8. Viggo
VIGGO
Dexter’s special of the day was a blueberry donut. It was frosted with purple blueberry icing and was decorated with a flower. Sort of fancy looking, but I liked blueberries, so…
“Two of the special, please.”
“You got it.” The short-haired tattooed brunet flashed a bright grin. “I’m Janey, by the way.”
“Viggo.”
Her smile somehow widened. “Nice to meet you, Viggo. You’re later than usual. Saturday morning lie-ins are the best.”
I furrowed my brow. “Uh…yes.”
“I’m off tomorrow. I plan to hibernate till noon under covers with a steamy romance.” She waggled her pierced brows, adding, “Can I get you a fritter too?”
“Yes, please.”
“That’s the spirit.”
I stepped aside to wait for my order and glanced up as Dexter waltzed in from the kitchen. I did a double take at his sporty ensemble—black joggers, a snug Wood Hollow Hornets T-shirt, and a matching ball cap. Damn, he was stupidly attractive. I didn’t like it.
“Hi, there. Did you order coffee too?” he asked.
“No, I’ve had enough this morning. Just the—”
“Blueberry donuts and a fritter,” Janey chimed in, pushing two separate bags across the counter.
“Great. Those are on the house. Later, Janey.” Dexter swiped the donuts and charged toward the exit.
“He stole my donuts,” I said flatly.
Janey snickered. “He didn’t get far. Catch him before he heads to practice. Next!”
Dexter met me on the sidewalk and pressed the pastry bags into my hands. “I have to get to the field. Do you mind walking with me?”
I inclined my head and followed him to the shiny white Tahoe parked in front of Dean’s Shoe Repair. “What is it?”
“Nothing serious. I’m running behind schedule.
I forgot to tell you that I coach this morning, but then I spotted you in line and—” He slipped designer sunglasses on his perfect nose and continued.
“Does lunch sound good today? We could get out of town or hard-launch our new friendship at Log Cabin Diner. Personally, I vote for a local friendship launch. Eventually, baby news will come out, and all this will seem silly. Also, I never asked if you were a football fan. I still think flag football is our best bet.”
I frowned, struggling to keep up with his pinball style of speech, ricocheting from topic to topic. “Are you asking me a question about lunch or football?”
He chuckled. “Both. Do you play football or follow it?”
“Yes, I like food. And I played football in college, and I’ve been following the Vikings for almost twenty years, so…also yes.”
Dexter smiled, one of those extra-brilliant smiles that could light up the night. “What position did you play?”
“Defensive tackle.”
“That’s awesome.”
I snorted. “Is it?”
He opened the driver’s side door and shot a playful grimace at me. “Don’t be a dick.”
I pointed at my chest in dismay, then shook my bags of goodies. “Good-bye, Dexter. I have donuts to eat.”
“Lunch then. Log Cabin at noon.”
A few hours later, I sat in a red vinyl booth across from Dexter. I ordered a burger with fries; he ordered pancakes. Blueberry pancakes. Who ordered blueberry pancakes for lunch?
“Me. I love pancakes.”
“Hmph. What are we supposed to talk about?” I shot a wary glance at our waitress, a raven-haired pixie in her twenties with doe eyes, tattooed arms, and scarlet lips. Nicole did her best not to ogle, but I could tell we confused her. “Also…everyone is staring.”
Dexter flattened butter atop his stack of pancakes and reached for the syrup, stealing a quick peek at Nicole just as she moved on to another table. “That can’t be helped. Small-town ways. Told you it would be easier if you played flag football. We can talk about anything. You go first.”
I narrowed my eyes in response and chomped into my burger. We ate in silence for a minute or two. It was weird and uncomfortable, and I hated that I couldn’t help noticing his dimples and that his wind-tousled hair made him look like a model. Not good.
Think of something, Viggo.
“How many kids do you want to have?”
Dexter’s fork hovered over his plate for a beat. “Two. I mean…that’s the dream. You?”
“That’s not my dream,” I replied.
“What is your dream?”
