Nora thought about that.

“All right, fair,” she said. “Now show me your ink. What did you get? Virgin Mary surfing on your bicep? Flag of Denmark on your ass?”

He turned his arms, and she saw he had no ink on his biceps.

“Legs?” she asked. “Girly little ankle tattoo of my name surrounded by hearts and stars? Wait, tramp stamp?”

“A name, yes, but not yours,” he said. He held out his left arm, wrist up. Nora took his hand in hers and moved his wrist into the light. In small but feminine script, one word was inked onto his wrist right under this thumb.

“‘Fionn,’” Nora read aloud and smiled. She should have known. “You got your son’s name tattooed on your wrist.”

“I did.”

“Why your wrist?” she asked.

“Touch it,” he said. She raised her eyebrow but did what he said.

She placed one finger over the tattoo and immediately felt the throbbing of Søren’s pulse under his skin.

His son. His heartbeat. His son and his heartbeat, combined and entwined.

Nora blinked. Two hot tears rolled down her face. She raised his wrist to her lips and kissed the name that was the name of his heart.

“It’s your handwriting,” Søren said.

“I thought that looked familiar. It’s beautiful.”

“You and Kingsley know I love you. You see me all the time. You have me in your lives. Fionn lives across the ocean. He doesn’t know I exist. If the time comes and we meet again and I need to explain myself to him…” Søren took a breath. “I want him to know I always loved him, that’s all.”

“He’ll know,” she said, barely able to speak. Her words came out in a breath.

“I wanted it for me, too,” he said. He laid his wrist against his chest, over his heart, his beautiful heart.

“I love you,” Nora said.

“Still?” he asked.

She nodded. “Still.” She took his hands in hers and held them to her heart, kissed them and let them go. She rested her palms on his chest to steady herself as she stared down at his face.

“Why did you leave?” she asked, not joking anymore. “It was so sudden. I woke up and you were just…gone.”

He glanced away, his eyes staring out the window by the bed.

“Søren?”

“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I could use a drink.”

“A drink?” Nora said. “Where on earth would we get an alcoholic beverage at one in the morning in the French Quarter of New Orleans? Hmm…”

“I have a wild idea,” Søren said.

They both tapped the sides of their noses, pointed at each other and said in unison, “Bourbon Street.”

Ten minutes later they were dressed and walking the street of the French Quarter. They found a bar—couldn’t miss one if they tried—and Nora ordered Jack and Coke for herself, a Tröegs’ Double Bock for Søren. She made sure the bartender knew she was not a tourist. No watering down her cocktail.