We held a poignant gaze for a beat. I didn’t dare move a muscle, knowing there was a strong chance that things would get awkward in a hurry the second we walked out of this room.
Thankfully, it wasn’t too bad.
We took turns cleaning up in his en suite bathroom and made our way downstairs. I filled any potentially charged silence with inane chatter about weekend chores and the flag football admin work I’d put off for too long.
“I should hire an assistant, but I’m too busy to ask for help,” I said with a laugh, casually scooping up my discarded clothing and redressing in a reverse striptease. I pulled my joggers and tee on and retrieved my jacket from a hook in the foyer.
Viggo watched me, looking hotter than anyone had a right to in worn jeans, bare feet, and an old T-shirt. “You have everything?”
“I think so. Thank you for breakfast. Fritters on me tomorrow.”
“Okay.” His smile crinkled his eyes and softened his features.
I stared a beat too long before coming to my senses and getting the hell out of there.
CHAPTER 11
DEXTER
Icouldn’t stop thinking about the lumberjack.
Viggo was a conundrum—a tough guy who looked like a Scandinavian warrior, was great with kids, liked donuts, made a mean pancake, and don’t get me started on the sex.
But his friendship with my surrogate was a complication. A big one. If I were smart, I’d cut my losses now and initiate the “That was a mistake never to be repeated” conversation. But damn, the thought of those big hands on my body gave me chills.
I shouldn’t admit this, but I’d jerked off more than once to the memory of him overpowering me, caging me between his bulging biceps and rolling his thick cock over mine. It was embarrassing how quickly I came…every time.
This was bad. Very bad.
If Viggo were anyone else, I’d have suggested we fuck this out of our systems and enjoy the ride, but I couldn’t do that with him. Unless he moved, I was going to bump into this guy in Wood Hollow for years to come. I had to get my shit together and snap out of it. Pronto.
Problem: Viggo was even hotter at seven a.m. the following morning.
His beard was trimmed, his blue eyes matched his plaid shirt, and yeah, I’d seen him park his Harley out front.Fuck me.
I dropped a fritter into a to-go bag and set it on the counter. “Hello.”
“Good morning, Dexter.”
“How are you?”
Viggo shrugged. “Well. You?”
“Not bad. Feel like coaching ten-year-olds with me tomorrow?”
“No.”
I chuckled, grabbing a dish towel. “If you change your mind, practice is at five.”
Viggo huffed or grunted or made one of those noises that could have meant anything from “okay” to “no fucking way.” Then he was gone, revving his motorcycle to life while I wiped the spotless countertop like a robot.
The following morning was a repeat, only worse ’cause it was clear to me that infatuation had me by the balls. Seriously. I actually googled lumberjack porn and jerked off to big guys with beards, plaid shirts, and work boots hammering each other over a massive tree trunk. Who was I?
I wisely stayed away from the counter at seven a.m. for the rest of the week. I didn’t text Viggo, and I didn’t seek him out either. It was business as usual for me—early mornings at the store, workouts, flag football practices and games, and hanging out with friends.
I had dinner with Reg and his kids last night. Playing catch with Rhys, quizzing Gretch on the periodic table, and chasing Tate the wonder dog when he stole my ball cap never got old.
And tonight, Troy came by with a six-pack and a long overdue tale about his date with the barista from Elmwood who’d turned out to be a moonlighting med student.
