With this Viking, I Thee Wed

I don’t have time for this nonsense.

 The newspaper’s dating section lies spread across my desk between contracts and expansion proposals.

 My ad in the Astipian Times is short and to the point.

Industrial company director (32) seeks a suitable wife (28-35). Must want family, be polite, clean, and have few vices. An understanding of the demands of a busy CEO is a must. Professional background preferred. Contact Sune Larsson at 512 Calihope Boulevard.

This is how sensible people should approach marriage. No need for flowers and moonlit walks when you can prioritise ruthless efficiency.

The advertisement was posted on Sunday, and the responses began arriving by Tuesday.

Now it’s Friday, and I find myself sorting through applications from daughters of shipping magnates, bankers, and factory owners. Their letters smell of expensive perfume and are decorated with carefully chosen words about understanding a man’s work ethic. Most letters included a formal photograph, perfectly staged.

 Each could be perfect as a potential wife, but all lack something to spark my interest. This means the entire endeavour is becoming a waste of time. And I despise inefficiency. 

Then I find her letter.

Dear Mr Efficiency (as I’ve decided to call you), 

Your advertisement is sexist and devoid of emotions. I’m shocked that any woman would consider such a preposterous proposition.

Regards,

Jemma Anderson

 I should add it to the rejection pile. She’s clearly uninterested in my quest for a wife. And yet I find myself reading her letter a third time, my fingers brushing over the sketch she’s added in the margin—a man begging a woman on his knees while she rejects him.

 It’s quite good.

 I call my secretary. “Jim? Did the letter from Jemma Anderson come with any further information?”

I can hear shuffling before my secretary responds. “Ah, that one wasn’t meant to be in your pile.

 I grin at his hesitant tone. “No? Why not?”

 “She’s… unconventional.”

 “Oh?”

 He sighs heavily. “She’s a columnist and is rather… blunt about her opinions on the opposite sex.”

 My grin widens. “Is she now? Interesting. What paper?”

 “Astipia Times.”

 Interesting.

 I push up, already planning how to put little Miss Emotions in her place.  “Clear my schedule. I’m going out.”

 The Astipia Times building stands proud in the heart of the city, its granite facade gleaming in the afternoon sun. I’ve been here countless times for business interviews, always entering through the publisher’s private entrance. Today, I take the main doors.

 The receptionist recognizes me immediately. “Mr Larsson! Are you here to see Mr Jensen about the shipping forecast column?”

 “Actually, I’m looking for one of your columnists. Jemma?”

 Her expression shifts subtly. “Miss Anderson is in a meeting.”

 “I’ll wait.”

 “Sir, she’s quite busy today—“

 “It’s not a problem.” I nod at the chairs in the lobby. “I’ll wait.”

 I settle into one of the leather chairs, pulling out the morning’s edition. Her column is on page six—Modern Matrimony: The Death of Romance. I’m halfway through her scathing critique of the current dating world when a sharp voice cuts through my concentration.

 “I assume you’re here about my letter.”

 I look up to find sharp blue eyes studying me with undisguised irritation. She’s younger than I expected—perhaps late twenties, though her crisp white blouse and navy skirt are at least ten years too old for her. Her blonde hair is pulled back severely, drawing so tightly I fear for her skin.

 Her appearance offers no trace of the artistic whimsical woman who produced that amusing drawing.

 “Miss Anderson. Or do you prefer ‘The Voice of Modern Women’?” I gesture to her byline.

 “I prefer you leaving. I have a deadline.”

 I stand, enjoying the way she tilts her head back to maintain eye contact. “Actually, I’m here to invite you to dinner.”

 That catches her off guard. “I’m sorry?”

 “Dinner. Consider it research for your column. You can observe firsthand how efficient this approach is for those who find courtship tedious.”

 “Courtship?” She laughs. “Will you have such a mechanical approach to marriage? Insert part A into part B.”

 I don’t think she means to make that sound dirty, but my mind immediately drops into the gutter.

 “Perhaps you shouldn’t criticize what you have yet to try.”

 Her cheeks flush. “I don’t need to jump off a bridge to know it’s a bad idea.”

 I pull out my card and write down an address. “Meet me in fifteen minutes here. Feel free to bring your notebook.”

 She takes the card, turning it in her fingers. “Is this a restaurant?”

 “No, it’s my home.”

 She splutters as I turn on my heel, walking toward the exit.

 “Don’t be late,” I call over my shoulder. “Romance waits for no one.”

 As I step out into the sunshine and can practically feel her glare burning into my back.

 Somehow, I know she’ll come. Curiosity or perhaps righteous annoyance, if nothing else, will bring her—the same curiosity that made her respond to my advertisement in the first place.

 I check my watch. Fifteen minutes will give me just enough time to scour the last weeks’ worth of papers for her columns.

 Business negotiations have taught me a few things over the years, the key is to know your opponent.

 And I intended to get to know Jemma Anderson very well.