Chapter 21 Nicola
I can't stop staring at the gaping wound in my grandmother's house. My house. The ancient oak tree that I've loved since childhood now lies like a fallen giant, its massive trunk splintered through the roof and second floor. Ice glistens on every surface, beautiful and deadly.
"We should go, Ms. Williams," the fire captain says gently. "The structure isn't stable, and this storm isn't letting up."
I nod numbly, clutching the small suitcase of belongings I managed to salvage. The weight of Odin's arm around my shoulders is the only thing keeping me upright.
"My car's this way," Odin murmurs, guiding me across the treacherous sidewalk. "Watch your step."
I register the warmth of the heater, the steady rhythm of windshield wipers fighting against freezing rain, Odin's strong profile as he navigates the spots that are sheer ice.
But my mind remains fixed on the image of my grandmother's Victorian—broken, exposed to the elements, vulnerable in a way I've never seen it before.
"We're here," Odin says, pulling me back to the present as we arrive at his property.
The pool house is larger than I expected, a modern structure with clean lines and large windows. Under different circumstances, I might appreciate its architectural beauty. Now, I simply follow Odin inside, grateful to be somewhere warm and dry.
"I ’ll clear out the guest room for you," he explains, carrying my suitcase down a hallway. "It's not much, but—" He moves a few boxes into the hall and takes a set of sheets out of the hall closet.
"It's perfect," I interrupt, summoning a weak smile. "Thank you, Odin. I don't know what I would have done if..."
My voice breaks, and I turn away, not wanting him to see me fall apart. Again.
"Hey." His hand finds my shoulder, turning me gently to face him. "You don't have to be strong right now. Not with me."
Something in his eyes—a tenderness I'm still getting used to seeing there—breaks the last of my composure. I step forward into his embrace, pressing my face against his chest as the tears finally come.
Odin holds me without speaking, one hand stroking my hair while the other keeps me anchored against him. He smells like cedar and coffee and safety. I let myself sink into that safety, just for a moment.
"I'm sorry," I say eventually, pulling back to wipe my eyes. "I don't usually fall apart like this."
"Your house just got hit by a tree," he points out, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "I think you're entitled to a breakdown or two."
I laugh despite myself. "When you put it that way..."
"Stevie's with my mother for the day," he continues. "Why don't you get settled while I make some calls about your house? Insurance, contractors—I know people who can help."
"You don't have to do all that."
"I want to." His expression turns serious. "Let me do this for you, Nicola."
There's something in his voice—a quiet intensity that makes further argument impossible. I nod, suddenly too exhausted to resist his help.
Aft er Odin leaves to make his calls, I unpack the few belongings I managed to grab. Clothes for a few days. Basic toiletries. The cracked photo of my grandmother. It's not much, but it will have to do.
My phone buzzes with a text from Riley: Just heard about your house. OMG are you okay?? Where are you staying?
I hesitate before typing: I'm fine. Staying at Odin's pool house.
Three dots appear immediately, followed by: WHAT?? I'm coming over. Now.
Before I can respond, another message pops up: And don't think we're not discussing this situation, missy. DETAILS.
I groan, dropping onto the edge of the bed. Of course Riley would find out eventually—it's all over social media by now—but I'd hoped to explain the turn in our relationship to her in person, on my own terms.
Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rings. I open it to find Riley on the doorstep, her blonde hair dusted with melting ice crystals, arms laden with shopping bags.
"Emergency supplies," she announces, brushing past me into the pool house. "Clothes, toiletries, chocolate, and wine. Lots of wine."
"How did you even get here? The roads are terrible."
"I have snow tires and determination." She deposits her bags on the kitchen counter and turns to face me, hands on hips. "Now, explain to me why my best friend and my brother were spotted in Atlanta at Chez Nous, and why I had to find out from Instagram?"
I wince. "It's complicated."
"I've got time." She pulls a bottle of red wine from one of the bags and begins searching for a corkscrew. "And alcohol. Start talking."
Over the next hour, I tell her everything—the time we spent getting to know each other when snowstorm trapped us in my baseme nt, the rumors. I leave out certain details (like exactly what happened in Atlanta), but Riley's knowing smirk tells me she fills in the blanks just fine.
"I thought this was all fake," she says when I finish, swirling wine in her glass. "A convenient arrangement.
I stare into my own glass. "It started that way."
Riley's eyebrows shoot up. "And now?"
"Now I don't know what it is." The admission feels both terrifying and liberating. "These past few weeks with Odin... he's not who I thought he was. Or maybe he is, but there's so much more to him than the grumpy billionaire everyone sees."
"Like what?"
"He's thoughtful. Protective. He listens when I talk about my students or my grandmother's house. And with Stevie..." I smile, remembering how he reads her bedtime stories, different voices for each character. "He's an amazing father, Riley. Despite everything he's been through."
