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)
Reg thought I was being sensitive. “You know her, Dex. Gretch processes information her own way. She’s thinking things through. Next come the questions. Get ready for ’em.”
In the six weeks since I’d first announced my impending fatherhood to the town, Gretchen hadn’t asked many questions at all. Nor had she seemed particularly interested, which made her an outlier for sure.
Wood Hollow was buzzing with the news. I couldn’t walk down Main Street without someone stopping me to check in on the baby or surrogate. They knew Freya’s name, and thanks to some intrepid Internet sleuthing, knew where she lived, what she looked like, and that she was an artist.
Janey in the kitchen, scrolling an iPad with Alberto, Meg, and Dallas peering over her shoulder: “She’s beautiful! Glowing, even. This child is going to be gorgeous.”
Davey, ringing up my latte at Rise and Grind: “I followed Freya on Instagram. Love her aesthetic! I can’t afford the ceramics, but maybe someday my prince will come.” He’d batted his eyelashes for effect and knowing Davey, to make the old lumberjacks in the queue behind me squirm a bit.
Mrs. Galbraith, picking up her grandson from flag football practice: “I hear congratulations are in order and that your surrogate is Swedish. The Swedes have an admirable work ethic, and they’re known for being punctual and organized.”
Troy had snickered as the older woman walked away. “In case you didn’t catch it, that was a direct dig at you for being one minute late.”
“More like thirty seconds,” I’d retorted. “And you were here.”
“Never mind her. Let’s talk about your other favorite Swede,” he’d teased.
I’d ignored Troy, but I was beginning to worry that my infatuated state was too obvious to contain. If my friend suspected there was something more between me and the lumberjack, others might clue in soon. I preferred to think everyone bought the story we were selling—Viggo and I had become friends through Freya.
Hey, it was the truth. At least part of it.
The other half: I was head over heels for the cranky lumberjack.
Our weekend in the UP had changed something between us. No, it had changed everything.
I supposed revealing the worst moments of your life post-migraine, post-vomiting, and post-my mother’s less than stellar reaction to becoming a grandmother might do that. Christ, I was grateful Viggo hadn’t run for the hills. I wasn’t positive I’d have stuck around after that shit show.
But he’d been…amazing.
There were no kind platitudes, no commiseration, no sharing past angst to lessen my burden. He’d just been there like a solid, strong anchor in a storm.
To the outside observer, we were unlikely new friends drawn together by circumstance. They’d probably heard that Viggo had offered to make the crib and that I’d insisted on helping. But they didn’t know that I hung on Viggo’s every word, sat as close to him as possible in his workshop, and challenged him with smartass commentary designed to incite that put-upon scowl and usually, a hint of a smile, too.
They didn’t know that my newest donut creations were based on Viggo’s list of impossible combinations. He loved sausage and jalapeños were fine in salsa, but together? No. I couldn’t wait to see his face and—
“Is Thor your boyfriend?” Gretchen asked, ripping me from my reverie.
“Who?”
“The guy with the beard who works for Uncle Coop. He comes here a lot.” She rubbed her nose on her sleeve. “That’s what Dallas says.”
Thanks, Dallas.
“His name is Viggo. He’s making a crib for the baby. He’s a good friend of my surrogate’s,” I added. “And mine.”
Remember, that was the line I’d been feeding the town all month, and it was becoming part of a stock response if his name came up in conversation. Honestly, it didn’t happen that often. Most folks were more enamored with the notion of a newborn in town than they were in decoding a secret relationship. The explanation made sense. They knew me to be a friendly guy—the type to embrace anyone associated with my little miracle. That wasn’t un-true, but it certainly wasn’t the whole story. Not by a long shot.
Gretchen’s sharp side-eye indicated that my cape-wearing sous chef suspected as much.
I handed over the spatula, purely for distraction. No such luck.
“Does he play flag football?”
“No, but I think the guys at the mill are trying to talk him into it.” I smiled, remembering Viggo’s annoyance at the constant harping of his fellow loggers. They won’t leave me the fuck alone about it. Grumble. Grumble.
She stirred the sausage lazily. “Does he like babies?”
“I think so.” Or the truth: He said he doesn’t, but I don’t believe that for a second. He’s a freaking teddy bear and the nicest guy I know. “How about you? Are you warming up to the idea of having an honorary cousin around?”
“Cousin?” She cocked her head curiously. “But we’re not related.”