Chapter 8 Nico
NICO
“What are you making?”
I jump as Este’s voice hits me before her footsteps. Because she’s walking around barefoot, in another sweatshirt and shorts combination that is testing my resolve.
Last night, for the first time, neither of us bothered to go upstairs to our rooms. Her headache faded quickly after she rested for a while, then poured some black coffee over ice and chugged it in a way that reminded me of college.
She fell asleep earlier, lying down on the sofa bed, facing me.
I lay opposite her, staring at her for longer than is reasonable.
I told myself I was looking for any signs of a nightmare, but I was just looking, cataloguing the details of her face.
She didn’t have a full nightmare, but she whimpered a few times.
And when I placed my hand on her cheek to calm her down, her frown melted into a soft smile that made my heart race.
Then she went upstairs to “get ready” and came down half an hour later with bare legs. I busied myself in the kitchen, so I had space to breathe. And now she’s here. With bare legs. Jesus.
“Bread,” I answer, my tone shorter than it should be. It doesn’t deter Este, though. She sidles up beside me.
“From scratch?”
“I didn’t fancy running to the grocery store,” I answer, glancing sideways at her. I regret it instantly. She’s close enough that I can see every freckle on her face, and the kitchen spotlights accentuate the gold flecks in her eyes as she widens them.
“Nico Harland, did you just make a joke?”
“It’s been known to happen,” I grumble, and her face lights up.
“What kind of bread is it?”
She presses back against the counter, and nothing in the world could prepare me for her hopping up and sitting on it. I pause, my dough half suspended, staring at the thighs that are a few inches away. She has freckles on her legs, too. Fuck.
I set the dough down to rest and force my eyes up, dragging my gaze over her navy sweatshirt. Sitting up here, we’re at eye level with each other, and she’s raising a brow, waiting. Shit, she asked me a question.
“Sourdough.”
“My favorite. Did you make your own starter?”
No one has shown this much interest in me in years. Or, if they have, I haven’t paid any attention. Este peppers me with questions about how and when I learned to bake, and, though I’m not one for idle chatter, I don’t mind because she seems happy.
I was never much of a baker growing up. The kitchen was always Shay’s domain—she and Noelle own a bakery together in Wintermore.
My brain has blocked out a lot of memories of the years before Georgie died, because thinking of her fucking hurts, but in all the happy memories I cling to, Shay is usually covered in flour or holding a whisk.
I started making sourdough a few years after I moved here because it made me feel a little closer to her—and feeding my starter made me get out of bed on the days I didn’t want to, since I didn’t have the boys back then.
“What’s her name?” Este asks.
“Shay’s?”
“What? No. Your sourdough starter.”
“Why the hell would I name it?”
“Everyone names their starter. It’s good luck—like boats.”
“Huh. Well, you’re welcome to name her.”
Este swings her legs back and forth as I stretch out the dough and fold it over on itself. “Do you plan on having human babies or just the dogs and sourdough?”
I don’t know how I feel about bread being in the same category as the boys. “I’m forty-seven, single, and me. I think that ship has sailed.” It’s not something I’ve ever given much thought to, just assuming I never would. Besides, having kids when I’m so messed up would be selfish. “Why?”
“Just in case you had a name theme in mind. Since the boys have tea names, we could do that. Maybe Jasmine, or Rose, or… Camellia! Since tea comes from camellia leaves, and bread comes from your starter.”
“Camellia. That’s pretty genius, angel. I like it.”
I pull the preheated Dutch oven out and lift the dough in, tossing in the ice cubes I got out earlier and quickly closing the lid. Once it’s in the oven and my timer is set, I start wiping down the counter, feeling the heat of Este’s gaze on me.
She swings her legs out and in, and I manage not to look at them. Until her foot brushes against me, and my breath catches in my throat. She has me fucking hypnotized.
“Everything okay?” Este asks, but her tone is… loaded. I look up, trying to read her expression. There’s a glimmer in her eyes I haven’t noticed before.
Is she doing this on purpose? Does she want me to lose my mind over her legs, imagining playing connect the fucking dots with her freckles and my tongue? Because I sure as hell am.
“Fine,” I say, but my voice is so gravelly it barely sounds like a word. I clear my throat, wipe the last of the flour from the counter, and step back. “I’m going to chop firewood.”
If I don’t burn off some of this energy, I’m going to do something I shouldn’t. And Este can’t come outside into the snow with bare legs.
I have never been more wrong.
I’ve only just finished hauling the logs I’m going to split into firewood over to the stump I use in front of my workshop when the door opens, and the dogs come running out. Followed closely by Este.
She has, at least, put on socks. Fluffy cream knee-high things, which I think might be worse than the bare legs. And she has boots on, so her feet will be warm. But her thighs are still very bare, and I’m somehow supposed to concentrate enough to swing an axe without injuring myself. Excellent.
The dogs chase each other around the untouched snow in front of the cabin. Este leans against the railing, watching them. From this angle, leaning over, I can just see the edge of her shorts, where her sweatshirt rides up. They’re the same navy she’s wearing on top, with a scalloped edge.
