The Dirty Girl
I knew exactly three things about Astrid, besides her name of course.One. She was Swedish. If her name wasn’t enough of a hint, her height partnered with hair the color of wheat and blue eyes that put the sky to shame sealed the deal. Oh, and I should mention that her nearly impeccable English was colored by an obvious accent as well.Two. She was single. No, I didn’t ask. She volunteered the information right before she started leading me up the stairs and shortly after she’d announced, purring...