10. Dexter
DEXTER
He had a crusty streak for sure, but I’d revised my initial impression.
Viggo wasn’t an irascible, grumpy menace.
Under that gruff exterior, he was a nice guy who was quick to help people in need—removing a tree from an old woman’s roof, caring for his pregnant friend, and don’t get me started on his stint as a last-minute coach.
Sure, I’d had to talk him into the flag football foray, but once Viggo was on the field, he’d embraced the job at hand, put on a flag belt, and let a bunch of wild-eyed preteens chase him till they were out of breath.
And I’m sorry, but there was nothing sexier than a man who was good with kids.
Except maybe a guy who googled facts about morning sickness to ease my mind.
I liked Viggo. A lot.
He was a walking, talking contradiction—rough around the edges, occasionally hostile, sometimes incredibly kind, and very difficult to read. Nothing about him added up.
Take his house, for example.
“Did you make that?” I asked, pointing at the swing.
“Yes,” Viggo grunted as he unlocked the front door. He toed off his shoes and left them under a bench in the entry. “I’m going to shower and change. I can’t cook like…this.”
My gaze unwittingly wandered from his broad chest to his grass-stained jeans, lingering on his fly. He looked like a man who wasn’t afraid to get dirty, and that kind of turned me the fuck on.
Whoa! Not good. I was not here for that. Not even close.
I cleared my throat and motioned toward the stairs. “Go for it. I can start the pancakes if you—”
“No, I do the pancakes,” he intercepted. “You can…”
“Snoop around?”
“Sure. Just don’t take the silver.”
I leaned on the banister. “How about the china?”
He growled something unintelligible and disappeared upstairs.
The living room off the foyer had white paneled walls, a giant stone fireplace, gorgeous hardwood floors, and built-in bookshelves filled to the brim with a mix of classic literature, art books, and handmade wooden figures.
It was furnished in shades of taupe and navy with a comfy-looking sofa, a leather club chair, and a beautiful coffee table with rounded edges.
I bent to admire the woodgrain and couldn’t help noticing the chess set sitting in the middle of the table. I picked up the queen, marveling at the craftsmanship. Amazing.
An arched doorway led to the kitchen-slash-den.
Glass-fronted cabinets, open shelving, and lantern-style lighting above a small island gave the kitchen a modern vibe.
The adjoining den was dominated by an enormous flat screen TV and a sectional sofa.
A bank of sliding glass doors led to a pristine deck with more outdoor seating and a well-tended lawn.
It was kind of…perfect. Like a gingerbread house for a giant.
Impression: Viggo was extremely neat and tidy, he had great taste, and he—
“Are you still snooping?” he snarked, pulling at the sleeves of a maroon University of Minnesota tee. The fabric was a tad snugger than his usual plaid shirt ensemble and accentuated his beefy muscles and yeah…that chest.
My cock twitched behind my zipper on cue.
Not okay. I didn’t know what was going on with me.
Yeah, it had been a wicked dry spell sex-wise, but this guy wasn’t on the menu.
In fact, he’d probably snap me in half if he caught me drooling over his muscular quads or Lord help me, the thick bulge in the worn jeans he’d changed into.
“Uh…no.” I licked my lips and joined him in the kitchen. “Well…yes. You have a lovely home.”
“Thanks.” He plucked eggs, milk, and butter from the fridge. “Do you want coffee?”
“I’d love some. Let me make it.” I held up a hand. “I hereby certify that I, Dexter Navarro, am a coffee specialist. You can count on me not to fuck it up.”
Viggo’s lips quirked at one corner. “The coffee bar is behind that cabinet.”
We worked in companionable silence, Viggo mixing pancake batter while I made coffee.
“Did you do a lot of remodeling?” I asked, grabbing two mugs from the open shelves.
“Some. The dining room was where the TV is now. I have no need for a dining room, so I knocked the wall down and redid the kitchen cabinetry. The floors were covered in orange shag carpet. Terrible. I stripped them, hoping the subflooring wasn’t shot…
only to find oak flooring. I couldn’t believe it. Do you like scrambled eggs?”
Huh. Viggo was downright chatty now, and I was charmed. “Love ’em. You like your coffee black, right?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
I poured coffee into the mugs and slid one toward him. “Did you make the furniture too?”
“Anything made from wood is my work. Cabinetry, bookshelves, coffee tables, chairs, tables. I made those Adirondack chairs on the deck as well.”
“That’s incredible,” I gushed. “What about the chess set in the living room?”
Viggo flipped a pancake and smiled. A real, honest-to-God smile. “Yes. Do you play?”
