“Are you inviting yourself over for breakfast?”
“More like brunch at this hour, but…if you have the ingredients and you insist. Yeah. I’m hungry,” he replied breezily.
“You can’t come over today.”
Dexter snickered. “Why not? Are you sick of me?”
His voice was laced with challenge as though he were daring me to spend time with him.Ja, I think this is flirting.
“Fine. Come if you want.”
“Gee, that was the nicest invitation I’ve ever received,” he teased, grinning from ear to ear.
I shoved another bite of fritter into my mouth and grumbled some more but with zero heat.
The sweet rumble of Dexter’s laughter permeated the air, settling in the crevices of leather and chrome like an intoxicating perfume. I gazed out the window to hide whatever my face was doing. My lips were curling at the corners against my will, and the last thing I needed was for him to think I enjoyed his company.
Even if I did.
CHAPTER 10
DEXTER
Viggo lived on a quiet residential street abutting the forest. The houses in his neighborhood were modest two or three-bedroom cabins that had been built in the 1950s on generous parcels of land. Privacy wasn’t an issue here, so I found it kind of curious that a near-hermit like Viggo was on chummy terms with his elderly neighbor.
He had a crusty streak for sure, but I’d revised my initial impression. Viggo wasn’t an irascible, grumpy menace. Under that gruff exterior, he was a nice guy who was quick to help people in need—removing a tree from an old woman’s roof, caring for his pregnant friend, and don’t get me started on his stint as a last-minute coach.
Sure, I’d had to talk him into the flag football foray, but once Viggo was on the field, he’d embraced the job at hand, put on a flag belt, and let a bunch of wild-eyed preteens chase him till they were out of breath. And I’m sorry, but there was nothing sexier than a man who was good with kids. Except maybe a guy who googled facts about morning sickness to ease my mind.
I liked Viggo. A lot.
He was a walking, talking contradiction—rough around theedges, occasionally hostile, sometimes incredibly kind, and very difficult to read. Nothing about him added up.
Take his house, for example.
“Did you make that?” I asked, pointing at the swing.
“Yes,” Viggo grunted as he unlocked the front door. He toed off his shoes and left them under a bench in the entry. “I’m going to shower and change. I can’t cook like…this.”
My gaze unwittingly wandered from his broad chest to his grass-stained jeans, lingering on his fly. He looked like a man who wasn’t afraid to get dirty, and that kind of turned me the fuck on.
Whoa!Not good.I was not here for that. Not even close.
I cleared my throat and motioned toward the stairs. “Go for it. I can start the pancakes if you?—”
“No, I do the pancakes,” he intercepted. “You can…”
“Snoop around?”
“Sure. Just don’t take the silver.”
I leaned on the banister. “How about the china?”
He growled something unintelligible and disappeared upstairs.
The living room off the foyer had white paneled walls, a giant stone fireplace, gorgeous hardwood floors, and built-in bookshelves filled to the brim with a mix of classic literature, art books, and handmade wooden figures. It was furnished in shades of taupe and navy with a comfy-looking sofa, a leather club chair, and a beautiful coffee table with rounded edges.
I bent to admire the woodgrain and couldn’t help noticing the chess set sitting in the middle of the table. I picked up the queen, marveling at the craftsmanship. Amazing.
