Chapter 15 Nicola
Flour-ghosted wood whispers pie. It is a happy kind of chaos, scented with cinnamon and warm promise. I hum along to the radio, shamelessly enjoying a cheesy pop song, the melody suddenly infused with an unexpected joy.
Maybe it is the sugar high from 'quality-control' tastes of pie filling. Or maybe it is the still-tingling memory of Odin's goodnight kiss on my lips – a warmth that has settled deep. Probably both.
Three apple pies are in production. One is definitely for me – pie is a life requirement.
Another, a thank you to Riley and Alice for last night's impromptu dinner and bowling, a fun night that had been a needed distraction.
The third… its recipient is still undecided.
Mrs. Henderson? An olive branch for neighbourhood tongues currently wagging about me ?
Or… Odin? My cheeks flush at the thought, mirroring the oven's radiating heat.
The kitchen is a ballet of controlled chaos – apples simmering fragrantly on the stove, pie crusts firming in the chilled air of the fridge, spoons chiming against the ceramic sink.
This space, even with its chipped counters and stubbornly sticky patch near the stove, is my sanctuary.
Ghostly echoes of Grandma Ruth's laughter dance in the air, mingling with the phantom scent of her legendary Sunday roasts.
Baking here isn't just cooking; it is a whispered conversation across time with her memory, breathing life into the old house.
Rolling out the top crust for the first pie, I hum a little louder when a knock resonates from the front door.
Unexpected Saturday afternoon callers are rare, especially interrupting pie-in duced frenzy.
Peeking through the kitchen window, flour-dusted hands paused above the rolling pin, my chest tightens. Odin.
He stands on my porch. Jeans sculpt his long legs, while a dark Henley stretches across his wide chest. That familiar intensity simmers beneath the surface, a potent blend of intimidation and, inexplicably, allure.
My heart executes its now-familiar flutter kick, and I consciously draw a steadying breath.
Just Odin. My fake fiancé. Right. Perfectly normal.
Wiping my hands haphazardly on my apron, I attempt to tame my hair, likely sprung into static-halo chaos from the flour. "Be cool, Nicola," I mutter, inhaling deeply, and head for the front door.
He leans against the porch railing when I open it, a hesitant curve touching his lips that might almost be a smile. "Hey," his voice rumbles. "Hope I'm not interrupting…" He gestures vaguely towards the flour-dusted apron and the warm, apple-cinnamon scent spilling from the doorway.
"Pie," I manage, suddenly self-conscious, feeling foolish. "Apple pie. Mass production currently underway." Smooth , Nicola. Oscar-worthy delivery .
"Smells like… home," he says, his gaze focusing on the kitchen beyond me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
Home. The word hangs between us, heavy, layered. This Victorian, this house, yes, this is undeniably home to me. But Redwood Hills for him ? After years away. After everything, Is he really back to stay?
"It is home," I declare, a touch louder than intended, injecting conviction into the air. "For me, anyway." Stepping back, I gesture him in. "Come in. Unless you're allergic to flour and intense apple pie aroma?"
A low chuckle rumbles from him, a surprisingly warm sound that loosens something tight in my chest. "I think I can survive." He steps inside, and the small entryway shrinks around his presence.
"So ," I begin, leading him towards the kitchen, "to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit to my flour-dusted kingdom?"
He trails me into the kitchen, eyes sweeping over the organized baking pandemonium. He pauses just inside the threshold, watching as I return to crimping the pie crust edges. "Lunch," he states with a casualness that feels practiced. "I figured we should plan it."
Lunch. Right. The fake fiancé lunch date.
Performance required, for Redwood Hills' watchful eyes, for spiteful Tessa, for…
anyone paying attention. A foolishly optimistic sliver of me wonders if it might be more than performance for him too.
No, Nicola, don't. Lunch. Damage control and nothing more.
"Lunch planning," I echo, aiming for breezy nonchalance. "Of course." Setting the crimping fork down, I face him, flour a faint mask on my cheeks. "Preferences? Culinary direction? Ambiance vibe? Romantic whispers or… aggressively public declaration?"
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a flicker of amusement sparking in his blue gaze. "Let’s go with aggressively public. A crystal clear message to the Redwood Hills rumor mill."
"Efficient," I repeat, nodding slowly. "Efficiency, paramount in faux engagement." The words emerge with a sharper edge than I intended. I instantly regretted being so flippant. Did that sound bitter? Desperate?
His gaze softens, the amusement receding, replaced by something gentler, a current of something warmer. "Nicola," he murmurs, my name a low caress. "It doesn't have to be… just fake."
My breath hitches. Just fake? What… what does that even mean? Is he…? Stop. Don't leap, Nicola. He’s just being polite. That's all. Right?
"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely a breath.
He pushes off the doorframe, closing the small distance, and the kitchen air thrums with sudden intensity.