“A little bit.”
“I look forward to beating you,” he teased.
I scoffed. “It wouldn’t take much to beat me at chess. I was always better at low strategy, low stakes games like checkers and tic-tac-toe. Used to drive my mom nuts.”
Viggo stacked pancakes onto a plate. “These are ready if you want to dig in.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
He hummed, his head bent over the stove. God, he smelled amazing—fresh and woodsy. I wanted to lean in and sniff him, but I didn’t have a death wish.
Viggo plated the scrambled eggs and set them next to the pancakes on the island. “I’ll get the syrup. Anything else?”
“No, this looks fantastic. Thanks,” I gushed, sliding onto a barstool.
“You insisted.” His teasing twinkle was back and just like that, my pulse skipped and skittered.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Viggo speared a bite of pancakes. “What were you saying about your mother earlier? She’s competitive?”
“My whole family is. We tried to do game nights at the lake, and they never went well. We couldn’t play a simple game of Monopoly without fear of bloodshed.
And I was like…nine years old. Way too young to be stressed out about not having a ‘Get out of jail free’ card,” I huffed derisively. “What’s your family like?”
Viggo frowned. “Why?”
“I’m curious about you. I’m guessing with a name like Viggo Gustafsson you’re Norwegian or Finnish or—”
“Swedish.”
I winked. “I knew that. Freya told me a bit about her family. They sound like something right out of an idyllic Swedish IKEA fairy tale.”
Viggo snort-laughed, setting the mug down with a clunk. “Swedish IKEA fairy tale. Is that like ordering furniture with instructions that contain actual words?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m spitballing. So…what are your people like? Mom, dad, brothers, sisters?”
He gave a put-upon sigh. “My father is a retired physician, and my mother is a nurse. My older brother is a high-finance magician who makes money in his sleep. He’s married to Ingrid, and they have two children. They all live outside of Stockholm.”
“So you were born in Sweden?”
“Ja. I moved here when I was eighteen.”
“For college?”
He hummed a yes. “I was…recruited for wrestling, but the football coach asked me to try out at the end of my freshman year.”
“University of Minnesota?” I gestured at his shirt.
“Ja.”
“And…” I motioned for him to keep talking.
“And nothing. I played for three years. End of story.”
I furrowed my brow. “We’re the same age, aren’t we?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“So we must have played each other. I went to Michigan State.”
He shrugged. “Possibly. It was a long time ago.”
“True. I got injured my sophomore year, so there’s a chance I just don’t remember. I lost a chunk of my memory and…” I took another bite and steered the conversation his way. “Did you play football in Sweden?”
He quirked a brow. “Our football is your soccer. I didn’t know much about the American version till I moved here, but I caught on quickly.”
“You’ve been in the States for a long time now. I hear a hint of an accent once in a while. Shouldn’t it be more pronounced?”
Viggo flashed a lopsided smile. “It’s been almost twenty years, but ja, we studied English in our school curriculum, so I had an advantage. Also, my parents traveled a lot when we were little. I was proud that I could speak your language, but I still got teased.”
“For what?”
“I mixed up my Vs and Ws and pronounced video like wideo. Js were Ys sometimes, so jam was yam. Kids are ruthless. It inspired me to work extra hard to lose my accent in college.”
“Ah.” I tried to think of other questions and ideally not get too hung up on a vision of a hunky Swedish-wrestler-slash-football-player-slash-lumberjack going to battle with smartass undergrads. “Was your degree in forestry?”
Viggo set his fork down and wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Yes. I worked for a mill near the Canadian border in the summers, and I liked it. My grandfather was an artist, a craftsman. He taught me how to make…everything. You?”
I chuckled. “I don’t know how to make anything.”
His lips curled at one corner. “You know how to make donuts.”
“True.”
“Are you from a family of bakers and donut makers?”
I laughed at that. “Not even close.”
“Will I see your child mixing dough and icing crullers in your shop someday?”
I grinned. “Maybe, but I’d support whatever he or she wanted to do.”
“Do you hope it’s a boy or a girl?”
“Yes.”
“No preference?” he prodded.
“Nope. Not at all. A healthy baby is all I’m hoping for.”
“That’s a good answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Hmm. Do you like to wash dishes?”
I snickered at the awkward segue. “No. Not really.”
“Too bad. Let’s go.”
Viggo patted my shoulder as he stood, and the heat of his palm felt like a brand. I wanted nothing more than to rip my shirt off and rub up against him, but thankfully, I had more chill than that. I hoped so, anyway.