Chapter 29 Nicola
The contractor's voice on the phone sounds almost apologetic. "Ms. Williams, I have some good news. The structural repairs are coming along much faster than we anticipated. You should be able to move back into your home within the week."
"That's... wonderful," I say, though the enthusiasm I expected to feel doesn't materialize.
I hang up and stare at my phone, trying to process why this news—something I've been waiting for—leaves me with a hollow feeling in my chest. The Victorian house has been in my family for generations. It's the last physical connection I have to my grandmother. I should be ecstatic.
Instead, I'm standing in the middle of Odin's pool house kitchen, surrounded by the morning light streaming through the windows, feeling like I've just been told I need to leave home rather than return to it.
"Was that about the house?" Odin asks, walking in with his coffee mug. His hair is still damp from his shower, and he's wearing a simple gray t-shirt that clings to his chest in all the right places.
"Yes," I nod, setting my phone down. "They've made great progress. I should be able to move back by the end of the week."
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe?—before he masks it with a smile. "That's great news. I know how much that house means to you."
"It does," I agree, but the words feel automatic.
Odin step s closer, his hand brushing mine as he reaches for the coffee pot. "You don't sound thrilled."
"I am," I insist, but even I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice. "It's just... I've gotten used to being here. With you and Stevie."
His eyes soften. "We've gotten used to having you here too."
The moment stretches between us, filled with things unsaid. Then Stevie's voice calls from down the hall, breaking the spell.
"Daddy! Miss Nicola! I can't find my purple headband!"
"Duty calls," I say with a small smile, grateful for the interruption before I say something foolish like please don't let me go .
The day passes in a blur of teaching third-graders about the water cycle and trying not to think about packing up my things from the pool house.
By the time I return in the afternoon, I've convinced myself that moving back to my own home is the right thing to do.
This arrangement was always meant to be temporary—a solution to an emergency situation.
The fact that it's ending sooner than expected shouldn't matter.
But when I walk through the door and see the drawing Stevie made of the three of us hanging on the refrigerator, my resolve crumbles a little.
I'm in the middle of grading papers at the kitchen table when Stevie bursts through the front door, her backpack bouncing against her small frame as she runs toward me.
"Miss Nicola! Grandma took me for ice cream after school!" she announces, her face lit up with excitement.
"Did she now? What flavor did you get?" I ask, pushing aside my work to give her my full attention.
"Chocolate chip cookie dough and strawberry," she says proudly. "Grandma said I could have two scoops because I got a gold star in music class."
"That's a mazing, sweetie," I say, genuinely impressed. "What did you do to earn that gold star?"
"I played 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' on the piano all by myself," she declares, climbing onto the chair next to mine. "Daddy says you play piano too. Will you teach me more songs?"
The innocent question catches me off guard. "I... well, I'd love to, but—"
"But what?" she asks, her big eyes looking up at me expectantly.
I hesitate, unsure how to explain. "Well, I'll be moving back to my house soon. The repairs are almost done."
Stevie's face falls immediately, her lower lip beginning to tremble. "You're leaving us?"
"Oh, honey, I'm not leaving you ," I try to reassure her, reaching out to smooth her hair. "I'm just going back to my own house. It's right down the street."
"But I like having you here," she says, her voice small. "You make pancakes with faces and you help me with my reading and you make Daddy smile."
My heart constricts at her words. "I'll still do all those things," I promise. "I'll just be doing them from my house instead of here."
But Stevie isn't consoled. Her eyes fill with tears that spill over onto her cheeks. "But it won't be the same," she sobs. "I want you to stay with us forever."
I pull her into my arms, feeling her small body shake with sobs against my chest. "Oh, Stevie..."
I look up to see Odin standing in the doorway, his expression pained as he watches his daughter cry. Our eyes meet over Stevie's head, and I see my own conflict mirrored in his gaze.
He crosses the room and kneels beside us, placing a gentle hand on Stevie's back. "Hey, Rockstar," he says softly, using his nickname for her. "What's going on?"
"Miss Nicola is leaving us," Stevie hiccups between sobs.
Odin's ey es meet mine again, and I see something resolute form in them. "She's not leaving us, Stevie. She's just going back to her house because it's fixed now."
"But I don't want her to go," Stevie insists, her face still pressed against my shirt.
"I know," Odin says, his voice gentle but firm. "But Miss Nicola's house is very special to her. It belonged to her grandmother, remember? Just like how our house is special to us."
Stevie pulls back slightly, her tear-streaked face looking up at her father. "Can't she just stay here and keep her special house too?"
A small smile tugs at Odin's lips. "It's not quite that simple, Rockstar."
"Why not?" Stevie demands with the straightforward logic of a five-year-old.
Odin looks at me, a question in his eyes that makes my heart race. "That's something Miss Nicola and I need to talk about," he says finally. "But right now, I think someone needs to wash their face and hands before dinner."
Stevie wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Can we have spaghetti?"
"We can have spaghetti," Odin confirms, clearly relieved by the change of subject. "Why don't you go wash up while I talk to Miss Nicola for a minute?"
Stevie nods, giving me one more tight hug before sliding off my lap and heading toward the bathroom. I watch her go, my heart still aching from her tears.
"I'm sorry about that," Odin says once she's out of earshot. "She's gotten very attached to you."
"Don't apologize," I say, standing up and smoothing my skirt. "I've gotten attached to her too. To both of you."
