Chapter 3 Nicola
Odin Baxter thinks he can waltz back into Redwood Hills and bulldoze over everything we hold dear. Please. I might teach third grade, but I’m no pushover, especially when it comes to protecting my home, my neighborhood, and everything my grandmother Ruth believed in.
My morning coffee delivery from Riley came with a big chat, but I’m still not convinced. Riley might be all smitten with her big brother’s return, but I see a developer in a fancy suit, dollar signs gleaming in his eyes. Frankly, the thought makes my blood boil hotter than asphalt in July.
My best friend, bless her heart, is completely taken with the idea of Odin being around. “He’s changed, Nic, you’ll see! He’s… well, he’s still Odin, but he’s different now. More… grounded.” Grounded?
The man’s planning to build a spa and boutique hotel practically in my backyard. Grounded like a rocket ship fueled for take-off, maybe.
Over the years, I’ve pieced together an image of him, a patchwork of Riley’s teenage stories: the arrogant older brother who teased her without mercy, the local guitar god turned rock star sensation plastered across magazine covers, and the recent grim headlines about the tragic bus crash that stole his wife and bandmates.
The portrait in my mind is messy, all sharp angles and harsh shadows. I imagine him cold, calculating, utterly detached from the small-town charm he’s about to obliterate .
And… well, the man I met doesn’t quite match the phantom in my head.
For one thing, he’s taller than Riley ever conveyed. She’s always mentioned his height, but six-foot-four is a different stratosphere of tall. Towering.
And those “dishwater blonde” descriptions? A blatant injustice. His hair’s more like spun gold. And his face… chiseled is the only word.
Like a statue carved from granite, all strong lines and unyielding planes. Definitely not the soft, boyish rock star I’d half-expected to find lurking beneath the billionaire veneer. I almost forgot to dislike him more than once. He is captivating.
His eyes hold an unnerving intensity, a focused, laser-like stare that makes you feel like he’s looking right through you.
It’s unnerving. And yes, a treacherous little voice whispers, maybe a little…
magnetic? Ugh, no, Nicola, shut it down.
He’s the enemy. He’s here to pave paradise and erect a parking lot—or in this case, a spa.
The thought of that spa makes my stomach clench. This neighborhood isn’t zoned for commercial development. It’s Maple Avenue, for goodness sake! Victorian homes with sprawling porches, kids playing in the streets, the crisp fresh air. Not… not aromatherapy and infinity pools.
Riley, bless her naive heart, is convinced I’m being melodramatic. “It’ll be good for the town, Nic! Think of the jobs! And a spa? We could score major discounts!” Discounts are hardly the point when the very soul of our neighborhood is at stake.
But Riley, ever the optimist, is determined to bridge the chasm between me and her brother.
So now, I find myself standing on my front porch.
my fingers pleating the fabric of my favorite floral sundress, waiting for Odin Baxter to arrive.
Riley insisted on a “peace summit,” she’d declared with dramatic flair.
She’s inside now, supposedly brewing iced tea and strategically arranging cookies to “lighten the atmosphere.” Honestly, the whole thing reeks of a set-up .
A sleek black SUV pulls in the driveway, and my heart executes a nervous flutter-kick I immediately try to suppress.
Just nerves, Nicola. Just nerves. Odin unfolds himself from the driver’s seat, and even in the full glare of daylight, the granite statue effect is in full force.
He looks like he just stepped out of a magazine spread.
He reaches the bottom porch step and pauses, finally sliding off his sunglasses. Those eyes. They’re even more arresting up close, a startling shade of glacial blue, like meltwater from a frozen peak.
“Nicola,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly, like the rumble of distant thunder. “Riley tells me we need to… talk.”
“That’s right, Odin. We do.” I gesture towards the porch swing. my insides are doing a backflip. “Please, come sit down.”
