6. Viggo
VIGGO
“Are you angry with me?”
I perched on the armchair closest to the sofa and leaned forward, studying Freya for signs of distress.
Other than a paler than normal complexion, she seemed fine.
In fact, she looked like a fairy-tale princess in repose with her golden hair cascading from the sofa cushion and her legs wrapped in the fabric of a long flowy skirt.
Freya was an undeniably beautiful woman. No doubt she’d embody the earth mother vibes she’d always admired as her pregnancy progressed.
I answered in Swedish. “No. How do you feel?”
She smiled wanly. “Fine. It comes and goes. I’m better now.”
“Good.”
My gaze wandered to the table in the adjoining dining room cluttered with ceramics, the stack of art books in the corner near framed Matisse, Picasso, and Hopper posters, and the collection of tiny frogs she’d shaped from clay lined up like soldiers on the low bookshelf she’d painted bright blue.
The apartment color palette of white and blues was an ode to her Swedish heritage, but the chaotic detritus of art supplies, knickknacks, paperbacks, and used coffee cups was all Freya.
“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” she said, wrapping her long fingers around my wrist.
“I wanted to be sure you’re okay.” I stared at her hand for a moment, adding, “And I have questions.”
Freya sighed theatrically as she sat up. “I know you do. But before you ask…can I just tell you, this isn’t a cry for help. This is me taking control, helping someone in need, and—”
“And capitalizing on it.”
She furrowed her brow indignantly. “Don’t you dare judge me.”
I held my hands up and inclined my head. “I’m sorry. That was…I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Viggo. I don’t want you to take care of me forever. I can’t always be tied to you, or you to me.”
“Why him?”
“Dexter? Why not him? He’s a nice man with a good background, and he wants to be a parent.” Freya’s eyes welled as she sucked in a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about Anni all the time, and I think she’d—”
“Stop. Let’s not do this.” I shook my head and switched to English. “Are you hungry? I’ll get you something to eat.”
She nodded. “Okay. Maybe tuna fish?”
She’s fine.
I left my phone on my nightstand and headed for the bathroom, anxious to wash the day away. I was glad tomorrow was Saturday. It had been a long, exhausting week and I was looking forward to starting a new project in my workshop and maybe going fishing.
I lathered soap as my mind wandered to childhood fishing trips. We’d spend hours on Lake M?laren in summertime, fishing for perch and pike. I never got tired of it. The simple joy of drifting on the water, pole in hand with my dad, Lars, and sometimes Anni and—
No. Don’t go there.
It had been good to be with Freya today, listening to her chatter about baby books she’d purchased, the soda water that made her burp, and her sudden craving for pretzels. I wished she’d confided in me before she’d made her decision—especially if it had anything to do with Anni. But it was done.
And it was pointless to tell her that I was struggling with the fact that I wouldn’t be part of her son or daughter’s life.
There’d be no outings at the park, no fishing excursions, no lessons on how to carve and build toy boats and airplanes.
The thought of missing out on something so precious made me sad.
Too sad.
I closed my eyes under the warm spray, hoping to clear my mind. It isn’t my business, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time. Freya had made her choice, and she was happy with it. So was Dexter.
He was nervous, too. I’d pegged Dexter to be cool under pressure, but he’d panicked at the idea of Freya in distress. It was good that he was concerned…that he cared. But I liked his smile better. It was cocky with a hint of mischief.
And that mouth…
My dick twitched on cue as my thoughts took a sudden X-rated turn.
Sudden and pornographic.
Dexter on his knees, his lips around my dick, gaze trained on me…waiting for permission. Yes, it was an outrageous fantasy, but it was a good one. A beautiful, godlike man bobbing his head, his nails raking my upper thighs as he sucked and licked me.
I braced a hand on the tile and stroked my cock in earnest, giving in to the illusion till it seemed so real I could picture him right here, right now.
Please. Please give it to me.
My breath hitched and my chest heaved as cum spurted over my fist, then washed away.
I felt a twinge of shame afterward. Handsome or not, it was in bad taste to have lustful thoughts for your friend’s baby daddy. Even through surrogacy. I needed to get out of town and get laid properly. The sooner the better.