The admission hangs in the air between us, more honest than I intended to be.
"Nicola," Odin begins, then stops, running a hand through his hair. "Let's talk after dinner, okay? Once Stevie's in bed."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. There's something in his tone that makes my pulse quicken—a seriousness, a determination that wasn't there before.
Dinner is a subdued affair, despite the spaghetti that Stevie requested.
She's quieter than usual, occasionally giving me worried glances as if afraid I might disappear between one bite and the next.
Odin, too, seems lost in thought, though he makes an effort to keep the conversation going for Stevie's sake.
After dinner, I help Stevie with her bath while Odin cleans up the kitchen. It's become our routine over the past weeks—a domestic rhythm that feels so natural it's hard to believe we haven't been doing it for years.
"Will you still read me bedtime stories?" Stevie asks as I help her into her pajamas.
"Of course I will," I promise, buttoning up her unicorn-patterned top. "Anytime you want."
"Every night?" she presses.
I hesitate, not wanting to make promises I can't keep. "We'll have to see. But I'll read to you as often as I can."
She seems satisfied with this answer, or at least resigned to it. When Odin comes in to say goodnight, she hugs him extra tight and whispers something in his ear that makes him glance at me with an unreadable expression.
"Sweet dreams, Rockstar," he says, kissing her forehead before stepping back to let me say goodnight.
I lean down to hug her, breathing in the clean scent of her shampoo. "Goodnight, Stevie. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Promise?" she asks, her eyes serious.
"Promise," I confirm, tucking the blanket around her.
Odin and I leave her room together, closing the door softly behind us. The silence between us feels charged now that we're alone.
"Wine?" he offers, gesturing toward the living room.
I nod, following him down the hall. He pours us each a glass of red wine and joins me on the couch, leaving enough space between us that we're not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him.
"So," he says after taking a sip. "Your house will be ready soon."
"Yes," I confirm, staring into my wine glass. "By the end of the week, they said."
He nods slowly. "Stevie's going to miss you."
"I'll miss her too," I say, looking up at him. "And you."
His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. "I've been thinking about us, Nicola. About what happens when you move back home."
My heart pounds in my chest. "And?"
"And I don't want things to change," he says simply. "I don't want to go back to how it was before, when we were just pretending."
I set my wine glass down on the coffee table, afraid my trembling hands might spill it. "What are you saying, Odin?"
He moves closer, taking my hand in his. "I'm saying that somewhere along the way, this stopped being fake for me. I'm saying that I look forward to coming home because I know you'll be here. I'm saying that Stevie isn't the only one who wants you to stay."
My breath catches in my throat. "Odin..."
"I know it's complicated," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. "I know we started this whole thing for all the wrong reasons. But I think we might have stumbled into something real, something worth holding onto."
Tears pri ck at the corners of my eyes. "I think so too."
His face softens with relief. "So where do we go from here? I don't want to pressure you into giving up your home. I know how much it means to you."
"I don't know," I admit. "I love my house. It's my connection to my grandmother, to my family history. But these past weeks with you and Stevie... it's felt more like home than my house has in a long time."
He reaches up to brush a tear from my cheek. "We'll figure it out. Together. Maybe we start with dinner dates and sleepovers, and see where it takes us. The important thing is that we're both on the same page now."
"No more pretending," I agree, leaning into his touch.
"No more pretending," he echoes, his eyes dropping to my lips.
When he kisses me, it feels different from all the times before—more certain, more real. There's no audience to perform for, no facade to maintain. It's just us, choosing each other.
When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against his, breathing in the moment. "What do we tell Stevie?"
A smile tugs at his lips. "The truth. That Miss Nicola is going back to her house, but she's still going to be a big part of our lives. That sometimes grown-ups need their own spaces, but that doesn't mean they love each other any less."
"And what about everyone else?" I ask. "The town, your family, my students' parents?"
He shrugs, unconcerned. "As far as they know, nothing's changed. We're still engaged, still planning a future together. The only difference is now we're not lying about it."
The realization hits me then—we've been so focused on maintaining this charade that we haven't stopped to consider what it would mean if it became real. "Odin, are you saying you want to actually get married?"
His expre ssion turns serious. "I'm saying I want us to have the chance to find out if that's where this is heading. No pressure, no timeline. Just us, figuring it out as we go."
Relief and joy bubble up inside me. "I'd like that."
He pulls me into his arms, and I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
For so long, I've been trying to hold onto the past—my grandmother's house, the memories it contains.
But sitting here with Odin, I realize that maybe it's time to start building something new.
"You know," I say after a while, "my house does have a pretty amazing master bedroom. And it's right across the street."
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Are you inviting me for a sleepover, Ms. Williams?"
I tilt my head up to look at him, feeling lighter than I have in days. "Maybe I am, Mr. Baxter. Once the repairs are done, of course."
"I'll hold you to that," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
As we sit together in the quiet of the evening, I think about the strange path that led us here—from enemies to fake fiancés to whatever we are now.
It wasn't the love story I expected, but maybe those are the best kind—the ones that surprise you, that challenge you, that make you see yourself and the world differently.
And as Odin holds me close, I know that no matter where I lay my head at night—in my grandmother's Victorian or in this pool house or somewhere else entirely—home isn't about the walls around me. It's about the people I love, and who love me in return.