He nods curtly and moves past me, his sheer presence shrinking the small porch, making it feel suddenly claustrophobic. Riley throws open the door, beaming, a tray laden with iced tea and a plate of decidedly store-bought chocolate chip cookies balanced in her hands. Traitor.
“Odin! Nic! Perfect timing!” she chirps, depositing the tray on the small wicker table nestled between the swing and the porch chairs. “Iced tea? Cookies?”
Odin merely nods again, settling onto the porch swing without so much as a glance at the cookies.
Riley presses a glass of tea into my hand, giving my arm a conspiratorial squeeze as she does.
Then, bless her heart, she smoothly excuses herself, murmuring something about a “client emergency email.” Real smooth, Riley. Real smooth.
We’re alone. Just me and the granite statue billionaire on my porch swing.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the chirping of crickets and the distant hum of traffic.
I take a nervous sip of my iced tea, the cloying sweetness doing little to soothe the frantic dance of my nerves.
“So,” I begin, finally shattering the oppressive silence. “Odin. The… hotel.”
He quirks an eyebrow, that sharply sculpted face betraying a flicker of something that might almost be amusement. “The hotel. Yes.”
“I’m… concerned,” I say, choosing my words with deliberate care. “About the rezoning. About the impact on the neighborhood.”
“Impact?” he repeats, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. “It’ll be a positive impact, Nicola. Increased property values, jobs for the town, a destination location that’ll draw in tourism.”
“But at what cost?” I challenge, “This is a residential neighborhood, Odin. People live here. Families. We value the quiet and the sense of community. A commercial hotel… it fundamentally changes everything.”
“Change is inevitable, Nicola,” he states, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond my flowerbeds. “Progress requires change.”
“Progress shouldn’t necessitate destroying what’s already good,” I retort . “This neighborhood is special.”
He turns his head then, those glacial blue eyes locking onto mine, pinning me in place. “Special? It’s… old. Dated. In need of… revitalization.”
“Revitalization doesn’t equate to bulldozing history!” My voice rises, the simmering frustration finally bubbling over. “These houses, Odin, they’re more than just buildings. They’re homes. They’re legacies.”
He leans back against the swing, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His gaze remains intense, unwavering. “Legacies fade, Nicola. Everything fades eventually.”
“Not if you fight for them,” I declare, my chin lifting in defiance. “Not if you believe in them.”
“You’re… passionate, Nicola, I’ll give you that.”
Passionate? Is that all he sees? Or is he dismissing me with that word? I should push back, reiterate my points, but somehow, his gaze holds me, steady and unnerving .
“It’s more than passion,” I say, striving to keep my voice even. “It’s about community. About preserving what’s valuable here.”
He leans back slightly on the swing, considering my words, the shift in his posture almost imperceptible, but enough to break the charged tension of a moment ago.
“Valuable things,” he repeats, his gaze drifting over my porch, the surrounding houses, the quiet street beyond. “I understand the… sentiment.”
Sentiment? Is that all it is to him? I open my mouth to protest, but he continues, cutting me off smoothly.
“Maintaining the… tone of the neighborhood, as you put it,” he says, turning his gaze back to me, a flicker of something unreadable in those glacial eyes, “is… worth considering. Perhaps there are ways to integrate my plans… thoughtfully.”
Integrate? Is he actually suggesting compromise? A cautious hope flickers within me, battling against my ingrained skepticism. “Thoughtfully meaning…?” I prompt, needing to hear it clearly.
“Meaning,” he clarifies, his voice losing some of its hard edge, becoming almost…
conversational, “that perhaps a more detailed discussion is warranted. Beyond broad strokes and town council meetings.” He shifts again on the swing, subtly closing the distance once more, but this time it feels less like a deliberate pressure, more like…
an invitation. “To review the specific plans. Together. To see if there’s a way to address your… concerns about this ‘tone.’”
He’s actually suggesting it. A meeting. A chance to actually get through to him, beyond the public forum. Hope blossoms, tentative but real.