I focus on the logs in front of me, drawing in a deep breath.
Pick up the log, place it on the stump, swing, split, next.
Pick up the log, place it on the stump, swing—ow.
My arm spasms on the downward swing, and I grimace.
Considering all of the psychological effects of the accident I’m still living with, there are very few physical side effects.
I have some scars, and my arm gives out more than I’d like it to.
I’ve done my best to keep it strong over the years, but it’s always worse in the cold.
It takes me two swings to split the log, but I manage and set aside the smaller pieces for firewood.
I hear footsteps on the porch, but I don’t need to look up to know Este is watching me. I can feel her.
Wood. Focus on the wood.
The logs. Christ.
I make it through most of the pile before she speaks:
“Why do you use an axe instead of the chainsaw to cut it?”
I look up, following her gaze to the chainsaw leaning against my workshop door. I oiled it up before I started gathering wood, and I hate the smell, so I always leave it outside to air out for a while.
“The chainsaw is better for bigger things. And I’m not technically cutting these. The axe lets me split them along their natural grain.”
She peers curiously at the pile of firewood on the tarp I have set out. “Can I try?”
God fucking help me.
“Of course. Come here, I’ll teach you.”
Snow crunches beneath her boots as she comes over. She takes the axe and weighs it in her hands, pressing her finger to the tip of the blade. “It’s not very sharp.”
“It’s been a while since I sharpened it. I’ll get to it soon. It’s easier when it’s sharp, but it doesn’t need to be for this. Gravity, the weight, and the wood grain do most of the work.”
I step aside so she can stand in front of the stump, and she holds the axe out, looking back at me.
There’s really no other way to show her how to properly hold it than to stand behind her and guide her, like it’s a pool cue or something. I take a deep breath and wrap my arms around her, placing my hands on top of hers on the axe.
“Right there. Okay, now you want to spread your legs,” I say, and immediately regret it.
I feel the words register as she tenses in my arms. And then I make it significantly worse by using my knee to nudge her legs apart.
I’m wearing thick jeans, but I swear I can somehow feel her skin through the denim.
“Like this?” Her voice is low, breathy.
Am I imagining it, or is she pushing her ass back into me?
I must be imagining it. There’s no way…
“Yeah. Like that. Now just bring the axe down.”
She does, and the wood splits perfectly in two.
“Holy shit,” Este says, turning back to grin at me. “That felt amazing. Can I do it again?”
I’m not sure I could ever say no to that smile. Dangerous.
Este finishes the rest of the pile with my “assistance.” After the first log, she really doesn’t need me standing behind her, guiding her hands, but neither of us makes any move to put distance between us.
When we’re finished, and I have no excuse not to step back, my body feels the absence of her.
She insists on helping me carry the firewood into the log store against the side of the cabin, and I resist the urge to demand she go inside before she gets frostbite.
I keep firewood in a few places around the cabin—it’s a force of habit to keep a stockpile, because of the years I couldn’t drag myself outside to chop wood.
I went cold more than a few nights back then.
It’s been a while, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.
I fill up a bucket to take inside and brush my hands off on my jeans.
“This was fun. Can I help next time you’re doing it?” Este asks, and she sounds genuine. I get the feeling she likes to learn new things, and I can’t imagine she has much of an opportunity to deal with wood in Chicago.
“Of course you can. On one condition.”
“Hmm?”
“Wear some pants next time. You’re going to freeze.” I don’t mean to sound as gruff as I do.
Este rolls her eyes and turns away. “Yes, Daddy.”
My vision goes black as all the blood in my body rushes south.
What. The. Fuck.
I reach out and grasp her arm, my fingers twining with hers before she fully turns. Fuck, her hand is soft.
“Don’t call me that.” My voice is barely a rasp.
She raises a brow, stepping back until she’s leaning against the side of the cabin.
“You don’t like it?” The words coil around me, the sweet cadence of her voice going straight to my head.
That’s probably why all it takes is her lightly tugging my hand to propel me forward, to make me close in around her, our bodies less than an inch apart.
I press my hand against the wall, bracketing her, forcing myself to focus on the woodgrain on the wall. Because if I look at her, I’m going to lose it.
“I like it. I like it far too much.”
Her breath catches. I know because I’m standing close enough to feel the way her chest stills. Close enough that all I’d have to do is shift forward slightly to be completely pressed against her. Something Este must realize, too, because she does just that.
“You seem nervous. Do I make you nervous?” she asks, and my whole body tenses as she drags one finger down the zipper holding my jacket and my resolve together.
“You scare the shit out of me, angel.”
I close my eyes and let out a long, ragged breath. What the fuck am I doing?
Not what I should be doing, that’s for damn sure. I push back from the wall, and though I refuse to look at her, my gaze catches on her shoulder, and I’ve spent enough time staring at her that my brain can fill in the gaps.
Before I do something I shouldn’t, something I’ll regret, I turn and walk inside without looking back.