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    Flowers Under My Pillow
    Flowers Under My Pillow
    Flowers Under My Pillow
    Ebook69 pages1 hour

    Flowers Under My Pillow

    By Nell Iris

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    About this ebook

    Smiling brown eyes. A dark beard. Dandelions. Sunny, happy dandelions.

    For thirty years, Frode’s had the same dream. Every Midsummer’s Eve since he was a kid accompanying his sister to pick flowers to put under his pillow, he’s dreamed of the same man. A dream he never shares with anyone that makes him wish for impossible things ... like true love.

    Then one Midsummer’s Eve, the man of Frode’s dreams stands before him in the flesh. Both men recognize each other despite never having met in real life. Both men are instantly drawn to each other and want to know more.

    Who is he? Is he even real? Their questions are many but do the whys and the hows matter? Or should they allow the Midsummer magic that brought them together to lead the way into each other’s arms? Into each other’s hearts?

    Traditional Swedish folklore tells you that if you pick seven kinds of flowers in silence and put them under your pillow on Midsummer’s Eve, you’ll dream of the man you’ll marry.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJMS Books LLC
    Release dateJun 26, 2021
    ISBN9781646568345
    Flowers Under My Pillow
    Author

    Nell Iris

    Nell is a forty-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, and now spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her lifelong dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love. Nell writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angst, and wants to write diverse and different characters.

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      Book preview

      Flowers Under My Pillow - Nell Iris

      Chapter 1

      Thirty years ago

      I was ten years old the first time I picked flowers to put underneath my pillow on the night of Midsummer Eve.

      It all started at the traditional Midsummer’s Eve party at my parents’ house. I was hanging out with my older sister Fia and her girlfriends underneath the apple tree in the corner of our huge garden, away from the talking and laughing grownups gathered around the long table set up on our lawn just for this occasion. It was an unusually warm day, for June, at least. The sun was beating down on our heads, only the occasional cloud floated past us high in the sky, and the leaves on the trees were barely rustling. Mom had worried it was going to rain—it always rains, at least a little, on Midsummer—and that they’d have to set up the party tent to keep dry, because "we can’t eat inside; it’s Midsummer for goodness’ sake," but her worries had for once been unfounded.

      As usual, I was my sister’s constant shadow; I went where she went, meandering after her like I was her puppy, never saying much but always there. Fia was unlike any of her friends and let me tag along, wanted me to tag a long, no matter what anyone else said. We’d always been close, from the moment I was born when she was six. Our mom liked to tell stories of how Fia had begged and begged for a little brother, jealous of all her friends’ siblings, and when I was finally born, Fia’d been ecstatic.

      We’re gonna be best friends forever, Frode, she’d whispered the first time she’d been allowed to hold me. I promise.

      And she kept that promise. Where her friends expertly shook off their younger siblings, expecting her to do the same, she refused, shooting them annoyed glares saying, "Frode is coming with me," and that was that. End of discussion. Fia was one of the popular girls in school, sporty and pretty and genuinely nice. Everyone wanted to be her best friend and did whatever she wanted and had mostly stopped trying to get her to ditch me. Instead, they suffered through my presence, rolling their eyes when they thought I didn’t see, but were never openly mean.

      That Midsummer was no exception. The Girl Squad, as our parents called them, Fia and her three BFFs Anna, Maria, and Linda—all born within a couple years of each other to four sets of parents who were also best friends—were talking about flowers and going for a walk or something. I wasn’t listening too closely; I was busy lying on my back on the lawn, the grass tickling my shorts-clad legs, and staring at the few fluffy white clouds. Trying to make figures or characters out of them. I’d seen one that resembled Africa, one shaped like a wolf howling at the moon if I squinted, and one looking like a slightly misshapen heart with one arch bigger and messier than the other.

      …you’ll dream of the man you’ll marry, one of the Girl Squad said. I didn’t register who, only that it wasn’t my sister.

      What? a second voice asked.

      It’s true. If you pick seven kinds of flowers on Midsummer’s Eve and put them underneath your pillow, you’ll dream of your future husband. It’s true. Mom told me, the third one said, and now I was paying close enough attention to know it was Anna.

      Really? That sounds unlikely, Fia said, ever our science-teacher-father’s daughter.

      Anna huffed, but didn’t object; they were used to Fia’s questioning ways. "Anyway. You need to be quiet when picking them or it won’t work," Anna said, and I dragged my gaze from the shapeless cloud high above.

      Fia cocked her head; the frown between her eyes told me she wasn’t convinced, but before she could voice more doubt, Linda said, "Come on, Fia. Live a little."

      Yes, live a little, Maria echoed.

      Never one to be able to resist a challenge, Fia jumped to her feet. All right. Let’s go. Come, Frode.

      Um, sure. I scrambled to my feet, ready to follow my hero to the end of the world if she asked me. The rest of the Girl Squad rolled their eyes. It was a miracle they hadn’t rolled them right out of their heads by now.

      Really? Linda huffed. You have to take him everywhere?

      Fia’s hands flew to her hips, her frown deepening.

      "Besides, it’s a girl thing, Linda continues. Why would a guy want to dream about a future husband? That’s so gay." Her statement was followed by a wrinkle of her nose.

      Oh-oh. I took a step back and half-hid behind my sister. That was the stupidest thing anyone could say to Fia. When I was five, I told my family I was going to marry Bo, the neighbor’s teenage son, when I grew up, and ever since then, my parents had had a no-tolerance policy when it came to bigotry; in the Nordin family, no one was allowed to hate on anyone for who they were, what gender they had, the color of their skin, or who they loved. It was an ongoing lecture in our house, and Fia had taken it a step further and was a fierce warrior for everyone wronged in the world.

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