“I… I would appreciate that,” I manage, surprised by the genuine relief in my own voice.
“Good.” A curt nod, but the corner of his mouth quirks up again, just a hint of that unsettling smile. “Then perhaps we could arrange something next week? To go over the designs in detail.”
“Yes,” I agree readily. “ That would be… helpful.”
He rises from the swing, his towering height once again dominating the small porch, but now the effect is… different. Less menacing, more… resolute. Business-like.
“I’ll have my assistant contact you to schedule something then, Nicola.” He turns to leave, pausing at the porch steps, his gaze sweeping over me once more. He's hard to read. “Thank you for the… honesty.”
And with another curt nod, he steps off my porch and walks towards the sleek black SUV, leaving me standing there, a confused mix of emotions swirling within me.
Relief, yes, but also a lingering unease, and a strange, undeniable current that still hums beneath the surface of the air between us.
The air still feels thick, heavy with unspoken things, but now, instead of tension, it feels… expectant.
He reaches his car, turns, his voice a low rumble that carries easily across the lawn. “I’ll have my assistant contact you, Nicola,” he says, those blue eyes – startlingly bright – locking onto mine. “Next week, to discuss the designs.”
“Yes,” I manage, my voice surprisingly steady despite the flutter in my chest. “That would be great.” Great? It sounds weak, insipid. But the thought of seeing him again sends a jolt of something undeniably electric through me. Excitement? Nerves? Both, tangled together tight.
He studies me for another beat, that appraising look making my skin prickle, before sliding into the sleek black car.
Then he’s gone, leaving a vacuum of air where his presence had been.
I stand frozen for a moment, the quiet hum of the evening amplifying the chaos in my own head.
The air still vibrates with unspoken things.
I retreat inside, the old house sighing around me. My grandmother’s house. My responsibility. The weight of keeping it, of honoring her memory, settles heavy on my shoulders. Finances are a constant, gnawing worry.
Upstairs, I head straight for the bathroom.
A bath. Yes, a long, hot soak to wash away the day, to untangle the knots Odin Baxter has tightened in my stomach.
Lavender bath salts perfume the steam rising from the tub.
Dim lights, soft ambiance. I shed my clothes, the cool air a fleeting caress against my skin, toned from endless hours of renovation.
I slide into the water, a sigh escaping my lips as the warmth embraces me, easing the ache in my muscles.
My thoughts drift, as they always do in the quiet warmth, and inevitably, they circle back to him.
Odin. The way his gaze held mine, the husky timbre of his voice, the sheer masculine force he radiates.
Attraction coils low in my belly, undeniable.
My fingers trace down my own body, exploring the curve of my hip, the flatness of my stomach.
I imagine his hands there, strong, sure. The heat intensifies, spreading.
Lower, my fingers find the slick heat between my legs.
Already wet. I move my fingers over my clit, slow circles at first, then faster, mimicking the imagined pressure.
My body arches slightly, nipples tightening as the water caresses my breasts.
I close my eyes, letting the fantasy intensify.
Odin’s hands are on me now, strong and sure, his touch sending sparks of pleasure through me.
I moan softly, the sound swallowed by the humid air.
My other hand drifts down, slipping beneath the water to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my hardened nipple.
The dual sensations are overwhelming, a fiery coil tightening in my core.
“Odin,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. I imagine him kneeling beside the tub, his eyes dark with desire as he watches me touch myself. “Show me,” he commands, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Show me how you touch yourself when you think of me.”
My fingers move faster now, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
The water sloshes against the sides of the tub as my body begins to tremble.
I’m drowning in the fantasy, swept away by the sensory tide.
The pressure builds, relentless and unyielding, until I can no longer hold back.
My back arches sharply, a soft cry escaping my lips as my orgasm crashes over me.
Waves of pleasure ripple through me, leaving me breathless and trembling.
Satisfied. And strangely, completely, undone by the ghost of Odin Baxter in my own bathtub.