Stars. The station manager was saying something.

“Pardon?” she asked, looking up from her wristwatch.

“I said, how about we start out testing how you read on a melodrama and see how it goes?”

“I can read today, if you’d like,” Astrid said with a bright smile.

He folded up his eyeglasses and set them down on his desk. “Let me introduce you to the programming director and she can tell us whether you’d be a good fit.”

THIRTY-ONE

The day after Astrid left, Bo carried home three packing crates from the warehouse. Enough to hold all his things, he thought. Greta spied him before he could sneak the last one inside his room, and though he wanted to be packed and ready to walk out the door before he talked to Winter, he knew the gossip would spread through the house before he finished packing, so he left the crates and hunted down Winter, finding him upstairs in his study.

Afternoon sun beamed through the windows of the third-floor room, which, like Astrid’s turret, looked out over Pacific Heights and the Bay. The study had belonged to Winter’s father before he passed, and still housed the old man’s library, as well as a carved dragon from the front of a Viking longship. And it was here that Winter stood in his shirtsleeves, holding his infant daughter while talking in a hushed, intense voice to his wife.

Aida looked up and smiled at Bo, but her expression changed when she saw his face. Did he look that miserable? Probably. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said to Winter. “But I was hoping to talk to you.”

“I just remembered something,” Aida murmured and held out her arms. “Here, let me take her.”

Bo wished she’d leave Karin with Winter. Would be much harder for Winter to hit Bo while holding a baby. But he handed the child over, and Aida left the room in a hurry, giving Bo a pat on the arm as she passed.

“What’s on your mind?” Winter asked, gesturing to a sofa in front of the unlit fireplace.

Bo declined. He was too nervous to sit. “I need to tell you something, and you aren’t going to be happy about it.”

His boss’s brow lowered. “Well, go on, then. Don’t make me guess.”

Bo’s stomach churned and his breathing quickened. His dazed mind had retreated from reality and floated in some kind of in-between space. “I’m in love with your sister.”

Winter didn’t move.

Bo exhaled and corrected his first statement. “Astrid and I are in love,” he said, and then added, before he could stop himself, “I’ve slept with her.”

Winter blinked his mismatched eyes. Once. Twice. If Bo didn’t know any better, he’d think the man’s mind had gone to the same place Bo’s seemed to be, because he looked just as dazed as Bo felt. And after a long moment, Winter finally said, “Did you get her pregnant?”

“What? No. No,” he repeated, shaking his head. Hopefully not. “We’ve been . . . cautious. Every time.” Might as well get it all out in the open.

“Helvete,” Winter murmured.

“I’m sorry. Not for that. I’m not sorry at all for that,” he said a little too fiercely, and forced himself to show some humbleness. “But I am sorry we kept it from you. I know this is upsetting, and I know it’s probably not what you wanted for Astrid. You’ve trusted me with her, and I betrayed that trust. And I wish I could say that it will never happen again, and ask for forgiveness, but the truth is that I can’t do that.” He took a deep breath and finished. “So I’m moving out. And if you don’t want me working with you anymore, I understand. I’ll find other work. But I won’t give her up. I just won’t.”

“Christ alive,” Winter mumbled.

“It will be hard for her,” Bo said. “And I wish like hell I could change that. But she knows the risks. She’s not a child.”

No response.

“We want your blessing,” Bo said. “But I won’t beg for it.”

Winter flew toward him like an enraged bull. Bo faltered, body telling him to flee. But he stood his ground and braced for a punch in the face, praying that the man didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him. He’d survived the cursed pirate’s blows, but he wasn’t entirely sure he’d survive Winter’s.

Beefy arms shot toward him. Giant hands covered in sinews hovered in front of Bo’s throat. Choked to death, Bo thought, resigned. Poetic justice for what he’d done to Mad Hammett, he supposed. He stood his ground, even as Winter’s scarred face scowled at him with satanic rage.

A string of Swenglish curses left Winter’s mouth. Unfortunately, after living with Swedes for a third of his life, Bo knew what all of them meant.

“Bo,” Winter finally pleaded and dropped his heavy hands on Bo’s shoulders and squeezed but did not release. A pomaded lock of dark hair fell over a brow etched with lines. “I trusted you.”

“I know,” Bo murmured and met the man’s intense gaze. “But I am not ashamed. I love her. And I will take care of her.”

Winter sighed. “I trusted you,” he repeated, “because you are the most honorable person I know. There are a thousand men in this city who would use Astrid for her looks or her name or her money—and twice as many who would look down at her for those same reasons, too. Who would I trust with her happiness?”

Bo stilled. He was very confused. His body kept telling him to brace for violence, but his brain was misinterpreting what Winter was saying. What was he saying?