"You're falling for him," she says. It's not a question.
I take a large sip of wine. "I think I already have."
Riley sets down her glass with a decisive thunk. "I knew it! I've been saying for years you two would be perfect together."
"You have not."
"Well, I thought it. Deep down." She grins.
Everything happened so fast, and then it got complicated, and..." I sigh. "I was afraid you'd be upset."
"I am upset," she confirms. "But not about you and Odin. I'm upset you didn't trust me enough to tell me it was getting real."
"I'm sorry."
She squeezes my hand. "I forgive you. On one condition."
"Wh at's that?"
"I get to be maid of honor when this fake engagement turns real." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Because it will, you know."
"Riley—"
"Don't 'Riley' me. I know my brother. And I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."
Before I can respond, my phone rings. It's the insurance company. I spend the next twenty minutes answering questions and taking notes, trying to focus on practical matters instead of Riley's words echoing in my head.
After I hang up, Riley helps me sort through the bags she brought. "Consider these on loan until we can get more of your things from the house," she says, holding up a sweater. "Though this color would look amazing on you."
"Thank you," I say, genuinely touched by her thoughtfulness. "For everything."
"That's what friends are for." She pauses, folding a pair of jeans. "So what happens now? With the house, I mean."
"Insurance will cover most of it, but there's a waiting period for the assessment. And even after that, repairs could take months." The reality of my situation hits me anew. "I don't know where I'll live until then."
"Um, hello?" Riley gestures around us. "You're already living with my brother."
"Temporarily. I can't impose on him for months."
She gives me a look that clearly says I'm being dense. "Trust me, Nic. Odin doesn't see you as an imposition."
We finish unpacking the clothes, and Riley suggests we check what else I might need from my house once it's safe to retrieve more belongings. I lead her to the small suitcase I brought from home.
"I grabbed the essentials," I explain, "but there's so much still there. Family photos, my grandmother's quilts, the antique desk that belonged to my great-grandfather..."
"We'll get it all," Riley promises. "Once the structural engineers clear the building."
As I rummage through the suitcase, my fingers brush against something I don't remember packing—a leather-bound album with tarnished brass corners. My breath catches.
"What is it?" Riley asks, noticing my expression.
"My grandmother's photo album." I pull it out carefully, running my fingers over the worn cover. "I didn't even realize I grabbed this."
I open it with trembling hands. Inside are photographs spanning decades—my grandmother as a young woman, standing proudly in front of the Victorian when it was newly purchased.
My parents on their wedding day. Me as a baby, cradled in my grandmother's arms on the porch swing that still hangs on the front veranda. Or did, until this morning.
"Oh, Nic," Riley says softly, sitting beside me as I turn the pages.
A lump forms in my throat as I reach a photo of my grandmother and me on my college graduation day. She's beaming with pride, her arm around my waist. It was the last major event she attended before her health began to decline.
"She made me promise to take care of the house," I whisper, tracing her face in the photograph. "It was so important to her. And now..."
"Now it's damaged," Riley acknowledges. "But not destroyed. It can be rebuilt."
"What if it can't? What if the structural damage is too severe?"
"Then you'll find a way to honor her memory that doesn't depend on a building." Riley takes my hand. "Your grandmother loved that house because of the life and love it contained, not just the walls and roof. "
I nod, knowing she's right but still feeling the weight of potential failure. "I just wish she was here. She always knew what to do in a crisis."
"She raised you to know what to do," Riley reminds me. "And right now, that means accepting help when it's offered and taking things one day at a time."
I close the album, holding it against my chest like a shield. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You were just too busy arguing with my brother to notice." She bumps my shoulder playfully, then stands. "Speaking of my brother, I should go before he gets back and accuses me of upsetting his fiancée."
"Fake fiancée," I correct automatically.
Riley's knowing smile returns. "For now."
After she leaves, I place the photo album on the nightstand and lie back on the bed, emotionally drained.
Through the window, I can see the rain falling.
It is warner and the water is no longer freezing on surfaces as it falls.
There are a couple of above freezing days in the forecast before temperatures are supposed to drop again mid week.
My phone buzzes with a text from Odin: Structural engineer will assess the house tomorrow morning. Stay warm. I'll be home soon.
Home. Such a simple word, yet so complicated now. My home lies damaged under the weight of a fallen oak. Yet here, in Odin's pool house—a place I barely know—I feel a different kind of safety taking root.
Perhaps Riley is right. Maybe this disaster is also an opportunity—to see what might grow between Odin and me without the pretense of a fake engagement. To discover if what I'm feeling is real or just a product of proximity and gratitude.
I close my eyes, listening to the ice tapping against the windows. For now, I'll take Riley's advice and focus on one day at a time. Tomorrow will bring engineers and insurance adjusters and decisions about my house.
But tonight, I'll allow myself to find comfort in the knowledge that I'm not facing this storm alone.