7. Dexter
DEXTER
Ifelt bad about bugging Viggo and basically offering a front-row seat to my dysfunctional obsessiveness regarding Freya’s pregnancy. He wasn’t my friend, and living in the same town wasn’t anything more than a coincidence—and not one I should exploit for my peace of mind.
At least not right off the bat.
However, Viggo might prove to be a valuable ally over the next few months, and it was in my best interest to maintain a cordial line of communication without unleashing too much of the real me.
So…donuts.
I rescued the box of assorted goodies from the passenger seat of my Tahoe and glanced back at the long driveway that led to the gray shingled two-story house lined with impeccably tended hedges and spring flowers.
The lawn was freshly cut, not a blade of grass out of place, and the porch was furnished with a wooden swing and hanging pots of red geraniums. It was…
cute. Not very lumberjack-ish, if you asked me.
I knocked on the door.
No response.
Most people were up by eight o’clock, weren’t they? Shit. It was Saturday. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept until seven, but I kept bakery hours, so what did I know? I supposed I could leave the box on the mat…or the swing. I didn’t have a pen on me. Maybe there was one in my SUV or—
“You.”
I jumped, my pulse skyrocketing from zero to sixty in a nanosecond. “Christ! You scared me. What the fuck?”
Viggo leaned on his doorjamb with his arms crossed, giving effortless badass vibes. “I live here.”
“Right. Um…here, these are for you.” I foisted the box at him. “To thank you for being there for Freya and taking my call last night. I’m sorry I pestered you. And…anyway, thanks.”
“Donuts.”
“It’s an assortment of some new recipes I’ve been trying out. I didn’t know if you were a fruit guy only or a chocolate lover, but there’s a little of everything in there.”
Viggo inclined his head. “This is nice of you, but unnecessary. You’re going to make my thighs big.”
I barked a laugh, and of course I checked out his quads and might have even lingered a beat at his crotch. Not my intention, but he was right there and I was only human. “I think you can handle a few donuts.”
“Hmm. Do you want…coffee or something?”
“Oh, no. That’s okay.” I waved and stepped aside. “I need to get to the store.”
“Okay. Thank you. Good-bye, Dexter.”
I pushed at the door before he could close it. “One question.”
Viggo shook his head in bemusement, turning to set the box on a console table in his foyer. “What is it?”
“I read that pregnant women have to be mindful of skin products, like retinol. Too much vitamin A can be harmful to a fetus’s development. Would you happen to know if Freya is using retinol?”
He lowered his chin and aimed a steady WTF look at me. “How the fuck would I know?”
“I thought maybe she’d mentioned her skin routine?” Okay, that was weird.
“To me? For fuck’s sake. I’ll text her.”
“No, don’t bug her now.” I put my hand on his arm, ignoring the tingly feeling at the base of my spine. Crap, I knew what that meant, but I refused to give in to attraction. Not with this guy. “It’s early. I’ll ask her later today.”
Viggo typed a message on his cell. “You don’t want to bug her, but you don’t mind bugging me. How do you spell rentinol?”
“It’s retinol.” I spelled it for him, leaning into his space to make sure he got it right. I was treated to a raised brow and a whiff of woodsy soap or cologne. It took everything I had not to sniff the air around him.
Buzz buzz
“She says she’s not using rentinol. Only natural products and not to worry,” he reported.
“It’s retinol,” I corrected. “And technically, it’s natural. It’s found in animals and humans, but most skin care retinol is synthetic. Unless you buy plant-based, in which case…great. Do you think she’s using plant-based retinol?”
“Are you okay?” Viggo countered.
I raked a hand through my hair and blew out a stream of air. “Yes, and also…no.”
“So I see. Well…this much worrying isn’t good for you. If it makes you feel better, I will tell you something about Freya you might not know.”
“Yes, please. Anything.” I clasped my hands, fingers steepled as if I were praying.
Geez, I really had to get a grip. I was probably alarming the hell out of Viggo.
