Chapter 23 Nicola
Tonight, "I'm making my grandmother's famous gingerbread recipe, a tradition that's been in my family for generations. The familiar motions of baking ground me when everything else in my life feels upended.
"Something smells amazing," Odin says, appearing in the doorway. He's changed from his business attire into worn jeans and a faded Radiohead t-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
"My grandmother's gingerbread," I explain, checking the cookie sheets in the oven. "It was her specialty."
He moves beside me, peering through the oven window. "Can I help?"
"You can help set up the decorating station. These are ready to come out," I reach for the oven mitts.
Our bodies move in easy synchronicity around the small kitchen, a dance we've somehow perfected in less than a week. When his arm brushes mine as he reaches for the sprinkles, I feel the contact like an electric current.
"Daddy, I finished my picture!" Stevie announces, running into the kitchen. "Are the cookies ready yet?" she asks, bouncing up and down with excitement.
Once the gingerbread has cooled, Stevie climbs onto a chair at the table, eyes wide at the array of decorations I've laid out—colored icing, sprinkles, gummy bears, and chocolate chips.
"Ca n I make this one look like Daddy?" she asks, holding up a gingerbread man.
"Absolutely," I say, showing her how to pipe the icing for his eyes.
While Stevie concentrates on giving her gingerbread daddy a candy tie, Odin slides behind me to reach for more sprinkles. His chest presses against my back, and when I turn, our faces are inches apart. "Is this how you make a smile?" Stevie asks suddenly, holding up her creation.
We spring apart, Odin clearing his throat as I quickly move to Stevie's side.
"That's perfect," I say, my cheeks flushed. "Let's give him some buttons too."
Stevie chatters about her day at school, complete with dramatic reenactments of playground politics that have Odin and me struggling to keep straight faces.
After the decorating, it's time to sample the cookies.
Everyone agrees they're delicious. Soon, the clock and Stevie’s yawn both say bedtime.
Odin shepherds her upstairs for her bath.
I load the dishwasher, listening to their muffled voices and occasional laughter drifting down from the second floor.
This domestic scene should feel strange—I'm essentially playing house with a man I barely knew a month ago and his daughter—but instead, it feels right in a way I can't explain.
The thought sends a flutter of panic through me.
I can't get too comfortable here. This is temporary, a shelter during a storm, nothing more.
Even if our fake engagement sometimes feels more real than anything I've ever experienced.
By the time Odin comes back downstairs, I've finished cleaning the kitchen and am curled up on the couch with a stack of spelling tests to grade.
"She wants you to say goodnight," he says, running a hand through his slightly damp hair. "If you don't mind."
"Of course not." I set aside my work and head upstairs.
Stevie's room is a wonderland of stars and moons, with a ceiling painted to look like the night sky. She's tucked into bed, her wet hair forming dark ringlets against her pillow.
"Goodnight, sweetie," I say, sitting on the edge of her bed.
"Will you be here when I wake up?" she asks, her voice small.
My heart constricts. "Yes, I'll be here."
"Promise?"
"I promise." I smooth her covers. "Now get some sleep. You have school tomorrow."
"You too," she says with a yawn.
"I do," I agree with a smile.
"I like having you here," she murmurs, her eyes already drifting closed. "Daddy smiles more."
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. "I like being here too."
By the time I return downstairs, Odin has opened a bottle of wine and is waiting on the couch, two glasses on the coffee table.
"She asleep?" he asks.
"Almost." I settle beside him, accepting the glass he offers. "She's wonderful, Odin."
"She is," he agrees, pride evident in his voice. "Though I can't take much credit. She came that way."
"I disagree. Children reflect their parents' values. She's kind, thoughtful, and confident—those are qualities you've nurtured."
He looks momentarily taken aback by the compliment. "Thank you. That means a lot, especially coming from someone who works with children professionally."
I t ake a sip of wine, appreciating its rich complexity. "This is good."
"It should be. It's a 2015 Brunello di Montalcino." At my raised eyebrow, he adds, "One benefit of touring in Italy was developing an appreciation for their wines."
"I keep forgetting you were a rock star," I admit.
"Former rock star," he corrects. "And that's probably for the best. Most of my rock star behavior isn't worth remembering."
"Now I'm intrigued."
He laughs, the sound warming me more than the wine. "Let's just say there was a period when I lived up to every cliché in the book."
"And now?"
"Now I'm a boring dad who gets excited about property zoning regulations and goes to bed by ten."
"I don't find you boring at all," I say honestly.
His eyes darken slightly. "No?"
"No." I set down my wine glass. "Stanley called today about my house."
Odin straightens, immediately alert. "What did he say?"
"The damage is worse than they initially thought. The foundation was compromised when the tree fell."
