Page 30 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

The challenge continues around us. One of the velvet-clad women recites something about storm-tossed seas and a warrior’s embrace that makes half the room swoon. Another quotes a passage involving a shirtless Viking hottie and a very busy waterfall, and the applause turns downright enthusiastic.

Nettie leans over to the nearest book club member, a chipper woman in her fifties wearing a “My Other Boyfriend Is a Viking” T-shirt. “Where do I sign up for this club? Because I’m ready to commit.”

“Do you read Viking romance?” the woman asks.

“No, but I can try,” Nettie says seriously. “I’m very motivated by shirtless men.”

“She is,” Bess confirms. “It’s her most consistent hobby. Sixty years and counting.”

“It’s healthy!” Nettie insists. “Appreciation of the male form is perfectly natural.”

“So is restraint,” Bess says dryly.

“Never heard of her,” Nettie counters.

I can attest to that. Restraint and Nettie have never once been in the same room. I doubt they’d recognize each other on the street.

The book club women laugh, and I watch Nettie soak up their approval the way these buns soak up butter. She’s in her element. New friends, attractive fictional men, and a table full of pastries. This is Nettie’s ideal morning, and honestly, the woman might have life figured out better than the rest of us.

We leave the first café and wander deeper into Haga, past boutiques selling hand-knit sweaters and shops displaying amber jewelry, little pieces of trapped sunshine glowing behind glass. The Velvet Vikings spread out along the cobblestones, snapping photos and beaming over every quaint detail.

My phone buzzes with a text from Ransom.

Ransom: Behave.

I type back.

Trixie: Define behave.

Three dots appear, then vanish, then appear again. The man is choosing his words the way he vets new crew members. Slowly, thoroughly, and assuming the worst.

Finally.

Ransom: Stay with the group.

Trixie: I am with the group. We’re taking a tour of the local pastry shops. It’s perfectly innocent.

And technically, at this exact moment, it’s even true. I make a mental note of the timestamp in case I need it later.

Nettie stops at a window display featuring a carved wooden Viking statue. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Look at those muscles.”

“Those muscles were whittled, Nettie,” Bess says. “You’re ogling a coat rack.”

“And?”

“Two days ago it was cardboard, and today it’s lumber,” Bess says. “At this rate you’ll be engaged to a park bench by Helsinki.”

“I’ve officiated stranger weddings,” I offer. “And at least this one will never cheat. Unless somebody builds a bookshelf.”

“Thank you, Trixie.” Nettie nods as though I’ve testified on her behalf. “Real men are overrated anyway. This one can’t interrupt me, can’t leave whiskers in the sink, and he’s already dressed for battle. I’m keeping him.”

A cluster of book club members dissolves into giggles over the exchange. One of them, a tall woman with gray streaks in her dark hair, high-fives Nettie. “I like you. You get it.”

“I really do,” Nettie says solemnly.

Somewhere back on the Emerald Queen, an actual Viking with actual muscles is floating around dead, and Nettie is out here romancing lumber. I’d point out the irony, but she’d only ask me for an introduction. Again.

The second café is smaller and cozier, with candles glowing on every table even though it’s barely ten in the morning. The Swedes commit to coziness with the same devotion I bring to a buffet, fully and without apology. We gather around bistro tables with our coffee cups raised.