20. Dexter #2
Viggo crossed his arms. “Why?”
“I invited you, and I take hosting responsibilities seriously. If we’d stayed at my place, there would have been food in the fridge, more coffee than we’d need…
and a lot of alcohol. The boat would have been waiting at the dock, the electric grill would have been ready to go—no need for charcoal, and… I have a king-sized bed.”
“Dexter?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re weird.” He leaned in to kiss my cheek and swiped the boat key out of my hand. “But I don’t mind. See you soon.”
“Your boyfriend is hot,” the twentysomething at the register commented as Viggo strode toward the small boat we’d rented.
I could have, should have told her that the big Swede wasn’t mine, but I was busy ogling his broad shoulders too and basking in his words.
You’re weird, but I don’t mind.
It was as if he saw through my smoke and mirror game. Behind my capable, accomplished, qualified veneer, I was a hot mess with a scrambled brain. He didn’t even know the whole story, and yet he knew enough.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
We grilled steaks, potatoes, and veggies and ate dinner on the screened porch overlooking the lake.
The conversation was light and breezy. We discussed everything from the proper amount of char on corn, mosquito bites, and the best time of day to be on the water.
He knew more than I did about fishing, sailing, and boating in general.
“I took sailing lessons because my mom insisted, but I preferred team sports,” I said around a mouthful.
“Opposite for me. I liked being alone, although you usually learn to sail with a partner for safety, ja?”
“Yeah, and I got stuck with Chip Cravens. He was a fucking dick. We were ten or eleven, and he thought he knew all there was to know about pulling the lines and tacking the sails. Our boat went horizontal whenever the wind blew and of course, he’d blame me. I hated that guy.”
Viggo snorted. “Chip? How is that a name?”
“It’s short for Christopher or something. Viggo is a unique name too, you know.”
I expected irate indignation, and Viggo didn’t disappoint.
“My name means battle, fight, war.” He pounded a fist on the rickety picnic table and glowered. “It is fornnordiska, Old Norse. A proud warrior name, not a nickname for chocolate chips or a bag of Doritos.”
“That guy was a bag of Doritos.” I snickered gleefully. “No reason to get testy with me, though. I love your name.”
“What will you name the baby?”
My heart somersaulted and I knew I was wearing a shitfaced grin.
“I don’t know. I like traditional names, so maybe Jack or Robert for a boy, Catherine or Grace for a girl.
But I’ll change my mind a dozen times between now and December, and I won’t tell anyone what I decide until it’s on a birth certificate.
Everyone has a Jack, a Robert, a Katie, or a Grace that bugged them in school, and they can’t wait to tell you about it.
And I’ve decided not to find out the sex. I want to be surprised.”
He nodded. “That’s good, I think. Especially if you don’t care if it’s a boy or girl. My sister-in-law, Ingrid, didn’t care either, but she wanted the nursery done and she was picky about colors.”
“What did she end up having?”
“First a boy, then a girl.” Viggo smiled affectionately. “Lukas and Viveca, or Vivi. They’re ten and eight.”
“Were you there when they were born?”
“Ja. I was home a lot at that time.” The light in his eyes dimmed for a beat. He speared a bite of steak and pointed his fork at me. “Who will watch the baby while you work?”
“I’m taking a four-month paternity leave. Janey can handle the store and if she needs me, I’m able to be there. I also have a nanny lined up. She’s a friend of Janey’s who used to nanny for a couple of hockey players in Elmwood before their kids became school aged.”
“What do you know about babies?”
“What do you mean?”
Viggo shrugged. “Do you know how to feed them, change diapers? Will you know what to do in an emergency?”
“Well, yes and no. The truth is, I’ll be winging it like most first-time parents.”
He pushed his plate aside and reached for his wine. “I don’t think I like babies. They’re too little. They scare me.”
“Oh, brother.”
“I’m serious.” He wasn’t. His eyes lit with mischief and humor. “Lukas was a screamer. Big lungs, and he was only this big.” Viggo held his hands twelve inches apart. “All that noise from the tiniest little creature. And the spit-up…disgusting. Good luck with that.”
I kicked him under the table. “You’re full of shit. Just for that, I’m making you my emergency contact for all things disgusting—diaper blowouts, snotty noses, the works. Call Uncle Viggo.”
