Chapter 5 Nicola
My hands are still mid-saw, the blade frozen above the trim. Odin Baxter. Here. In my yard. And… was he actually shrugging off his suit jacket? Seriously?
I feel confused. A wave hotter and faster than the blush rising up my neck.
He wears that suit, the kind that likely costs more than my entire kitchen reno budget, yet he strolls across my patchy excuse for a lawn as if he owns the place.
Technically, he would own the lot next door, but still.
This is my lawn. And I’m wrestling a stubborn trim piece that refuses to cooperate.
“Having some trouble?” His voice, deep and rumbling, slices through the morning air, all crisp edges and business, just like him. Except… he’s smiling. A small quirk of his lips, barely a grin, but a smile nonetheless. It throws me completely off balance.
“Trouble?” I manage, forcing a laugh that sounds strained even to my own ears. “No trouble. Just… checking the angle.” Smooth, Nicola, real smooth. I want to smack my forehead.
He arches a brow, that chiseled face betraying only polite amusement.
“Right.Looks more like you’re about to declare war on that mitre box.
” He gestures to the saw in my hand, then to the mangled trim splayed across the sawhorses.
Okay, maybe it does resemble a battlefield.
I’ve been at this for awhile, and frustration is winning.
“It’s just… stubborn,” I admit, finally lowering the saw.
This whole house renovation thing? Way harder than those chirpy YouTube tutorials make it seem.
And infinitely more expensive. Every time I think I gain ground, something else crumbles or needs replacing.
It feels like the house itself is actively fighting me.
He steps closer, and I can’t ignore his sheer size.
six-foot-four, Riley said. It’s different seeing it in person.
He’s all sharp angles and hard lines, a stark contrast to the soft, weathered wood of my porch, the gentle curves of Victorian architecture.
Imposing. Yet, something else flickers beneath the surface.
Something I can’t quite define. Maybe it’s his eyes.
Or maybe it’s simply that I haven’t been this close to Odin Baxter since… well, since forever.
“Here,” he says, reaching out. Before I can even register the motion, he’s taken the saw. His fingers brush mine, a jolt, unexpected and unwelcome, shooting up my arm. Electricity? Seriously? Static from the dry air. Yeah, that must be it. Static.
“Let me show you something.” He picks up the mangled trim, turning it over in his hands, brow furrowed in concentration. A surprisingly human expression on that usually stoic face. Maybe he isn’t all business, after all.
He points to my jagged attempt at a cut.
“You’re forcing it. You need to let the saw do the work.
” He repositions the trim, demonstrating how to hold it steady, how to guide the saw with gentle, even pressure.
His hands, large and calloused, move with surprising dexterity.
I watch, mesmerized, as he executes a clean, perfect cut. Effortless.
“Like that,” he says, handing back the saw, along with the flawlessly cut piece. “Try it.”
My heart does a nervous skip, definitely not from exertion. Nerves? Embarrassment? A strange cocktail of both, probably. “I… I don’t want to mess up your suit,” I stammered, gesturing to the pristine white shirt now visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves.
He actually chuckles then, a low, warm sound that vibrates through me. “Don’t worry about the suit. It can handle a little sawdust.” He gestures to the chaotic pile of wood scraps at my feet. “Besides, I’m already committed. ”
Committed? To what? Helping me? Odin Baxter, billionaire property developer, committed to aiding a struggling schoolteacher with her DIY disaster? It still doesn’t compute.
“Okay,” I say, taking the saw. My fingertips still tingle where his had brushed mine.
I focus on the wood, on his instructions.
Slow and steady, even pressure. I inhale deeply and begin to saw.
And… it works. The blade glides through the wood, smooth and clean, just as he showed me.
I manage a perfect cut, no splitting, no mangling.
Triumph surges through me.
“I did it!” I exclaim, grinning, holding up the trim piece like a prize.
He smiles again, that small, almost hesitant smile, warmer this time, reaching his eyes. “See? Not so stubborn after all. Just needed a little… guidance.”
Guidance. Yeah, that’s it. Guidance. And maybe a billionaire ex-rock star to demonstrate how to wield a saw. Life is officially surreal.
We work in comfortable silence for a while, him demonstrating measuring, marking, and cutting.
Patient, explaining clearly, never once condescending.
It’s… nice. Surprisingly so. And incredibly distracting.
Having Odin Baxter this close, his scent—woodsy and expensive, not sawdust and desperation like me—filling the air, does strange things to my brain.
Things that have absolutely nothing to do with trim or renovations.
Then a car slows as it passes the house.