“To make it through this lunch.”
Dexter barked a laugh. “Ouch. How’s your burger?”
“Pretty good. I won’t ask about the pancakes. I can tell you like them.”
“Love ’em! Pancakes are my favorite. One of my faves, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re amazing! A light, fluffy, sweet something with butter and syrup is pure happiness. I love them with fruit, chocolate chips, and…”
Dexter’s eyes twinkled as he listed the many virtues of pancakes.
Lunch was easy after that.
It was even…fun.
He was a football fan and he had big opinions about the upcoming NFL draft—who needed a new quarterback, who should have retired, and coaching scandals. I forgot to be annoyed or nervous, and I even forgot about our curious audience.
A few days later, we had coffee at a bistro table in front of Rise and Grind. By accident. We happened to notice each other in line, and instead of ignoring Dexter like I would have before Freya signed on to be his surrogate, I said hello.
He seemed happy to see me. He squeezed my elbow in greeting and dropped his hand, letting our fingers brush. That part was alarming. My heart raced at the slight contact and for the briefest moment, I could have sworn he’d done it on purpose. All of it—smiling, touching, laughing at my dumb jokes.
Coffee was easier than lunch had been. Freya’s morning sickness worried Dexter, so I found myself reading Google entries to assure him it was very normal.
“Hormones are to blame. It doesn’t last long…except in some cases. And then it can be very bad.”
“Not helping.” Dexter kicked my shin under the table.
“It’s going to be okay,” I assured him.
He didn’t move his foot. It rested against my calf, and I didn’t mind…not one bit.
It didn’t mean anything.
I liked looking at him, talking to him, and those little touches did something to my internal circuit. He made me dizzy…in a good way. Maybe. I couldn’t tell.
But we had an agenda…something special in common, a secret we weren’t ready to share. It was important to keep that in mind and not get any ideas about the donut man.
“Come with me.”
I stood at the curb with a bag of donuts and growled. “Where? What are you talking about?”
“I’ve got a group of fifteen twelve-year-olds meeting me in ten minutes, and Troy always runs late. You could stand in for him for a hot second. Pretend to be a new coach.”
I contorted my features in what I hoped was my most fierce WTF expression. A week later, Dexter apparently hadn’t given up his flag football quest. “I eat donuts. I don’t coach.”
He gave me a head-to-foot once-over and nodded. “You wouldn’t have to do anything. Just stand there looking badass, eating your fritter. But next time, you could show up dressed and ready to roll.”
“Next time? What happened to lunch? Lunch was okay.”
He chuckled. “Lunch was great, but I think we should switch it up. Like it or not, people are going to think that you and I are seeing each other.”
“No one will think that,” I scoffed.
Dexter grinned like a madman as he opened the door of his SUV. “You should see your face. Seriously, if you’re not doing anything, come with me.”
I opened my mouth, prepared to set Dexter straight.
First of all, I hadn’t been on a field in uniform in nearly two decades. Second, I didn’t know anything about preadolescents or coaching. And I didn’t appreciate being dragged along as if I had nothing better to do.
And seeing each other? Yeah, right. No one would ever think that.
If anything, the entire town probably thought I was infatuated with him, and maybe even stalking Dexter when it was the other way around. Okay, I was a little infatuated, but he was stalking me.
“We could just tell the truth,” I said.
“Can’t do that till Freya’s in the clear. That’s a good two weeks from now.” Dexter slid behind the wheel. “I gotta run. Are you coming with me or…shall I text you later?”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I stomped to the passenger’s side.
I waited till he pulled into traffic to voice my true disapproval, first in Swedish and then English.
“I don’t know how to fucking coach. I’m only agreeing to this because you’re fucking right.
I can’t eat donuts every fucking day, and dating is a bullshit excuse that no one would believe anyway.
So fine…football. Fuck football! And fuck you, too. ”
Dexter barked a laugh. “You’ve got a dirty mouth, lumberjack. Crass as fuck. I like it.”
“Shut up and drive.”