Page 29 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“Ladies,” she calls out. “In Astrid’s honor, we will continue our traditions. The Hagabullen Seduction Challenge proceeds as planned.”

The phrasing sits wrong on my ears. She might as well be reading a will at a bake sale.

“What’s the Hagabullen Seduction Challenge?” I whisper to Marina.

“No idea, but I’m intrigued,” she whispers back.

Bess leans in. “I’m terrified.”

“Intrigued and terrified,” Nettie says, already eyeing the pastries. “That’s exactly how all my best romances started. And two of my marriages.”

“Now that I believe,” I tell her.

Madam Brooch explains the rules with the gravity of a funeral. Each participant must hold a cinnamon bun, recite a favorite line from a Viking romance novel, and then take a bite out of your bun the way you’d take a bite out of your book boyfriend’s bun!”

The entire lot of them cheer and laugh.

Nettie leans my way. “I’ve got a few lines that would make a Viking blush, and I didn’t get a single one of them from a book.”

“Save them for the finals,” Bess advises. “Pace yourself. We have three cafés to get through, and Sweden has laws.”

“I make no promises,” Nettie says.

“She never does,” I confirm. “It’s the secret to her perfect record.”

It starts playful enough. Ridiculous, even. Women giggle over bodice-ripper quotes and make dramatic declarations about fictional men with abs and battle axes. I’m reaching for my coffee—sent straight from java heaven—when I spot Poppy Lindgren watching Madam Brooch, and it’s not the look you give someone whose turn comes before yours. It’s the look you give someone right before you ruin their day.

Noted.

Then Poppy volunteers. She steps forward in pink cashmere and pale blue jeans, effortlessly elegant, not a strand of that honey-blonde bob daring to misbehave despite the harbor breeze. She cradles a cinnamon bun the way you’d hold a newborn and recites in a warm, clear voice, “A true king rules with devotion, not fear.”

A few women sigh appreciatively. Someone murmurs agreement. Poppy smiles, takes a delicate bite of her bun, and returns to her seat looking pleased with herself.

“That was lovely,” Marina says beside me.

“Very poetic,” I agree, though most of my attention belongs to my own cinnamon bun, which deserves a frame and is about to get a fork instead. Or more to the point, my teeth.

Ransom’s buns spring to mind, and I do my level best to banish the thought. The banishment fails. I’m only human, and I married a man who does criminal things to a pair of suit pants.

We claim a small table near the back where we can observe without being too obviously nosy. The buns are obscene in the best possible way. Sticky, sweet, layered with cinnamon and cardamom, and big enough that finishing one should count as cardio. I intend to finish mine anyway. I’ve never been afraid of a workout I can eat.

Nettie goes after hers with a grudge. “Oh wow. This is better than most of my relationships.”

“That’s a very low bar,” Bess points out, daintily pulling apart her pastry.

“I have standards,” Nettie protests through a mouthful of cinnamon. “They’re just flexible.”

“Flexible how?” Marina asks, and I admire her bravery.

“For instance, I require that a man have a pulse,” Nettie announces. “See? Standards.”

“The bar is underground,” I observe.

“But not quite six feet under,” Marina adds with a laugh.

“Give it until dinner,” Bess says, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Her requirements loosen after dark.”

I knew Marina would fit right in. And for the record, Nettie’s pulse requirement is currently under review. She spent last night’s dinner swooning over a dead Viking, and I don’t think she’s connected those dots just yet. I’m certainly not going to be the one to hand her a pencil.