Chapter 8 Odin
The scent of her haunts me—vanilla, laced with something… sunshine? Ridiculous. Sunshine isn’t a scent.
Yet, that’s what clings to Nicola Williams, a fragrance of sunshine and stubbornness, and a whole lot of trouble I don’t need.
Last evening… had been a tactical error. A thank you from her, a polite, neighborly gesture. Instead, it spiraled into something else entirely.
Something where I found myself talking—really talking. Unearthing buried things, I hadn’t dared to voice in years. The band. The music. Her.
God, even the ghost of Sarah’s name feels like a rusty blade twisting in my gut.
But with Nicola, it’s… lighter.
Not easy, not painless, but a subtle shift in weight. As if she absorbs some of the ever-present darkness, the leaden cloak of grief I wear like a second skin.
Unsettling. And goddamn addictive. Which is precisely why I need to maintain a wide berth. Except I have a problem.
A practical, logistical problem, not some emotional complication. My Dallas secretary, Brenda, bolts early for maternity leave.
Doctor’s orders—bed rest, blood pressure spikes.
Good for Br enda, thrilled for her and the kid, but it leaves me stranded.
I need someone to wrangle the fan club chaos, the website updates, the digital deluge that chokes my inbox.
Riley, bless her frantic heart, is juggling her own empire.
Mom? Mom is Mom. Stevie adores her and thrives under her grandmotherly doting, but tech support? Not exactly Alice’s wheelhouse.
Then it strikes me, a jolt as sharp as a downed power line. Idling in the truck, the solution is so blindingly obvious that it borders on insulting.
Nicola.
She’s sharp. Driven, even if that drive’s currently channeled into rescuing a crumbling Victorian rather than, say, constructing a multi-million dollar empire. Organized—her classroom, a vibrant explosion of color, yet meticulously ordered, everything in its place.
And she needs the cash. I see the hunger in her eyes as she scans the lumber in my truck and hear the weary resignation in her voice when she talks about repairs and the relentless tide of bills. Maybe we can help each other.
A business proposition. Purely pragmatic. A way to offload the administrative drudgery while offering her a hand up. Absolutely nothing personal.
Right.
I jam the truck into drive, the engine growling, and steer toward her place.
Maple Avenue. Quaint verges on suffocating.
Overgrown maples claw at the sky, casting shadows over houses draped in peeling paint, history clinging to them like stubborn vines.
Precisely the kind of idyllic postcard I’m about to bulldoze with my hotel and spa.
Guilt flickers. I crush it. Progress. Development.
That’s the mantra of my life now. And Nicola’s house, charmingly decrepit as it is, isn’t progress.
I idle before her Victorian—not a monstrosity, not really.
Dilapidated, yes, but with a defiant charm that even neglect can’t extinguish.
The damn thing is huge, though. And a money pit.
Even from the curb, the peeling paint screams neglect, the porch sags like a weary smile, and the garden a riot of untamed green.
Yet, something about it… endearing. A flicker of spirit in its eyes. Just like Nicola.
I haul myself out of the truck, boots crunching on the gravel drive, and head up the cracked walkway. The porch groans a weary protest under my weight.
The doorbell, blessedly old-fashioned, is a tarnished brass button that promises a clangorous summons. I jab it and wait.
A heartbeat later, the door swings inward, revealing Nicola.
Hair a dark, messy knot, escaping tendrils framing a face dusted with plaster, paint-splattered jeans clinging to slim hips.
She looks real. Unvarnished. Not the polished, curated perfection that populates my usual orbit. A stark and strangely welcome contrast.
“Odin?” Surprise flickers in her emerald eyes, quickly shuttered by cautious neutrality. “What are you doing here?”
“Morning, Nicola.” I keep my voice level, all business. “Sorry for the intrusion. I have a business proposition for you.”
Her dark brows arch, suspicion sharpening her gaze. “A proposition?” After the zoning fiasco, I’m likely perched somewhere near the bottom of her favorite people list.
“Yeah. Work.”
“My Dallas secretary, Brenda, is on maternity leave. She had to leave early. Doctor’s orders. Now, I’m stuck .”
Understanding softens the suspicion in her eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. For you, I mean. And for her, I hope everything’s okay.”
“She’s fine. The baby’s fine. Just needs to take it easy.”
“Anyway, I need someone to fill in. Short-term, maybe longer. Depends. And I was thinking…” “You.”
Her eyes widen again, this time with genuine shock. “Me? Odin, I teach third grade.”
“ I know.” Dismissing the obvious with a curt nod. “And you’re also clearly capable of running a household teetering on the brink of collapse, wrestling a Victorian back from the brink, and juggling a dozen things at once. Transferable skills, wouldn’t you say?”
A reluctant laugh escapes her, a breathy sound that resonates deep in my chest. “Transferable to… what, exactly?”
“Assistant work. Admin. The grunt work. Fan mail, website updates, scheduling nightmares, travel logistics, the whole damn mess. Brenda handled it all. And I need someone to step in.”
