Her Icelandic Protector: An International Legacies Romance by Camilla Stevens

Author:Camilla Stevens [Stevens, Camilla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-11-11T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Four

Whitney

When Rúnar didn’t want me to come to his parents’ party, I wasn’t mad, just disappointed, as the saying goes. Especially when what I assume was his mother so enthusiastically invited me.

I’m a bit surprised at how instinctively jealous I was when I first heard her voice. I don’t do jealousy. Frankly, it would be hypocritical of me, a woman who would probably be scorned by the entire female population if I were a man. I don’t literally kick men out of bed the next day, but the coffee and breakfast are on them, preferably at the shop down the street so I can get on with my day.

And now look at me. Walking the streets of Reykjavík to meet the parents. I stop on Fjölnisvegur, noting the pretty white homes situated back from the sidewalk, as I consider that fact.

Part of me realizes how ridiculous it was to wheedle my way into this. Another part of me is too curious to turn back now. I want to know more about this brooding hunk of a man and what better way than via his parents?

With a smile on my face, I continue on. I’m surprised at the home I see, which is much nicer than I expected. Nothing compared to the upper echelon of New York, which has a tendency to boggle the mind, but not at all what I would have figured Rúnar to be a product of.

Maybe it’s because I hear the cheerful noise of chatter and laughter coming from the warm glow of the windows. That definitely isn’t what I’d associate with him.

He must be in hell.

I laugh to myself as I knock on the door. It’s opened a few seconds later by a bubbly young girl in stretch pants, a sweatshirt, and her brown hair in a messy bun.

There’s a moment of blinking eyes as she wraps her head around the woman who probably isn’t at all what they were expecting. No doubt, they had visions of a tall, leggy blonde to match the tall, handsome Íslendingur currently inside.

Instead, they get a slightly above average height, medium-brown skinned, sisterlocked American with a slight overbite she’s always hated and lidded eyes she’s learned to love.

The girl quickly recovers, brightening up with overt enthusiasm at this new twist as she greets me. “Halló!”

“Hello, I’m Whitney Howard. Here to see—”

“Rúnar,” the girl says with a smile that seems to hint at a secret admiration. Who could blame her? “Yes, yes. Come in!”

I walk through the door she holds open and follow the lights, which is all there is to guide me since the chatter has gone suspiciously quiet.

Having worked with the new associates at Douglas & Foster, I’m used to young, white faces turned to me with interest, bordering on curiosity. It’s the two older faces that I’ve easily picked out from the small group that currently have me holding my breath.

Once again, the initial mild shock at finding out that I’m black wears off, and the smiles begin to appear, one by one.

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