I could just imagine the “Did you know the donut guy is bonkers?” conversation he’d have with his old friend, and I couldn’t blame him.
“Freya is part hippie artist, part sophisticated woman. Her family has a large garden in Sweden…vegetables of all kinds. Flowers, too. When you grow up with food in your backyard, you tend to be mindful of what you put in your mouth, ja? She’s been reading nutrition labels on food products since she was a kid.
It’s a habit, I think. So…the child growing in her belly won’t be ingesting anything unhealthy.
Even the tuna fish she had yesterday was light canned or something with a very low mercury hazard.
I only know because she told me. And before you ask, she would not eat raw fish while pregnant.
” Viggo held a palm open. “Does that help?”
I grinned. “You think I’m nuts, huh?”
“A little,” he teased, pinching his thumb and index finger together. “But…it means you care, and that’s a good thing.”
“Thanks.” Okay, my smile was so big, my cheeks ached. If I wasn’t careful, I’d do something rash and impulsive like hug him.
“You’re not going to hug me.”
“Geez, it’s like you’re reading my mind. C’mere. Bring it in and get it over with.”
Viggo rolled his eyes. “No. Go away, Dexter. Bother someone else.”
For reasons unknown, I took his lighthearted grumbling as a challenge. Under his gruff exterior, Viggo was a teddy bear who cared about his friend and by default, cared about my child. No one else knew, and damn it, I needed this to feel real and special and something worth celebrating.
So maybe that was why I launched forward and wrapped my arms around Viggo’s neck.
It was supposed to be a quick embrace. So fast he’d barely register contact. Except it didn’t work out that way. The moment our chests collided, that tingle from earlier zinged through my body. I didn’t know Viggo well, but on some core level, he felt familiar.
I snapped out of the haze, my lopsided grin hopefully masking any awkwardness. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
He narrowed his eyes and somehow, I knew he felt it, too. That had to be it. That had to be why we were standing too close, leaning into each other. Was he going to kiss me? Fuck, I hoped so. But also…this was a bad idea.
A terrible idea.
A regret waiting to happen.
So, I made it worse and kissed his cheek just as he turned his head. And of course, I caught the corner of his mouth, too.
It was impulsive, innocent, and brief…no tongue, no roving hands or swaying hips. It was there and gone in an instant.
Viggo licked his bottom lip. “Was that supposed to happen?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I squeaked. “I, um—I should…go.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you later.”
“Good-bye, donut man.”
I huffed, almost tripping over my feet on the porch steps in my haste to get the fuck out of dodge. I didn’t dare turn back, but I sensed Viggo’s smile and damned if that didn’t do something for me.
“Do you know any fruit facts? ’Cause I do.”
I turned off the mixer, surveying the mess of flour, almond, and blueberries on the prep island.
The kitchen was Alberto’s domain during baking hours.
However, as the mastermind behind the nontraditional recipes at Dexter’s Donuts, I commandeered the kitchen most afternoons before I coached flag football to test flavors and make sure my creations looked and tasted amazing and worth the premium surcharge.
I usually worked alone, but today, Reg’s nine-year-old daughter was my honorary assistant.
Gretchen should have been on the field with her classmates, but…
the kid hated sports. No offense taken. Her ambivalence confused her family more than me, to be honest. Her dad had been a stand-out athlete in high school, and her mom and brother both played flag football for their age groups, along with most of her peers.
Not Gretch. She was a quirky kid who didn’t have a ton of friends, and the ones she did have didn’t care about sports either.
They liked science, math, and stories that involved shape-shifting dragons in parallel universes.
Much to her dad’s chagrin, Gretch had recently taken to wearing capes—like a wizard… or a witch.
I wasn’t a science guy and I was pretty sure I’d forgotten anything other than basic math, and yet on some level, I understood Gretchen.
I was a child of divorced parents who’d worked a ton, too.
I’d taken refuge in sports, but expectations rose with every win and the pressure had been intense.
