Chapter 22 Odin
I check my watch for the third time in ten minutes as I pace the length of the pool house kitchen.
Riley's car is still parked outside, which means she's still with Nicola.
Part of me wants to give them space—God knows they have plenty to discuss, including our fake engagement—but another part is anxious to make sure Nicola is settling in okay.
The contractor's initial assessment of her house wasn't promising. The ancient oak crashed through not just the roof but also compromised a load-bearing wall. Even with my connections and resources, repairs will take weeks, possibly months.
I've been using it as a temporary office while planning the boutique hotel, but now it will serve a new purpose: a sanctuary for Nicola while her home heals.
The front door opens, and Riley emerges from the guest room, arms crossed as she approaches me.
"Yo u didn't tell me how bad her house is," she accuses in a hushed tone.
"I didn't want to worry you."
"She's my best friend, Odin. I deserve to know these things." She narrows her eyes. "And while we're on the subject of things I deserve to know—an engagement, brother? Really?"
I run a hand through my hair. "It's complicated."
"That's exactly what she said." Riley's expression softens. "Look, I don't know what's really going on between you two, but I can see how you look at her. And it's not the way someone looks at their fake fiancée."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Riley—"
"Save it." She holds up a hand. "Just don't hurt her, okay? She's been through enough."
Before I can respond, she grabs her coat from the back of a chair. "I'm heading out before the roads get worse. Mom texted that she's bringing Stevie soon."
"I know. Drive safely. At least the freezing rain has stopped."
Riley pauses at the door. "One more thing. The guest room closet is tiny. I cleared some space in the hall closet for Nicola's things."
"Thanks," I say, genuinely appreciative. My sister might be nosy, but her heart is always in the right place.
After Riley leaves, I knock softly on the guest room door. "Nicola? Can I come in?"
"Of course," she calls.
I find her sitting cross-legged on the bed, a leather-bound photo album open in her lap. Her eyes are slightly red, but she offers me a small smile.
"Riley left," I say unnece ssarily.
"I heard." She closes the album carefully. "She brought me some clothes and things. She's a good friend."
"She's a pain in the ass," I correct, "but yes, she's good people." I gesture to the album. "What's that?"
"My grandmother's photo album. I grabbed it without even realizing." Her fingers trace the worn cover. "It has pictures of the house from when she first bought it."
I sit beside her on the bed, careful to maintain a respectful distance. "May I?"
She hesitates, then hands me the album. I open it carefully, aware of its significance. The first page shows a black-and-white photograph of a young woman standing proudly in front of the Victorian, its gingerbread trim and wraparound porch looking much the same as they do today.
"Your grandmother?" I ask.
Nicola nods. "Ruth Williams. She bought the house in 1962 when everyone else was moving to the suburbs. The previous owners had let it fall into disrepair, but she saw its potential."
I turn the pages slowly, watching the house transform through the decades as Nicola's family grows within its walls. "She did an amazing job restoring it."
"It was her life's work," Nicola says softly. "And now..."
"And now it's yours," I finish for her. "The restoration, I mean. We'll fix it, Nicola. I promise."
She looks up at me, vulnerability and hope warring in her eyes. "We?"
Before I can answer, the doorbell rings, followed by the sound of small, running feet and my mother's voice calling out, "Hello? We're here!"
"Daddy!" Stevie bursts into the room, launching herself at me with the enthusiasm only a five-year-old can muster. I catch her mid-air, hugging her tightly.
"He y, Sunshine. Did you have fun with Grandma?"
"We made cookies and watched Frozen and fed the ducks at the park!" She notices Nicola and her eyes widen. "Miss Nicola! What are you doing here?"
Nicola smiles, setting the album aside. "My house got hurt in the storm, so your dad is letting me stay here for a while."
Stevie's face lights up. "Like a sleepover?"
"Exactly like a sleepover," Nicola confirms.
My mother appears in the doorway, her expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Nicola, dear, I heard about your house. Are you all right?"
"I'm okay, Mrs. Baxter. Just a little shaken up."
"Alice, please," my mother insists. "And, of course, you're shaken up. A tree fell on your house!" She turns to me. "Have you called Stanley about this?"
"The structural engineer? Yes, he's coming tomorrow morning. I'll keep you posted, Mom, don't worry."
Stevie gives Nicola "the grand tour" of the pool house. I can hear my daughter's excited voice explaining the importance of each room as if she's a real estate agent showing a luxury property.
"And this is Daddy's office," Stevie announces as they enter the room I've been using to work on the hotel plans. "It has lots of papers and boring stuff."
"Not boring at all," Nicola says, examining the large drafting table covered with blueprints. "These are for your dad's new hotel, right?"
I follow them into the room. "They are. Still in the planning stages."
