Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
OLIVER
From the bed, I can see the gray of the sky and the lack of snow falling.
I stay still, unable to fully shake the sleep off and happy under my mound of blankets.
Nils had been worried I’d get cold and compensated for that by providing me with what might be every bit of fabric he had in the house.
I half expected him to give me the sheets from his own bed.
The extra blankets, while nice, weren’t all needed.
I’d utilized a couple—enough so that I’d be comfortable enough to sleep in nothing but the satin slip—and left the rest folded at the end of the bed.
Now, the mix of soft flannel and smooth satin feels heavenly on my skin, and I’m wishing I could laze around in bed for another couple of hours.
I wish Nils only had one bed and was lazing around in here with me.
Sliding my fingertips idly over the soft fabric covering my stomach, I watch the window and think about last night.
I really wasn’t that cold at my own house, and the snowfall, while heavy and thick and far more than we’d been anticipating, hadn’t yet turned into an emergency.
Before the power shut off, my heat had been working fine.
I’d even turned it up, so the time after it shut down wasn’t that uncomfortable.
I would have been fine until morning, until the power turned back on and I could get back outside to shovel the walk.
Nils showing up at my door hadn’t been all that shocking.
What had been shocking was the obvious worry on his face and the concern in his eyes as he’d looked me up and down, snow swirling behind him.
Yesterday, I would have laughed if someone tried to tell me being rescued was anything but humiliating.
Today, I’m re-evaluating that stance. Being rescued is quite enjoyable, and if Nils wanted to save me from every situation I didn’t need saving from, I would accept the help with a smile.
Help and hot chocolate and a stack of blankets that smell like Nils. Time spent sitting in front of a fireplace in a dark room, voices low and attention held by nothing but each other. A single, shining sliver of time that I’d worry was a dream if I weren’t still in this bed.
Rolling onto my back, I rest both hands on my satin-covered stomach and chew my lip.
It wouldn’t be right for me to assign a different meaning to what happened last night than the truth.
Nils is a pragmatic, quiet helper. He knew I wouldn’t have power and came to solve the problem in the only way he knew how.
It’s possible he would have done the same for anyone who lived next door.
It wasn’t some romantic grand gesture, and if the firelight made his dark eyes seem warmer and his expression softer as he looked at me, well…
that was nothing more than a trick of the light.
I’m not the first person to look at someone they admire and hope to see desire reflected back.
Besides, even if he did want me, he would want the Oliver he works with.
The Oliver who dresses in workman’s clothes and hauls traps, gets his hands dirty and sings sea shanties with dubious lyrics.
He would not want the Oliver who sheds that skin at home and slips on a negligée.
He would not want the Oliver who used to play in his mother’s makeup and jewelry, which was cute when he was two but became shameful when he got older.
Most men don’t like it. And the ones that seem to like it at the beginning tire of it in the end.
My father once said I was best handled in small doses, and although he was referring to my personality at the time, it really applies to everything.
I’m best experienced from a distance, where the more palatable parts of me are on display and the rest hidden away.
The slide of the satin over my skin—which usually feels so good—rubs wrong as I push back the sheets and sit up.
I shouldn’t even be wearing this here. This is Nils’ house; he could walk in anytime and see me.
Sleeping in someone else’s guest bedroom in skimpy lingerie is a disaster waiting to happen.
Although it’s not as though I had much of a choice, since Nils seemed to think any time wasted last night was going to end in me turning into an icicle.
I’d tried to go upstairs and change into something safer, and he’d shot that down quick—you can wear mine.
Looking down at the forest-green fabric scrunched up my hips, I sigh.
If I were a braver sort of person, I’d walk downstairs for a cup of coffee in nothing but this.
I’d flirt and act like I didn’t care what anyone thought of who I am, while inside I braced for impact.
I tell myself it’s because we have to work together that I reach for my sweater and pants, tucking the satin out of view.
It feels like forcing myself into hiding and also feels like the safer choice.
The house is warm, but I pull on my wool socks before I leave the room anyway.
The door creaks slightly as I open it and pause, listening for sounds coming from the end of the hall.
Either Nils is asleep still, or he’s just very quiet.
I’m betting on the latter, as I can’t imagine anything less likely than him sleeping in.
He’s probably been up all morning, shoveling every driveway in Siren’s Point and putting down salt on the sidewalks.
The stairs creak softly as I make my way downstairs. The smell of coffee meets me halfway down, putting a smile on my face. Yes, Nils is already up.
The living room is glowing with light coming in from the uncovered windows, the snow outside almost glaringly bright.
I squint out at the winter wonderland and shiver—it looks freezing, despite how wonderfully warm it is in here.
It’s much warmer, in fact, than I keep my own house.
Somehow, I feel as though this is for my benefit, not Nils’.
Shaking my head fondly, I hum softly under my breath and peek into the kitchen.
The fresh pot of coffee greets me, along with a single mug left on the counter next to it.
There’s a yellow sticky note attached to the side, Oliver written in blocky, all-capital letters.
I slip the note into my pocket before I pour my cup, trying to beat my sad, romance-starved heart into submission. All of this is something a friend might do for another friend. This is not romantic. Tone it down, I tell myself firmly.