My outlet had been food. I used to watch shows like Cake Boss and Iron Chef and imagine scenarios where I could be the best at something that would surprise my mom and my friends.
I supposed that wish eventually came true, though not exactly the way I’d envisioned.
Unlike my mother, Reg and his ex-wife were in tune with their kids and a thousand percent supportive.
They signed Rhys up for karate, baseball, flag football, and hockey while Gretchen joined math club, chess club, and spent one afternoon a week with me concocting outside-the-box donut delights.
Today’s was blueberry with a lemon almond glaze, decorated with edible flowers.
“All right. Hit me with a fruit fact.”
Gretchen glanced up at me with big brown eyes. “Watermelons are ninety-two percent water. That’s a lot of water, don’t you think?”
“A ton.” I whistled in astonishment. “I heard humans are made mostly of water, too.”
“How much?”
I should have known that question would be next. “I’m not sure. Maybe sixty percent?”
“I’d check my phone for exact measurements, but my hands are gooey.” She held them up as evidence and giggled at my faux-horrified expression.
“And very…blue. Like a Smurf.”
“What’s a Smurf?”
“What’s a Smurf?” I repeated, truly horrified this time. “Are you pulling my leg?”
Gretch glanced at my leg on cue and shook her head. “Nope.”
It was an old joke, but it made us both laugh.
“Well…Smurfs is a cartoon. The reruns were a staple of my childhood. I loved those little guys. They were all blue, and they lived in a cute little village. The details are fuzzy after that.”
“Oh. The batter is purple. Will the donuts be purple?”
“Yep.” I pulled a batch I’d worked on earlier from a proofing drawer and motioned for Gretchen to wash her hands. “Let’s shape these and get them in the fryer so you can decorate a couple before your mom picks you up.”
“I think Dad’s picking me up today.” Gretchen lowered her voice and continued conspiratorially. “I’m not supposed to know, but Mom’s going on a date tonight.”
“Ah. Okay.” We shaped dough in silence for a few minutes. Curiosity was killing me—however, I would not stoop to gossiping with a nine-year-old.
“His name is Steve. They say they’re just friends, but I can tell she likes him.”
“Uh…that’s good.”
Gretch hummed in agreement. “Do you like anyone?”
Viggo’s grumpy mug instantly flashed to mind.
As much as I wanted to downplay that rogue peck on the cheek, I wasn’t prone to doling out kisses to grouchy guys who got my motor running.
Quite the opposite. I’d grown up a closeted jock.
I hadn’t come out till I was in college, and I could count my male lovers on one hand.
Which meant…there was something about the lumberjack.
Not that I’d be sharing that with a nine-year-old.
“No. And I’d rather hear about Steve.” So much for not gossiping.
“He’s really nice. I think he has kids, and that makes it complicated.”
I chuckled lightly at her mature summation, which was probably a direct quote she’d overheard while eavesdropping. “Why?”
She shrugged. “They’re teenagers and they like sports. I won’t have anything in common with them.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Well, I know I don’t want any more brothers. I only want Rhys. Ivy and Chase’s mom has a new baby who’s their stepbrother. Meh…babies.”
“What’s wrong with babies?” I asked casually.
Another shrug, Gretchen’s brows knit tight as she concentrated on her donut. “They smell funny, they can’t talk, and they cry a lot. I’d rather have Tate.”
“What if I had a kid someday? Do you think you’d like him or her?”
Gretchen froze and met my gaze. “This is a hypothetical question?”
My lips twitched. “Yes.”
“The answer is…I don’t know,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Is that mean?”
“No. You can be honest.”
“Then I think you should get a dog like Tate. They’re better.”
I smiled and decided it was best to exit the conversation before she got suspicious.
Gretchen had a way of offering a fresh perspective without trying. She was aware of the inherent instability of her world. She noticed everything—all the inconsistencies and disparities—and was somehow stronger for it.
Note to self: Kids were smarter than you’d think.