"Can I see?" she asks, genuine interest in her voice.
"Of course." I unroll the most recent set of blueprints, weighing down the corners with paperweights. "This is the main b uilding—the original Victorian—which will house the reception area, restaurant, and a few premium suites."
Nicola leans over the plans, her brow furrowed in concentration. "You're preserving the original structure?"
"As much as possible," I confirm. "The foundation needs work, and we'll have to update all the systems, but the goal is to maintain the historical character while adding modern amenities."
"That's... not what I expected," she admits.
"What did you expect?"
She looks slightly embarrassed. "I thought you'd tear it down and build something ultra-modern."
"Like a glass and steel monstrosity?" I shake my head. "That wouldn't fit the neighborhood. The whole point of a boutique hotel is to create something unique to the location."
"Daddy loves old buildings," Stevie pipes up from where she's coloring at a small desk in the corner. "He says they have stories."
Nicola's expression softens as she looks from Stevie back to me. "I didn't know that about you."
"There's a lot you don't know about me," I say quietly.
Our eyes lock for a moment too long before I clear my throat and point to another section of the blueprints. "This is the spa complex. We're converting the old carriage house and adding a new wing with treatment rooms and the thermal pools."
"Thermal pools?"
"Hot springs," I explain. "There's a natural spring on the property that was capped decades ago. We're reopening it and creating a series of pools at different temperatures."
"Like in Iceland," Nicola says, nodding. "I've read about those."
"Exactly. The idea is to create a wellness retreat that draws on the natural resources of the area while honoring its history."
She studies the plans with genuine interest, asking thoughtful questions about the layout and design choices. I find myself explaining details I haven't shared with anyone outside my development team, eager to hear her perspective.
"What about this space?" she asks, pointing to an area I've left relatively undefined.
"That's still in flux. Originally, I planned for additional guest rooms, but I'm considering making it a community space instead—maybe a gallery featuring local artists or a small event venue."
"That would be wonderful for the town," she says enthusiastically. "Redwood Hills has so many talented artists who lack exhibition space."
"You know the local art scene?"
She nods. "I try to incorporate art from community members into my classroom whenever possible. One of my student's mothers is an incredible painter, but she works out of her garage because there's nowhere affordable to rent studio space."
An idea begins to form in my mind. "What if the hotel included studio spaces that artists could rent at below-market rates? It would create a unique experience for guests while supporting the community."
"That would be amazing," Nicola says, her eyes bright with excitement. "Guests could even take workshops or watch artists at work."
"Exactly." I find myself caught up in her enthusiasm. "We could host seasonal exhibitions, maybe partner with the elementary school for student art shows..."
"Daddy," Stevie interrupts, tugging on my sleeve. "I'm tired."
I check my watch, surprised to find it's well past her bedtime. "Sorry, Sunshine. Let's get you ready for bed."
"Can Miss Nicola read me a story?" Stevie asks hopefully.
I glance at Nicola. "You don't have to—"
"I' d love to," she says warmly. "If that's okay with you?"
Something tightens in my chest at the sight of her gentle smile. "Of course."
While Stevie brushes her teeth, I help Nicola find extra towels and toiletries for the guest bathroom. "Sorry about the limited space," I say, showing her the hall closet where Riley cleared a shelf. "The house wasn't really designed for long-term guests."
"It's perfect," she assures me. "I can't thank you enough for letting me stay here."
"You don't need to thank me. I'm glad you're here." The words come out more intensely than I intended.
She looks up at me, something unreadable in her expression. "Odin—"
"Daddy! Miss Nicola! I'm ready for my story!" Stevie calls from her bedroom.
The moment breaks, and Nicola steps back. "Duty calls."
I watch as she enters Stevie's room, settling onto the edge of the bed with the book my daughter has selected. Stevie immediately snuggles against her side, pointing to something on the page. Nicola laughs, and the sound travels through me like a current.
Standing in the hallway, observing this scene of domestic tranquility, I'm struck by a realization that's both exhilarating and terrifying: I want this to be real. Not just the engagement, but all of it—Nicola in our home, in our lives, becoming part of our family.
The thought should send me running in the opposite direction. After losing Stevie's mother, I swore I'd never put myself in a position to be hurt like that again. Yet here I am, watching Nicola read to my daughter, imagining a future where this is our nightly routine.
As if sensing my thoughts, Nicola glances up and catches me watching. Instead of looking away, I hold her gaze, allowing myself a moment of vulnerability. She smiles—a soft, intimate smile that makes my heart race—before returning her attention to the story.
In this moment, I know with absolute certainty that our fake engagement has become something far more dangerous than I ever anticipated. Because while I might be able to protect my own heart, I'm not sure I can protect Stevie's if Nicola walks away when her house is repaired.
And that terrifies me more than any storm ever could.