"I suspected as much," he says, frowning. "That's why I asked him to do a complete assessment."
"He said it could take three months to repair everything properly." I twist my hands in my lap. "I can't impose on you for that long, Odin."
"You're not imposing." He covers my restless hands with one of his. "I want you here, Nicola."
The sincerity in his voice makes me look up. "Why?"
"Because..." He pauses, seeming to search for words. "Because Stevie adores you. Because you make this place feel like a home instead of just a house. Because I've slept better this week than I have in years, knowing you're under the same roof."
My breath catches. "Odin—"
"I know this started as a convenience—you needed a place to stay, and I had room.
But it's become more than that for me." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, sending shivers up my arm.
"I think about you all the time. When you're not here, I'm counting the minutes until you return.
When you are here, I can't take my eyes off you. "
"I feel the same way," I whisper, the confession slipping out before I can stop it.
His eyes darken, and he leans closer. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
"Don't stop," I breathe.
His lips meet mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly blazes into something more urgent. I melt against him, my hands finding their way to his shoulders, then his hair. He tastes like wine and possibility, and I can't get enough.
He pulls me onto his lap, and I go willingly, straddling him as his hands slide under my sweater to caress the bare skin of my back. I gasp against his mouth when his fingers trace my spine, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I'm dizzy with want.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my neck, trailing kisses down to my collarbone. "I've wanted to do this since that night in your basement."
"Me too," I admit, arching as his teeth graze a sensitive spot. "I couldn't stop thinking about it."
His hands move to the front of my sweater, hesitating at the hem. "Is this okay?"
"Yes," I breathe, helping him lift it over my head.
His eyes darken as he takes in my simple cotton bra. "Perfect," he whispers, tracing the edge with his finger.
I shiver at his touch, then reach for the hem of his t-shirt. "Your turn."
He helps me remove it, revealing a torso sculpted by years of performing. I run my hands over his chest, marveling at the contrast between his smooth skin and the light dusting of hair that narrows down past his navel.
"You're not so bad yourself," I tease, leaning down to press a kiss to his chest.
He groans, his hands tightening on my hips. "Nicola, you're driving me crazy."
"Good," I murmur against his skin. "That's the idea."
His laugh turns into a sharp intake of breath as I roll my hips against his. I can feel how much he wants me, and the knowledge is intoxicating. His hands move to the clasp of my bra, and I nod, eager for him to continue.
Just as his fingers work the hook free, a small voice calls from upstairs: "Daddy? I need water!"
We freeze.
"I should go check on her," he says, helping me back into my sweater.
"You should," I agree, sliding off his lap. "Rain check?"
He catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm that makes my toes curl. "Definitely."
As he heads upstairs, I sink back against the couch, my body humming with desire. I should feel embarrassed about attacking my fake fiancé, but all I feel is anticipation.
Odin returns minutes later. "Crisis averted. She's asleep again.
"That's good," I say, suddenly shy.
He sits beside me, closer than before. "About what just happened..."
"Yes?" I hold my breath, afraid he'll say it was a mistake.
Instead, he takes my hand, his expression serious.
"I want you to know that this—us—it matters to me.
It's not just physical attraction, though God knows there's plenty of that.
" His thumb traces my knuckles. "I care about you, Nicola.
More than I expected to. More than I thought I could care about anyone again. "
The vulnerability in his admission steals my breath. "I care about you too," I whisper. "And Stevie. So much that it scares me sometimes."
"Why does it scare you?"
"Because this started as something temporary. A place to stay, a fake engagement to quiet the gossip." I meet his gaze. "But it doesn't feel fake anymore, and I don't know what that means for us when my house is repaired and I go back home."
He's quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. "What if you didn't have to go back?"
My heart skips. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." He hesitates, then shakes his head. "No, it's too soon. We should take this one day at a time."
Part of me wants to press him, to ask what he was going to say, but he's right. Whatever is growing between us is still fragile, still new. We have time to figure it out.
"One day at a time sounds perfect," I agree, leaning in to kiss him softly.
He responds with gentle restraint, as if afraid to reignite the passion that overtook us earlier. When we part, his eyes are warm with promise.
"I should probably turn in," I say reluctantly. "Early class tomorr ow."
"Of course." He stands, pulling me up with him. "Sleep well, Nicola."
At my bedroom door, he kisses me once more—a sweet, lingering kiss that feels like a promise. "Goodnight," he whispers against my lips.
"Goodnight, Odin."
As I close my door, I lean against it, touching my fingers to my still-tingling lips. Whatever is happening between us may have started as pretense, but there's nothing fake about the way my heart races when he looks at me, or the sense of belonging I feel in this house with him and Stevie.
For the first time since the tree crashed through my roof, I'm grateful for the storm that brought me here.