Uncle Viggo? Where had that come from?
We laughed a little awkwardly. Thankfully, one of us immediately changed the subject—something about playing chess or one of the games under the coffee table.
I could have sat with Viggo all night on that porch, trading teasing gibes and stream of consciousness musings to the soundtrack of cicadas and katydids. The air smelled of mesquite embers from the grill, pine needles, damp earth, and the cool lake breeze. It was…kind of perfect.
I woke the next morning with Viggo’s arm draped over my stomach, his lips tickling my ear, his dick nudging my thigh. I grumbled about the bed being so small and cuddled closer. He welcomed me, pulling my back against his bare chest and holding me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The butterflies struck with a vengeance.
Then he was inside, moving so slowly, so tenderly, I thought I could crumble under the weight of the sweetness.
The feel of muscular arms, rough hands, and the scratch of a thick beard were a potent contrast to his sensual touch.
I didn’t ever want it to end. Seriously.
I would have happily canceled our plans to attend Gilbert’s party and stayed in bed all day.
Viggo, however, declared we had fish to catch.
I protested. It was too early, the bed was warm, the sun had barely kissed the horizon, we needed caffeine and fuel…and what about more sex?
Viggo found two thermoses for our coffee and a small cooler for our toasted bagels with cream cheese. We grabbed sweatshirts, the tackle box, and the two rods we’d rented the day before and set out for the boat tied to the dock.
I hadn’t been fishing in…forever, and honestly, I was fine with that. I associated the pastime with sharp hooks, slimy worms, ugly dead-eyed fish, sunburn, and acute boredom. The last one was the worst. Viggo didn’t agree.
“The quiet is the best part,” he insisted. “It’s a chance to connect with nature.”
“By sticking a pole in the water?”
He shook his head and spoke softly. So softly, it was hard to hear him.
His voice alone was therapeutic. “It’s a form of meditation.
You have to be in the moment, ready for anything to happen—or nothing at all.
If your mind starts to spin, you cast and reel and relax.
Concentrate on being here with me, and you won’t worry about your mother. Trust me.”
It was tempting to argue that my mother was the last person on my mind, but it was eerie to think he knew me better than that already. Either I was an open book, or Viggo had me figured out. Both options were unflattering, so I dropped the subject, shut my mouth, and…fished.
Twenty minutes in, I felt a tug on my line. “I caught something.”
“Reel it in. Good.” Viggo pulled my rod toward him, unhooked a spotted fish and held it up. “Want to hold it?”
“Absolutely not. I—wait. What are you doing?” I sputtered as he gently lowered the fish into the lake. “You’re throwing it back?”
“No, you never throw it. That would be cruel. But I let it go ’cause it was too small. It’s okay. We’ll keep trying.”
I groaned. “You’re killing me. Fine. I’ll catch a bigger fucking fish.”
“Or maybe I will.”
“Nope. I got this.”
Viggo rolled his eyes and made a mini production of rolling up his sleeves.
I snickered at his antics and willed fish to jump on my line.
Nothing happened. But I felt my shoulders slip into place surrounded by birdsong, lapping water, and the glint of refracted light shining like diamonds on the lake’s surface.
I sneaked a glance at Viggo’s strong profile and smiled.
He had a funny effect on me, that was for sure.
If Viggo hadn’t come with me, I’d be at the big house, ensconced in luxurious guest quarters, enjoying a ginormous breakfast in bed.
I probably would have been thinking about going for a run, working on recipes, and dreaming up a few new odd flavor combinations to scandalize Wood Hollow’s donut connoisseurs.
I wouldn’t have told my mother my news yet.
She was bound to say something I wouldn’t like.
And vice versa, I supposed. We didn’t communicate well.
We tended to speak in circles, unable to absorb meaning, unwilling to compromise.
But I didn’t want to begin my journey as a parent by shutting her out, so here I was… with my new friend, my new lover.
Maybe it was selfish of me to bring Viggo, but he was steady as a rock: dependable, unmovable. And Christ, he was hot and surprisingly sweet and—
Viggo sensed my stare and furrowed his brow. I laughed when he rolled his eyes and glanced away…but not before I caught his smile.
Yeah, I could handle the butterflies.