"We are doing this, yes? The engagement. It’s good for both of us to maintain a positi ve reputation in the community.
He gestures vaguely at the air, encompassing Tessa, the town, the whole farce.
"But it needn't be purely performative. We can get to know each other.
Actually, properly know each other. While we're at it. "
Actually know each other . The words pulse in the space between us, heavy with untapped potential. Is he serious with this? Suggesting dating? Under the bizarre umbrella of a fake engagement? A pulse of exhilaration shivers through me.
"Like actual dates? With faux fiancé fringe benefits?" Okay, nerves and questionable humor make an awkward cocktail.
A genuine smile blooms then, chasing away the usual shadows. "Hold your horses, Williams. No 'benefits' yet . Let's start with lunch and some conversation."
Conversation. Yes, conversations. Teacher superpower. Expert conversationalist when facing grumpy billionaires who'd once fronted rock bands and were now… my fake fiancé. Surreality, officially confirmed.
"Sounds like a plan," I reply, my own smile mirroring his. "Lunch too. The Redwood Diner? Aggressively public, supremely efficient. And their burgers are legendary."
"Burgers agreeable," he confirms with a nod. "Diner at noon then?"
"Noon, perfect," I agree, lightness rising within me. Lunch with Odin. Fake fiancé lunchtime. Ridiculous. Likely disastrous, but anticipation sparks, despite my inner warnings.
"Excellent." His gaze lingers on mine, a beat too long, before his attention shifts, landing on something beyond me. "Is that… a piano?"
I follow his line of sight, surprised. Forgotten, tucked in the kitchen corner, half-veiled by cookbooks. Grandma Ruth's old upright. Dust-coated keys, silent for years. "Yes," I shrug, suddenly aware of its neglected state. "Grandma Ruth's. Probably closer to tone-deaf than tuned at thi s point."
He crosses the kitchen to it, fingers lightly gracing the dusty keys. "You play?" he queries, turning back, blue eyes now holding a different kind of curiosity, an open question within them.
"A bit," I confess, warmth creeping up my neck again. "Scales mostly, “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” was my recital peak. Grandma Ruth tried formal instruction, but third-grade Nicola prioritized tree climbing over piano practice."
He settles onto the piano bench, fingers hovering above the yellowed ivory. "Do you mind? He gestures to the piano, a silent invitation hanging in the air.
"Go ahead," I urge intrigue overshadowing surprise. "Be gentle. Antique instrument alert."
He nods absently, focus fixed on the keys.
Then, fingers dance to life. Tentative at first, hesitant chords, then music unfurls and blossoms into the kitchen air.
Not scales. Something else. Melodic. Melancholy.
Hauntingly, achingly beautiful. A slow, soulful melody, woven with longing, a thread of something irretrievably broken.
Mesmerized, I watch his hands fly over the keys, a blur of controlled grace.
Brow furrowed in concentration, eyes closed, lost entirely in the sound.
A different Odin emerges – softer, vulnerable, stripped of the grumpy billionaire facade.
Just a musician. Soul laid bare, spilling through the aged piano keys.
The melody rises, swelling in emotional intensity, then gently recedes, leaving a lingering resonance hanging in the quiet kitchen. He lifts his hands, opens his eyes, and for a lingering moment, remains still, caught in the echo of the music.
Then, he turns, blue gaze shadowed, unguarded. "I used to… play," he murmurs, voice barely a whisper. "A lot. Before…" The unspoken word hangs heavy between us. Before the bus crash. Before everything irrevocably fractured.
"It was beautiful," I say softly, matching his quiet tone. "Odin, truly… amazing."
He shrugs dismissively, but a faint flush brushes his cheekbones. "Just messing around."
"No ," I insist, drawn closer by the exposed vulnerability. "More than that. You miss it, don't you? The music."
He hesitates, a long breath drawn and released, then a slow nod, gaze returning to the piano keys. "Yeah," he admits, voice low, rough-edged. "Yeah, I do. Sometimes." He pauses, then, "It's part of me. It always will be."
He looks up then, blue eyes searching mine, and for the first time, I see not the grief, nor the anger, not the carefully fortified walls, but simply a man.
A man scarred, a man who's lost, a man still clutching at a fragile ember of hope.
And in that moment, something fundamentally shifts within me.
The fake engagement charade, the daunting lunch, and the town gossip all fade into a distant hum.
All that remains is this . Odin, the music, the quiet current connecting us within the sanctuary.
Of my kitchen. And a nascent, fragile hope that against all odds, this fake engagement could hold the promise of something profoundly, unexpectedly real.
The oven timer buzzes, sharply slicing through the fragile quiet, pulling us back to the tangible. Pies baked to golden perfection. And lunch with my faux fiancé, a date waits just around the corner.