She falls silent, considering. I can practically see the calculations whirring behind those green eyes, weighing the pros, mostly cons, given our… history.
“Why me?” she finally asks, her voice still laced with caution. “Out of everyone in Redwood Hills, why me?”
Fair question. I could outsource this to a temp agency in Dallas.
But I don’t want just anyone. I want someone I…
trust? Yes, and someone I know is capable.
Someone who wouldn’t crumble under pressure, wouldn’t gossip to the town busybodies, wouldn’t try to leverage the position for personal gain.
And, yeah, a treacherous whisper in the back of my mind, because she smells like sunshine and makes me feel less like a goddamn tombstone. I shove that voice down. Stupid.
“Because Riley thinks you’re amazing,” I state, keeping it strictly professional.
“And Riley’s instincts about people are usually spot on.
Plus, you’re local. No Redwood Hills learning curve.
” And, fine, maybe a sliver of truth—I want to see her again.
See that hesitant smile, hear that quick laugh, even if it’s at my expense.
But that’s just… efficient. Right? Maintaining… neighborly relations.
Her gaze remains locked on mine, those green eyes still probing. “And what would this… position… entail?”
“Part-time to start. Flexible hours, mostly remote. Work from home, after school, whenever. Pay’s…
generous.” An understatement. I’m offering her triple what she likely makes molding young minds.
But I need reliability, and I’m willing to pay for it.
“Competitive hourly rate. Benefits package if it goes long-term.”
Her eyes widen again, this time with a flicker of something undeniable—hope. “Benefits?”
“Yeah. Health, dental, 401k if you stick around.” Rattled off the standard corporate spiel.
“Look, Nicola, no bullshit. It’s work. Not glamorous.
Emails, calls, keeping my chaotic life organized so I can actually focus on building this damn hotel.
” I gesture vaguely across toward the vacant lot.
“But it pays well. And it’s… easy. For someone like you. ”
She gnaws her lip, considering the gears visibly grinding.
“And… you’re sure you want me?” Hesitation laces her voice. “Considering… everything?”
“Everything?” I play dumb, arching a brow. “The fact you think I’m a cardboard cutout with a platinum card?”
A ghost of a smile touches the corner of her mouth. “Something like that.”
“Nicola,” I say, closing the distance and forcing her gaze to meet mine. “This is business. Purely business. I need someone to do a job. You need… something. Maybe money. Maybe a distraction. Maybe just a chance to prove you’re more than paint swatches and plumbing disasters.”
Her chin tilts, that stubborn spark igniting in her eyes. “I can handle a hell of a lot more than that, Odin Baxter.”
“I know you can.” And I do. More than she likely realizes. “So. Yes?”
She inhales, a slow, deliberate breath, and lets it out. “Yes,” she states, her voice gaining strength, confidence. “Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll be your… assistant.”
“Excellent.” Business concluded. Practical. Efficient. That’s what this is. So why does it feel like a huge step into the unknown?
“When do I start?” she asks, pulling me back to the present.
“ How about… now?” I check my watch. “Got a few hours before the contractor meeting. We can run through the basics, get you set up on the systems, the fun stuff.”
A beat of hesitation, then she nods. “Okay. Just give me a minute.”
“Take your time.” I lean against the porch railing, watching her retreat into the house. This is business. Purely business. That’s what this is. All it can be. Right?
But as sunlight fractures through the stained glass above her door, painting rainbows across the worn porch planks, a treacherous feeling gnaws at me. I’d just struck a deal for something far more complicated than an assistant.
I push away from the railing and step back onto the porch, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
The air feels charged, alive with possibilities I’m just beginning to explore.
Part of me wants to run, to escape this potential whirlwind I’ve opened up, but another part—a part that feels surprisingly confident—wants to lean into whatever lies ahead.
Moments later, Nicola returns, wiping her hands on a towel and pulling her hair into a loose bun. “Alright, I’m ready,” she says, a small smile on her lips.
“First things first,” I say, pulling my laptop from my bag and set it on the table. “Here’s where I keep everything organized—emails, contracts, other administrative stuff. It can get a bit chaotic, so don’t be alarmed.”
She laughs lightly. “I’m pretty used to chaos, Odin.”
“Good. Here goes.” I pull up my inbox and start showing her the systems I use for organization, explaining my convoluted folder structure while trying to ignore the way she leans closer, the subtle warmth of her presence distracting.
I can’t help but feel that maybe this isn’t just a boring diversion after all. There’s something invigorating about working alongside her, even amid the relief and anxiety of figuring everything out.
Bef ore I know it, we’re diving into the details of the upcoming meeting—what to expect, who will be there, what I need from her.
Each time I glance at her, she’s nodding, asking questions, her focus unwavering.
Her passion for this task unfolds before me, and I feel an unexpected satisfaction in her enthusiasm.
As we finish going over everything, I can’t shake the sense of this being a turning point. A collaboration—not just for the business, but for us as well. I’m not quite sure where it’s leading, but I can feel the shift, the tentative bond starting to form between us.