19. Viggo
VIGGO
Dexter wandered into my workshop, a standalone unit I’d built adjacent to the garage. It was a twenty-by-twenty tricked-out space with a high ceiling, built-in cabinetry for tools, a large workbench, and excellent lighting. It was also well insulated, which was a bonus during the winter months.
He poked his nose into drawers and asked a million and one questions.
“Do you use a tool belt or an apron with a pouch? What about goggles? What’s this? It looks like a chisel? What do you need that for? Geez, I’ve never seen so many saws. Do you use them all? Is it safe to have so many?”
I pointed at the empty metal stool across from me. “Sit.”
Dexter scrubbed his hands together. “How can I help?”
I wanted to admonish him for the nonstop chatter, but this was just Dexter being excited, and it was oddly endearing that he couldn’t contain his joy.
It always seemed to bubble out of him like an overloaded popcorn machine on a high setting.
I warred with wanting to pick up every piece, answer every query, while hoping to calm his nerves.
I hooked my boot over the bottom rung of his stool, brushing our calves as I rolled the stool close. I grabbed his collar and sealed my mouth to his in a quick but demanding kiss.
“Relax.” I bit his jaw and pulled away. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Dexter replied in a breathy tone.
I caressed his cheek with the pad of my thumb and sat back. “Do you want a tour first? I can tell you all about tool belts, safety glasses, chisels, and saws, or…we can discuss the crib.”
“Uh…crib.” He touched his lips and huffed a laugh. “How do you do that?”
“What?”
Dexter shook his head, lowering his eyes bashfully. “Never mind. What’s the first step?”
“I need to know what you want it to look like. Do you have photos or an idea you can sketch? Also, what kind of wood? You have three choices—maple, oak, or cherry. They’re all very durable, very strong.”
“Um…okay.” He shifted on the stool and pulled his cell from his pocket. “I like this design.”
I nodded my approval. “I like that, too. Do you want the slats to be round or squared off?”
“Round. Can you make it so the crib adjusts according to the baby’s age?” Dexter pointed at his cell. “You can tell this crib is for an infant and this one—” He swiped to another photo. “—is for a toddler.”
“Yes. That’s easy. What about the headboard and footboard? I can make them larger or—”
“No, I think I like it even all the way around. And as far as which wood is best, you’re the expert. I just want a natural finish.”
“This is a Scandinavian design,” I commented.
Dexter raised a brow. “Oh, yeah? What makes it Scandinavian?”
“Clean lines, simple, functional, natural. No unnecessary frills.” I shrugged, adding, “It’s superior, you know?”
He chuckled. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
“What can I do? I want to help if I can. I’m not a carpenter, but I’m a little bit handy.”
I wasn’t in the habit of doing group projects. I worked alone in my shop. Always. But these were extenuating circumstances, so…
“You can sand the wood.”
Dexter brightened. “I can do that. Should we start now?”
“Not quite. I don’t have the wood here. I need to mill it.”
“You mean you’re going to cut a tree specifically for this project?”
“No, the lumber has already been cut, but not into a shape I can work with. I’ll talk to Cooper and get his okay to pick some up tomorrow.”
“Great! Let me know how much it costs. I’ll pay you for time and material and—”
“No, it’s a gift,” I intercepted, resting a hand on his shoulder as I skirted the workbench to retrieve the safety glasses I’d been wearing before Dexter had shown up.
“Viggo…”
“Don’t make it weird, Dexter,” I singsonged. “I offered, you said yes, end of discussion.”
“I didn’t intend for you to pay for it.”
I scoffed. “It costs nothing. Cooper won’t charge me, and this is…what I like to do.”
“Your happy place?” he suggested.
“Yes.” I put my gloves on and pulled a bin from a nearby shelf. “I make what I want—sell some, keep some. This is fun for me.”
Dexter grinned. “And what are you making now?”
“It will be a birdhouse. These are very popular at the craft fair in Fallbrook. People like birds, I guess.”
“What’ll it look like?” he asked as his cell vibrated on the bench.
I gestured to a row of binders stacked neatly on the built-in cabinetry. “My catalog is there if you want to see some samples.”
He brought the binder to the workbench and sat across from me just as his cell buzzed again. Dexter peeked at the caller ID and turned it over.
“These are amazing. I mean…wow. You could charge hundreds for some of these,” he gushed. “I love the mid-century modern one and this little cottage with the flowerboxes and—”
Buzz buzz
“Someone wants to talk to you.”
Dexter’s shoulders drooped as he reached for his phone. “It’s my mother.”
