13. Dexter
DEXTER
We drove in silence while Viggo navigated the winding roads of the Four Forest area. We passed a logging truck on Belvedere and drove the outskirts of Elmwood where church steeples dotted the valley like a scene from a Currier and Ives painting.
I wore a ball cap and kept my head down. Getting caught riding shotgun in Viggo’s SUV could spark a firestorm of small-town curiosity we both hoped to avoid. Lunch, coffee, even flag football was one thing, but crossing the Four Forest area border in the same vehicle was a bridge too far.
I tapped a few messages on my cell, reminding my coaches where they needed to be for the Saturday games and tried to think of conversation starters with the stoic lumberjack. Once we reached the interstate, I dropped my phone in the cupholder and took a deep breath.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Hmm.”
“Not a cloud in the sky.”
Viggo hummed in agreement again and cast a sideways glance my way. “Are you nervous?”
“No. Why?”
“You can’t sit still. You’ve either had too much coffee, too much sugar, or you’re nervous. Don’t be nervous.”
I shifted to study Viggo’s profile—his prominent brow, long lashes, slightly crooked nose, and tidy beard. And don’t get me started on those muscular forearms, the veins in his rough hands, and the strong fingers gripping the steering wheel.
Was I nervous? As a matter of fact, yes, I was. I should have been consumed with thoughts of the little person growing in Freya’s belly, but no…all I could think about was lumberjack sex.
Let’s be honest, this was a powerful case of lust. I wanted to climb this man like a tree, lick him from head to toe, and God, I wanted to touch him…
right now. I could lean over the console, unzip his jeans, and suck his cock.
I wondered if he’d be into that. It seemed healthier than acting as if we hadn’t been naked and writhing in his bed a mere week ago.
One of us was going to have to say something, and it was probably me.
Here goes nothing…
“We should talk about pancakes and sex and just…get it out of the way,” I blurted.
Viggo’s gaze didn’t waver from the road. “Okay. What should we say?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
“You brought it up. You go first.”
I inhaled deeply. “I think we’re attracted to each other.”
“You do?” he deadpanned.
“Yeah. I guess now we just have to decide if we’re going to ignore that attraction or act on it.”
“Big decision.”
“Don’t get sarcastic with me.” I wagged a finger at him like an irate schoolteacher. “This is very sketchy behavior for an almost first-time parent-to-be.”
“You don’t think parents have sex?” he snarked.
“Gross. But yes…of course they do.”
Viggo shrugged. “Then maybe it’s not a big deal.”
“Maybe not, but I’m a queer parent-to-be and we both know the rules are different.
I have to rise to a higher standard to prove I’m worthy of the job.
No more random pickups with men or women I hope I never run into again.
Not that I did that often…I didn’t. Nonetheless, I have to be better than that, be smarter. ”
Viggo took his eyes off the road for a moment and smiled. I hated that I felt gooey all over, but whatever…I was past pretending I had my libido under control.
“Are you planning to have a relationship with your right hand for the next eighteen years?”
“Very funny.”
“It’s a fair question,” he insisted. “You’re young, and you’re not too hideous to look at.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Viggo snorted. “The point is…I don’t think parenthood means you have to become a monk.”
“So you think we should…”
“Maybe. But it’s complicated.”
He didn’t continue, and I wasn’t brave enough to go there on my own.
“How long have you lived in Wood Hollow?” I asked, my gaze fixed on the ribbon of road ahead.
“Three years.”
“Have you lived anywhere in the States other than Minnesota and Vermont?”
“No.”
Good chat.
I tried again. “You don’t mind the cold, eh?”
“No.”
“Do you want to listen to music or a podcast?”
“Okay.”
“Oh, my God! This is going to be a long two hours if you don’t meet me halfway,” I snapped.
Viggo’s lips curled in amusement. “You’re funny.”
“No, I’m annoyed.”
“Because of the sex.”
“Grrr. Shut up and talk to me,” I growled.
He laughed, a sweet, unfettered sound that echoed in the confines of his SUV. “All right. We’ll talk, but I’ll ask the questions this time.”
“Go for it.”
“Where are you from?”
“Michigan. Born and raised in Detroit. Grosse Pointe, specifically. My parents divorced when I was two. I have an older brother who’s a professor at Stanford.
He’s a chemical engineer, always working on some secret experiment that gets him out of family gatherings—lucky bastard.
My father lives in Argentina or Peru or Brazil.
I don’t know where, for sure. No one has seen him in years.
My mother remarried twice more. Husband number two was a lawyer.
Nice guy, but he drank too much and Mom didn’t put up with that shit.
Husband number three is Gilbert. He’s a well-connected businessman, and best of all, he puts up with my mom’s shit. ”
“What kind of shit?”
“My mother likes to get her way. She’s an executive at a venture capital firm.
Tough boss lady. Sure, she’s from money and she married into more money a couple of times in a row, but she’s no slouch.
Mom has a master’s, a PhD, and has spent decades working her way up the corporate ladder.
On one hand, I admire her. On the other hand, my mom forgets that her family members aren’t her employees. ”
“Does she know that you hired a surrogate?” Viggo asked.