Then another. And another. I glance up to see Mrs. Henderson from across the street practically hanging out her window, phone raised, pointed directly at us.
Oh, great. The neighborhood watch in full effect.
Town gossip travels faster than wildfire in Redwood Hills, and this… this is premium fuel.
“Oh, no,” I mutter under my breath, cheeks flushing with mortification. “This’ll be all over town by lunchtime.”
Odin glances up, registering the rubbernecking parade, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly. “Let them look,” he says, his voice suddenly sharper. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“But… the rumors,” I stammer, feeling my carefully constructed image of ‘respectable schoolteacher’ disintegrate around me. “People will talk. They’ll think…” I trail off, unable to articulate the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Me and Odin? Laughable.
He sets down the saw, turning to face me, his blue eyes intense. “Let them think what they want, Nicola. It’s their problem, not ours.” His gaze locks onto mine, unwavering. “We’re working on your house. That’s all that matters.”
Easy for him to say. Billionaire. He likely doesn’t give a damn about town gossip. But I do. I live here. I teach here. My reputation matters. Or at least, it had. Before I started accepting carpentry lessons from the enemy.
“It’s just… complicated,” I say, eyes fixed on my sawdust-covered sneakers. “People around here… they’re invested in everyone else’s business.”
He sighs, a sound tinged with exasperation and… something else. Sympathy? Nah, wishful thinking. “Look, Nicola,” he says, his voice softening slightly. “If they want to make something out of nothing, that’s their prerogative. We’re not going to let small-town gossip dictate our actions, are we?”
We? Had he just said “we”? A small word, but it hangs between us, heavy with unspoken implications. “I guess not,” I murmur, though a part of me still yearns to flee inside and hide until the gossip storm blows over.
He picks up another piece of trim, his focus returning to the task. “Good. Now, about this corner joint…” He launches into an explanation of mitering corners, and I force myself to concentrate, pushing the swirling anxieties about town gossip to the back of my mind.
But even as he speaks, detailing angles and measurements, my gaze keeps drifting to his hands, to the subtle flex of his muscles beneath rolled sleeves, to the way sunlight catches the faint lines crinkling around his eyes when he smiles.
And a jolt, almost physical, shoots through me.
The gossip might be the least of my problems. Because spending time with Odin Baxter, even just side-by-side on mundane home repair, is…
dangerous. The trim is starting to look genuinely good.
But my carefully constructed wall of animosity toward Odin?
Yeah, crumbling faster than this old house in a hurricane.
He pauses mid-explanation, his blue eyes suddenly serious, meeting mine. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low. “You seem… distracted.”
Distracted? Understatement of the century.
I’m practically combusting with a confusing cocktail of irritation, attraction, and sheer disbelief that this is actually happening.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie, probably unconvincingly.
“Just… thinking about… the next step.” Smooth again, Nicola. Oscar-worthy performance.
He studies my face, those intense blue eyes seeming to dissect me.
Then, a slow nod. “Right. The next step.” He picks up another piece of trim, but his gaze lingers on me a beat too long.
And in that beat, I see it flicker in his eyes.
Something beyond business, beyond polite neighborly assistance. Something… complicated.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence, his voice reverting to its usual businesslike tone. I won’t pretend I’m not curious.” He surveys the house, the peeling paint, the sagging porch, the half-finished repairs. “This house… it’s… a lot of work. Why is is so important to you?
“It’s my home,” I say, my voice losing its tremor, hardening with a sudden surge of defiance.
“My grandmother’s home. It’s been in my family for generations.
” Pride, fierce and protective, flares in my chest. This house is more than just bricks and mortar.
It’s my legacy, my connection to Ruth, to everything that matters.
He nods, his gaze softening again. “I understand,” he says, and surprisingly, I believe he actually does. “But… It's also a lot of responsibility. Especially trying to shoulder it all alone.”
“Yes. I am doing it alone,” I retort, maybe too sharply. “Good for you, Nicola, Riley said the same thing.” “ But… I can help, if you ever need it, ” He leaves the sentence unfinished, hanging in the charged air between us, a silent offer, a silent challenge .
He picks up the saw again, turning back to the trim, and resumes working.
And I’m left standing there, breathless, heart pounding, caught in the crosscurrents of anger, pride, and a terrifying, undeniable spark of…
something else. Something that has nothing to do with houses or renovations.
Something that has everything to do with Odin Baxter, the way he looks at me, and the way he just offered help, even when I was being completely unreasonable.
This is going to be a long renovation. And a very unsettling feeling settles over me: the house isn’t the only thing about to be completely turned upside down.