Chapter 4
Chapter Four
OLIVER
Istink. Truly, I smell so, so bad. I’ve been around myself all day, and even still, I’m having to breathe through my mouth.
Humming, I tap my fingers against the steering wheel.
The heat is blasting from the vents, warming my chapped and dry skin.
I like winter, but I also like not having sandpaper for palms.
And I stink, I remind myself, clicking on my blinker and tailing Nils as he turns onto his drive.
I know where he lives, obviously, but he suggested I just follow him from work, and I was so excited to have even been invited that I agreed before thinking it through.
Now, I’m wondering if it would have been best to stop at home first. Shower, brush my hair, and maybe spray on cologne to cover up the eau du sweat I’m currently wearing.
Parking next to Nils’ truck, I glance at myself in the rearview mirror and cringe.
I’d taken off my beanie when I got in the car, and my hair is plastered down to my head in a sweaty blond helmet.
My cheeks, nose, and eyes are all redder than they’re supposed to be, and I can still taste lunch in my mouth.
Pulling the beanie back on, I wish for a breath mint.
Idiotic, since I’m here to see chickens, not kiss Nils, but still.
I already smell; do I really have to have bad breath, too?
Resigned, I leave the vehicle. It’s not a date, and Nils probably smells just as bad as I do.
I’d really rather always be putting my best foot forward when it comes to Nils, though.
I’ve got a bit of a crush on the man. I want him to like me and respect me and also think I’m devilishly handsome.
Hard to do when I look and smell like I was cooking under layers of winter clothing all day.
“Water?” Nils asks, leading the way inside. I follow closely behind him, excited to have been invited into a space I’ve been dreaming of entering since I first laid eyes on the lovely male specimen in front of me.
Unlike my house, Nils’ is both finished and clean.
Nothing is exposed where it shouldn’t be, the floors are shiny, and there’s a real coffee table sitting in front of the sofa.
Even the furniture is lovely—a deep chestnut-colored suede that’s soft when I run my palm over it.
My own sofa was a side-of-the-road deal and is the ugliest plaid pattern a person could ever imagine.
Green and yellow sound great, theoretically.
And maybe on a landscape painting, they work.
But on a couch? Not so much. To be fair, though, I only picked up the couch because my house is under construction, and I thought it better to have something ratty than something new.
If I didn’t have the plaid monstrosity, I’d be sitting on the floor.
“This is really nice,” I tell Nils, hand still on the silky fabric of the sofa but meaning the entire space. “You’ve got a good eye for design.”
He huffs, slipping his jacket off and tucking it into the hall closet. The fabric of his sweater stretches across his shoulders, distracting me from my perusal of the room. Yum.
“Fire?” he asks, glancing at me. I turn my face away quickly enough to crick my neck. I’d love nothing more than to jump him, but there are some things you just don’t do when you’re visiting a friend’s chickens.
“Oh, sure, yeah.” I watch as he slips around the sofa and kneels in front of the stone fireplace, plucking a few logs off the stack next to it.
“I haven’t used my fireplace yet. I’m a little scared to, to be honest. I feel like there’s probably something faulty in there, and I’d just be setting fire to my own house. ”
Nils sends a wry look my direction as though to say maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
I smile at his back, watching him light the fire.
He’s not been overly vocal about it, but I know he’s not fond of my old fixer-upper.
Sometimes I regret buying it, but mostly, I’m happy with the purchase.
It’s hard to regret something that puts Nils in such close proximity outside of work hours.
Once the house is fully renovated, I might have to start breaking things on purpose just to keep him there, helping me with repairs.
The fire crackles merrily to life in the grate, and Nils carefully slides the protective screen across.
I stare at the stack of logs and wonder if he chops them himself.
Now, that is something I’d like to see. Nils—with his strong body, calm demeanor, and long hair—screams manly-man to me.
The kind of man my father could understand.
Someone who is competent in all things and doesn’t ever need help.
It doesn’t require any mental gymnastics to picture Nils out back, axe in hand, shirt damp with sweat under the arms and at the small of his back, splitting wood.
