Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“Dexter?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re weird.” He leaned in to kiss my cheek and swiped the boat key out of my hand. “But I don’t mind. See you soon.”
“Your boyfriend is hot,” the twentysomething at the register commented as Viggo strode toward the small boat we’d rented.
I could have, should have told her that the big Swede wasn’t mine, but I was busy ogling his broad shoulders too and basking in his words.
You’re weird, but I don’t mind.
It was as if he saw through my smoke and mirror game. Behind my capable, accomplished, qualified veneer, I was a hot mess with a scrambled brain. He didn’t even know the whole story, and yet he knew enough.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
We grilled steaks, potatoes, and veggies and ate dinner on the screened porch overlooking the lake. The conversation was light and breezy. We discussed everything from the proper amount of char on corn, mosquito bites, and the best time of day to be on the water. He knew more than I did about fishing, sailing, and boating in general.
“I took sailing lessons because my mom insisted, but I preferred team sports,” I said around a mouthful.
“Opposite for me. I liked being alone, although you usually learn to sail with a partner for safety, ja?”
“Yeah, and I got stuck with Chip Cravens. He was a fucking dick. We were ten or eleven, and he thought he knew all there was to know about pulling the lines and tacking the sails. Our boat went horizontal whenever the wind blew and of course, he’d blame me. I hated that guy.”
Viggo snorted. “Chip? How is that a name?”
“It’s short for Christopher or something. Viggo is a unique name too, you know.”
I expected irate indignation, and Viggo didn’t disappoint.
“My name means battle, fight, war.” He pounded a fist on the rickety picnic table and glowered. “It is fornnordiska, Old Norse. A proud warrior name, not a nickname for chocolate chips or a bag of Doritos.”
“That guy was a bag of Doritos.” I snickered gleefully. “No reason to get testy with me, though. I love your name.”
“What will you name the baby?”
My heart somersaulted and I knew I was wearing a shitfaced grin. “I don’t know. I like traditional names, so maybe Jack or Robert for a boy, Catherine or Grace for a girl. But I’ll change my mind a dozen times between now and December, and I won’t tell anyone what I decide until it’s on a birth certificate. Everyone has a Jack, a Robert, a Katie, or a Grace that bugged them in school, and they can’t wait to tell you about it. And I’ve decided not to find out the sex. I want to be surprised.”
He nodded. “That’s good, I think. Especially if you don’t care if it’s a boy or girl. My sister-in-law, Ingrid, didn’t care either, but she wanted the nursery done and she was picky about colors.”
“What did she end up having?”
“First a boy, then a girl.” Viggo smiled affectionately. “Lukas and Viveca, or Vivi. They’re ten and eight.”
“Were you there when they were born?”
“Ja. I was home a lot at that time.” The light in his eyes dimmed for a beat. He speared a bite of steak and pointed his fork at me. “Who will watch the baby while you work?”
“I’m taking a four-month paternity leave. Janey can handle the store and if she needs me, I’m able to be there. I also have a nanny lined up. She’s a friend of Janey’s who used to nanny for a couple of hockey players in Elmwood before their kids became school aged.”
“What do you know about babies?”
“What do you mean?”
Viggo shrugged. “Do you know how to feed them, change diapers? Will you know what to do in an emergency?”
“Well, yes and no. The truth is, I’ll be winging it like most first-time parents.”
He pushed his plate aside and reached for his wine. “I don’t think I like babies. They’re too little. They scare me.”
“Oh, brother.”
“I’m serious.” He wasn’t. His eyes lit with mischief and humor. “Lukas was a screamer. Big lungs, and he was only this big.” Viggo held his hands twelve inches apart. “All that noise from the tiniest little creature. And the spit-up…disgusting. Good luck with that.”
I kicked him under the table. “You’re full of shit. Just for that, I’m making you my emergency contact for all things disgusting—diaper blowouts, snotty noses, the works. Call Uncle Viggo.”
Uncle Viggo? Where had that come from?
We laughed a little awkwardly. Thankfully, one of us immediately changed the subject—something about playing chess or one of the games under the coffee table.
I could have sat with Viggo all night on that porch, trading teasing gibes and stream of consciousness musings to the soundtrack of cicadas and katydids. The air smelled of mesquite embers from the grill, pine needles, damp earth, and the cool lake breeze. It was…kind of perfect.