“Take it. I don’t mind.”
“I do,” he huffed. “She’s not the one calling.
It’s her office. Her secretary will want to set up an appointment, and I’ll be allotted a five-minute slot.
If it’s important, I’ll be asked to hold.
I once held the line for a solid forty minutes just to see how long she’d make me wait.
So no…I’m not doing this now. Besides, I know what she wants. ”
“Does she know about—”
“No, not yet.” He closed the binder with a sigh. “She wants me to go to Michigan for her husband’s birthday party next week.”
“And you don’t want to go,” I surmised, carving into the block of wood.
“No. I should, though. If only to tell her about the baby. But family is complicated and mine…kind of sucks.”
I frowned. “How so?”
He let out a humorless half laugh. “I can’t describe it without sounding like a shit. On the surface, everyone is polished, worldly, well-educated, well-connected, and oh-so polite. The truth is, we’re competitive in the extreme, status-conscious, elitist, and very fucking exhausting.”
“That doesn’t sound like you. Are the Navarros—”
“I don’t know the Navarros. That’s my father’s side of the family.
I don’t know them at all, but I took his name.
Well…that’s not true. My mom changed our last name to her maiden name after their divorce.
Sandringham. My brother kept it, but I changed mine back to Navarro in high school in a misguided attempt to win my dad over.
He’s a big football fan. It actually worked.
Dad came to a lot of my games in those days.
I didn’t know until later that it was because he was in a palimony dispute with my mom.
Somehow, he was suing her for a monthly stipend even though he left us.
Classy guy. I got the whole story when I was in college and by then, the name on my jersey was the least of my worries. ”
“That’s terrible.” It was a feeble response, but I wasn’t sure anything else fit. “And your mother is wealthy?”
“You could say that. My great-grandfather cofounded a steel company, my grandfather was an inventor with patents on widgets for household appliances and carburetors and things you don’t think twice about till your toaster goes up in flames or your car stalls.
One of my uncles is a judge, the other is a surgeon with a thriving practice, my mother is CEO of an investment firm, and I already told you about my brother.
Me? I ran away from home to make donuts and play flag football.
I think that gives you the big picture.”
I narrowed my gaze. “You think you’re a failure.”
“Well, no. I did at one point, but…I like who I am now. I love my life here. I own a successful business in a great community, I’ve met wonderful friends, and Christ, I’m going to be a dad…and hopefully, be a better parent than mine were to my brother and me.”
“You will be. I have no doubt,” I said. “So what will you do about your mother?”
“I don’t know. Ignoring her isn’t a strategy. You’re right. I should go to the party. Get it over with.”
“I didn’t say that. I’m not one to give family advice.”
Dex’s lips curled in a wry half smile. “Are you going to tell me your family is worse than mine?”
“No, mine is relatively normal.”
“Do you have a good relationship with your parents?”
I inclined my chin. “I do.”
“They don’t mind that you live so far away?”
I pursed my lips. “They’re used to it now. Distance doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I see them once or twice a year, and we FaceTime. They know Vermont is a good place for me. Maybe in the same way you don’t want to go to Michigan, I don’t want to go back to Sweden. Not to live, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Ghosts.” Cryptic, but true.
Dex squinted as if formulating his next question. If he asked what I meant, I probably would have bared my soul.
However, this wasn’t about me.
I lowered the protective glasses and studied the extraordinarily handsome man who’d weaseled his way into my life.
Two months ago, I’d barely known Dex and now, he was in my bed, in my workspace, in my head.
There were weeks and weeks to go before the baby arrived, which meant there was no escaping this fever anytime soon. And I didn’t want to.
I wanted to make things easier for him. I could claim it was for the baby too—and it was, but I was a fixer by nature.
The one to call when the lights went out because the bill hadn’t been paid or the car wouldn’t start or there was no food in cupboards, or the police showed up at the door in the middle of the night, and—
“I have ghosts too,” Dex said simply.
I met his gaze and held it, unnerved by Dex’s stark honesty. It had occurred to me that in a way we were both refugees, hiding in a quaint forest town out of harm’s reach. We were outsiders, escapees, hiding in plain sight from a past we didn’t share with many. Perhaps it explained the attraction.
Yes, Dex was beautiful and sexy, but it was more than that. He was somehow relatable. We came from different countries, different sets of circumstance, and yet…I recognized his pain.
“I know,” I replied.
There wasn’t much more to say, so I readjusted my glasses and measured the block of wood in front of me.
“Come with me,” Dex blurted.