I toweled off, brushed my teeth, put on boxer briefs and an old tee, and practically fell into bed. The bedside light was on, but I was so tired that it didn’t bother me.
My vibrating cell was another matter.
I had six texts and three missed calls from Dexter. What the fuck?
That’s it? I need more info.
Please.
I know it’s late, but that’s okay. You can call.
Okay. I’ll call you.
Pick up, please.
Hello?
I frowned at the long thread of messages and immediately decided Dexter was terrible fantasy material.
I was away from my phone, I typed. It’s late. Go to sleep. She’s fine.
Satisfied with my message, I set my cell on the nightstand and switched off the lamp.
Buzz buzz
Another message and another missed call. Humor me. Please answer.
Grrr.
“Why are you calling me?” I growled in greeting.
“Sorry. I just…I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I was hoping for more information than ‘She’s fine.’ ”
I didn’t reply right away. It was disconcerting to chat about a pregnant woman with the man whose face you’d fucked in the shower…if only in a dream.
But Dexter didn’t sound right. He was too anxious, too worried. How was he going to survive another eight months in this state? And it would only get worse once there was a baby to care for. He should have been talking to a therapist or a friend. Not me.
I scratched my bearded jaw and sat up in bed, cautioning myself to be nice and…gentle.
“Freya wasn’t sick while I was there. She’d worked in her studio most of the day and she was tired. I made her a tuna sandwich and watched a terrible movie with her. Something about being thirteen and wishing you were thirty.”
“13 Going on 30. Love that movie,” Dexter replied with a strained laugh.
“Hmph. She fell asleep and I left. That’s it.”
“All right. Sounds good. How was the drive?”
“Long.” I yawned.
“I’m really glad you went. I was, um…” He sighed heavily on the line. “I just…fuck. Never mind. Sorry to bug you and thanks for—”
“What were you going to say?” I intercepted. Silence. “You might as well tell me. You’re making yourself worry about nothing, and you need to sleep, too. Who else is going to make fritters in the morning?”
He huffed in amusement. “My crew is on fritter and donut duty tomorrow, but…you’re right. I’m too uptight about this.”
“I agree.”
“But it’s a big deal.”
“I know. And now, I’m going to sleep. Good night, Dexter.”
“Wait. One more thing.”
“Oh, my God.” I slapped my hand over my eyes and sank under the covers, more charmed than I wanted to admit by his soft laughter.
“I’ll make it quick.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, I might have accidentally spread a rumor that you were interested in flag football, and before you yell at me, it was better than everyone thinking I’m dating your friend.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well…in a nutshell, Layla asked how I knew you, and when I said we had a mutual acquaintance, it spiraled, I panicked, and now…if anyone asks you about flag football, you’ll know why,” he blurted in a rush.
“I’m not playing flag football.”
“Got it. Look—” He paused for a beat. “I think I should know more about you…for the baby’s sake.
I know you basically suggested this a couple of weeks ago, and I blew you off.
To be fair, you were kind of an asshole, but I think it comes from a good place.
You obviously care about Freya’s health and well-being and—”
“And you want to use me as a portal for information.”
“Use is a strong word, but yeah, that’s sort of the gist,” he admitted.
“It would be nice to meet for coffee or lunch and just…talk about whatever is going on with Freya and the baby. It’s killing me that you live so close and potentially know pertinent information about my child’s welfare that I don’t. ”
“Your child is the size of a blueberry,” I deadpanned. “There’s not much to discuss.”
“Yeah, but it’s a miracle, you know? I can’t wrap my head around it.”
I sighed. “Try to relax…and go to sleep.”
“Sure. Um…so what about flag football?”
“No.”
“I’m hearing maybe,” he singsonged. “It’s a better excuse than always meeting over donuts. Either that, or we pretend we’re dating.”
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. “Very funny.”
“Hilarious. What do you think?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to be friends with the donut man.
Not really. I wanted to stare at him from afar because he was nice to look at.
But I also wanted to know my surrogate niece or nephew was well cared for—and if it were possible to be part of their life in some way, that would be nice. But Dexter…
“You’re very pushy and I’m tired,” I grumbled.
Dexter smiled through the cellular connection. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it. “All right. Go to sleep. G’night, Viggo.”
“Good night, Dexter.”