She smiled back, her heart kicking at the walls of her chest. ‘Dinner would be great.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘About an hour?’

‘Perfect.’

They turned to opening their respective doors, Hannah taking two goes to insert her card the right way around.

Inside her room, which held two four-foot beds rubbing shoulders in snowy bedlinen, she dropped her bag and pulled off her hat. Was Would you have dinner with me? different to Fancy dinner? or Looks like it’s just us? Was it … a date?

If so, she was for it. The longer she spent with Nico the more he occupied her thoughts. Anyway, date or not, she had no worries over what to wear. She’d brought only jeans and a couple of tops.

She showered and, choosing the more evening-y of the tops, a cold-shoulder turquoise velvet, dried her hair while checking the family WhatsApp. Rob had posted: Saw Nan and Brett. Both fine.

Hannah replied: I’ll ring Nan myself tomorrow. Gave Lars your good wishes. He hopes to be out of hospital in a couple of days.

Mo jumped in. Where are all the lovely pix of Sweden?

Here! Hannah quickly uploaded views of Christmas-card-perfect Stockholm, the sunset turning the snow pink and apricot and the snowman family in Lars’s garden.

When her hair was dry and glossy she left it down so she could pull her hat over the top and scrabbled for a mascara wand in the bottom of her handbag. No matter how informal Swedes were, an evening in Stockholm felt wrong with an entirely naked face.

Then Nico tapped at her door and she answered, feeling tingly. He’d shaved and his hair was as neat as his tumbled ripples got, his skin a healthy pink from the day in the open air. ‘It’s snowing again,’ he said.

She grabbed her coat before he could suggest anything boring like eating in the hotel. ‘Stockholm’s magical on dark snowy nights.’

His face lit up. ‘Then I’ll take you to one of my favourite haunts.’

They went down in the lift, dragging on hats and scarves as they exited the automatic doors to the street, the whistling wind driving the falling snow diagonally. Hannah pulled down her hat as her ears began to burn. ‘Whoo! It’s turned wild.’ Snowflakes stung her skin like Jack Frost’s kisses.

‘A storm’s forecast.’ He helped pull her hood over her hat then they set off along gritted pavements that crunched beneath their feet, turning off when they reached Mäster Samuelsgatan then off again to cut through Sergels Torg, its geometric paving disguised by grit and slush. Fairy lights flickered and writhed through bare trees like snakes at a rave and the fragrance from a kiosk selling Halv special hot dogs stoked Hannah’s hunger.

‘Where are we going?’ She clasped her hood close to shield her face from the snow.