If I tried chopping firewood, I’d probably bury the axe in my own leg.
Questions itch at the back of my throat.
Is his bedroom on this level or upstairs?
What does the kitchen look like? Does he use it for more than heating up frozen dinners?
Does he cut his own firewood? What kind of beams are those in the ceiling?
Where did he get this couch, and how fast can one be delivered to me? What color is his bedspread?
Swallowing everything down, I hum under my breath.
If I open my mouth, I’ll probably ask him something inappropriate, like boxers or briefs.
Or perhaps Nils prefers something more fun.
My gaze drops to his jeans—dirty from a day in the workshop and sticking to all the right places.
Puffing out my cheeks, I follow when he gestures me toward the opposite side of the room.
He definitely chops his own wood. Those look like the back muscles of a lumberjack for sure.
And the butt of a lobsterman, I add to myself, admiring the fit of those jeans from the back as I tail him.
“Nice paint,” I say, trying to distract myself from Nils’ presence.
He’s always been handsome, but here, in his home, the allure is that much stronger.
I shouldn’t objectify my friends, but it’s really, really difficult when he looks like that and hair is escaping from his ponytail and he chops firewood.
I’m not strong enough to withstand this.
Nils steps to the side and gestures for me to precede him, a small smile on his face. As I pass, he taps his knuckles against the wall and says, “Santorini blue,” under his breath. I nod, filing that away. Perhaps I’ll find myself with Santorini blue walls in the near future.
Nils’ kitchen, which I now see looks over the backyard and a structure that I assume is the chicken coop, is just as clean and sleek as the main room.
He chose dark appliances and open cabinetry.
A green plant is sitting on the highest shelf next to a stack of plates, vines draped down over the side.
The tea towels hanging from the oven bar have chickens on them.
“Can I live here?” I ask Nils. He laughs, which is fair, even though I was only half-kidding. Running my hand over the island, I smile down at the butcher block. I am such a slut for pretty kitchens.
“You-you-you okay?” he asks. I look up at him, frowning. Am I okay? I’ve never been more okay than I am right now, in his kitchen, with his tight blue jeans and Santorini walls.
“Yeah, of course. I’m impressed. I knew you were good at home repairs, but I didn’t realize you were also an interior decorator. You could do this for work, Nils. People would hire you to put together a kitchen like this. I would hire you.”
He shakes his head, exhaling hard enough from his nose for me to hear it. This is the I don’t believe a word out of your mouth Nils expression. I open my mouth to say more, but he beats me to it.
“You’re quiet,” he comments, dark eyes on mine. I flush for some reason, face heating. People usually wish I’d shut up. They never complain when I actually manage to do so. I hadn’t even noticed I wasn’t talking as much.
“Oh, I’m just”—I gesture vaguely around the room—“taking it all in. I’ve never been here before. Not that you have to invite me, obviously. But it’s beautiful. If I can manage a space half as lovely as this, I’ll be happy.”
He smiles and tips his head to the side, indicating the back door.
He took his jacket off when we came in, but maybe we’ll only be outside for a few minutes.
Not long enough for him to get cold. Probably because he’s got all those muscles to keep him warm.
Patting the butcher block goodbye, I follow him out the back door and into the yard.
When I sigh, the air puffs out from my lips in a little cloud of fog.
Because Nils and I live on abutting properties, his backyard is similar to mine, horticulturally speaking.
We’ve got the same forest of trees, the same brittle grass, green in the summer but now crisp with frost. At night, we’ve got the same view of the stars and the same inky blackness that comes from living far from the reach of city lights.
That is where the similarities end, however.
Instead of the plant wild west I’ve been cultivating, Nils’ yard boasts a brick fireplace near the tree line, a tidy row of bushes along the house that I imagine probably flower at some point, and the chicken coop.
I almost repeat my earlier request to live here.
“A little messy, so-so-so-sorry,” Nils says, jaw tightening as he shakes his head once. I look around, unable to locate the mess. Maybe he means the chickens.