“She knows I intend to. I mean…I think I mentioned it once…a long time ago. But she doesn’t know about Freya. I told you…no one knows but you.”
“Will she be happy to be a grandmother? Or is she one already?”
I shook my head. “Nope. This will be her first, and honestly, I don’t know if she’ll be happy. How sad is that?”
“Sad for her, maybe. Not for you.”
“I was thinking more about the baby not having a warm and loving extended family. At least not the traditional kind.”
“Fuck tradition.”
I snickered. “You’re right. Fuck tradition.”
He smiled again and damn it, my heart flip-flopped in my chest.
Viggo pointed at the console. “If you want to listen to music, you can attach your phone to the Bluetooth.”
“No, that’s okay. I’d rather talk.” I chuckled as he groaned. “And I’m curious about you. I live in a town of lumberjacks, but I’ve never really spent much time with one.”
“Loggers, not lumberjacks,” he corrected.
“Oh, right. I’ve been lectured on the cultural construct of lumberjack versus logger. To me, a lumberjack is a badass who takes care of shit. Logger sounds tame, like someone who rolls logs around. Not quite the whole job description, I’m sure.”
“Not at all.”
“And this is where you tell me what a logger does.”
Viggo shot an annoyed glance at me. “I’m not giving descriptions or dissertations. I like wood. That’s it.”
I nodded fervently. “Fuck, me too.”
“?h, jisses.”
“You’re blushing. I love it!”
He shook his head in mock annoyance. “Turn on the music, Dexter.”
“Hold up. I have more questions. What do you do at the mill specifically?”
“Many things. It depends on the contracts. Sometimes I do on-site work, check the health of the trees and forest, plan eco-deforestation, take down trees, haul them…whatever is needed. Lately, I work the sawmill. It’s a machine that cuts logs into usable lumber to make products to sell at the Mill Depot. ”
I hummed. “Do you like your job?”
“Yes. Do you, um…like yours?”
“I do. I love it, actually.”
“Even though you don’t eat donuts?”
I gasped in mock censure. “I do fucking too. Not as many as I’d like to, but donuts are literally the best manmade creation ever.”
“Best ever? Better than bicycles, automobiles, the Golden Gate Bridge, or…macaroni and cheese?”
“Including an architectural wonder is a little extreme, and I’d put bikes and other moving vehicles in the invention column. But mac n’ cheese has got nothing on a good old-fashioned glazed, sprinkle, or a jelly-filled donut.”
“What about pancakes?” he teased.
“Ooh. It might be a tie.”
“When did you start making donuts?”
“I worked at a bakery in high school. It was a part-time after-school gig. Ten hours a week, tops. The owners were related to my girlfriend at the time. Aunt Alma and Uncle Joe were good people. They supported the local football team, raised money for education and sports, and they made amazing coffee. It was a great atmosphere. The bakers were these funny guys with thick Boston accents who’d make up weird flavors—like Cocoa Puffs chocolate brownie fudge donuts and hickory spice.
They’d do taste tests with the part-timers just for fun.
They taught me how to make donuts, and they encouraged creativity.
” I smiled at the memory. “The girlfriend didn’t last, but I occasionally worked for Alma and Joe in the summers during college…
before football training started. Years later, when I was trying to figure out what to do with my life, I remembered how much I loved those days and I thought… why not try donuts?”
“And Dexter’s Donuts was born.”
“Yep.”
“Why Wood Hollow? Why not somewhere in Michigan or…New York City or LA?”
“I was done with Michigan. I wanted out, and Troy had just been hired as the new coach at the high school. He asked me to be his assistant coach. I agreed, thinking I’d take a few months to reassess life and figure out what came next. I stayed.”
“For donuts,” Viggo commented.
“It was a side project, something to try out. If it worked, great. If not, that was okay, too.” I fidgeted with the cuff of my sleeve and shrugged.
“I had low expectations. Wood Hollow was kind of a pit back then. Every freaking sidewalk was cracked, half of the shops were deserted or tired looking, the roads were in disrepair from the logging trucks, and everything had an aura of…blah. I actually felt bad for Troy that he ended up going from college superstar athlete to coaching in a Podunk nowhere town. That changed after Hank’s dad bought the mill.
New jobs, new construction. It wasn’t an overnight phenomenon, but there was hope in the air.
You could feel it. There was a new coffee shop, a new bistro, so… why not a donut shop?”
“And it was a hit,” he surmised.
“Not right away. The thing about small towns like Wood Hollow is that it sometimes takes a while for folks to warm up to you. They’re suspicious of new-fangled ideas and I got a lot of pushback at town council meetings.
” I modulated my voice to sound like a cranky old man.
“ ‘You can’t be serving a donut with cereal sprinkles! That’s pure laziness. And it’s bad for kids’ teeth, too.’ ”
“These are your best customers now?”
“You know it.” I pointed at the sign for Burlington. “Almost there. Shit. Now I’m nervous again.”
Viggo reached across the console and set his hand on mine. He didn’t say a word—no false assurances, no platitude that everything was going to be okay. Just the solid weight of his presence. And somehow that was exactly what I needed.