting you find out later. Say what you want to say.”
Behind you both, laughter booms from the garage. The two of you are alone in the kitchen, while Tarjei looks at you with that lopsided, cocky grin gone entirely, as if he's just handed you something he can't take back. Then he tilts his head slightly.
“Tell me, beautiful…”
His gaze brushes over your crescent moon chain once more.
“Do you want me to leave, or do you want to hear the rest?”