I peek out the window as I blow across the top of the mug, eyes on the chicken coop.
There is a set of footprints leading across the snowy yard and a space scooped out around the door, like Nils had to shovel some away to get it open.
Hip leaned against the counter, hot mug cupped between my hands, I watch and wait.
Five minutes later, Nils steps into view, carefully latching the door behind him.
I meet him at the back door, opening it with a smile.
“Morning,” I greet him. Frowning, he knocks his feet against the stair, cleaning off the snow.
“It’s cold,” he says, shooing me inside as he steps up onto the porch and starts taking his boots off.
He’s not wrong. The air coming through the open doorway is pretty much freezing, and I’m not dressed in full winter wear like he is.
But given that I didn’t go running off into the yard to make snow angels, I’m pretty sure I’ll be all right in my sweats and socks.
I can’t help the smile on my face as I take a sip of coffee.
“Sleep okay?” I ask him once we’re both safely inside and away from the dangers in the backyard. “How are the chickens? If any of them froze to death, please don’t tell me. I’d rather not know.”
Nils laughs, the sound barely more than a deep exhalation.
I lean against the island as he pours his own mug of coffee, turning around and fixing those beautiful, dark, angled eyes on mine.
Maybe it wasn’t the firelight playing tricks after all.
There is something of last night lingering in that look.
“Fine,” he answers. I nod, knowing he’s answering both questions.
“Thanks for all the blankets and for letting me stay. And thanks for the coffee. It’s so warm in here, it was kind of hard to wake up.
I feel like I could have hibernated until noon.
” I glance at the clock on the oven, grimacing at the time.
Ten is way past the time I usually get up, and way past the time I should have gone home and gotten out of Nils’ hair.
“But I’ll get out of your way. I can help you shovel before I go. ”
“Already done.” He shakes his head, leaning his butt against the counter and stretching his legs out in front of him.
I try not to look at the thighs that are squeezed into his jeans.
I try not to look at other things that might have needed squeezing in as well.
He adds, “And you-u-u-u should st-t-t-t-ay.”
Nils’ eyelashes flutter downward as he lifts his mug for a sip of coffee, his only outward sign of anxiety.
I wish there were a polite way for me to tell him it doesn’t bother me when he stutters.
That, despite what most people probably think, I can be patient and silent when I need to be.
I talk a lot, sure, but I follow verbal traffic laws and don’t cut people off.
If it takes him two minutes to say thirty seconds of words, I’ll happily wait and enjoy the conversation.
But Nils seems to prefer absolute silence and pretending the stutter doesn’t exist, so me bringing it up would only make both of us uncomfortable.
For now, they’re words I need to keep to myself and simply show him I can behave, give him time to speak, and never make him think the way he does is a bother.
“I don’t want to get in your way. Plus, I don’t have clothes.
” Nils’ eyes hit my stomach, and I have to wrestle back the urge to fidget.
Satin burns where it brushes against me.
I hum “Staying Alive,” fingers tapping on my mug, wishing I could check that the strap of the cami is hidden and knowing if I reach for it, I’ll only be drawing attention there.
“Stay. Please,” Nils replies firmly. Draining his coffee, he leaves the mug on the counter and beckons me to follow him.
Going to get clothes, I surmise, and resign myself to my fate.
Not that it’s a particularly bad fate, at least for me.
Maybe, instead of trying to get home quicker, I should be hoping for the storm to get worse, praying for another night cozied up in front of the fire, wearing Nils’ clothes.
Maybe my roof collapsed under the weight of the snow, and my fixer-upper is now a rebuild.
I hope the poltergeist that lives there is okay, at any rate.
“You know,” I tell Nils as I follow him up the stairs, “I think my house might be haunted. There have been some distinctly spooky happenings over there. You might be right that it’s better for me to stay here today. Blizzards probably make the spirits restless.”
Nils chuckles. I stare at the back of his neck and the little curls of baby hair, wishing I could touch.
He leads me into his bedroom, where I wait in the doorway and try not to be too obvious in my perusal.
The room only makes me more sure in my belief that Nils missed his calling as an interior decorator.
Bent over the chest of drawers, he looks back at me as though gauging the size of my waist. This time, I’m unable to help but pull the sweater further up my shoulder, covering the little green strap.
“What’s this paint color, then? Forest Fairy? Emerald Isle? Tears of Green?”
A little buzz of pleasure hums through my blood at the way Nils’ mouth curls up into a smile.
He never smiles wide enough for his eyes to crinkle at the corners like that.
He doesn’t answer until he’s plucked a pair of sweats from his drawers and approaches me, hand brushing mine and lingering when he answers.
“Aurora.”
“Yes. Right. That makes sense,” I agree, nodding like an insane bobblehead and looking at the green walls. “Definitely an aurora borealis green. Well done, paint-namers. I’ll go change. Thank you for the clothes. And the coffee. And the bed.”
Every word out of my mouth is accompanied by an increasingly annoyed internal stop, stop, stop.
Retreating down the hall to my room—which isn’t my room at all, and really should not take up space in my consciousness that way—I close the door and groan.
Letting my head fall back, I close my eyes and wonder what it must feel like to be a person who knows what words are going to come out of their mouth before they say them.