“Oh, my God! This is going to be a long two hours if you don’t meet me halfway,” I snapped.
Viggo’s lips curled in amusement. “You’re funny.”
“No, I’m annoyed.”
“Because of the sex.”
“Grrr. Shut up and talk to me,” I growled.
He laughed, a sweet, unfettered sound that echoed in the confines of his SUV. “All right. We’ll talk, but I’ll ask the questions this time.”
“Go for it.”
“Where areyoufrom?”
“Michigan. Born and raised in Detroit. Grosse Pointe, specifically. My parents divorced when I was two. I have an older brother who’s a professor at Stanford. He’s a chemical engineer, always working on some secret experiment that gets him out of family gatherings—lucky bastard. My father lives in Argentina or Peru or Brazil. I don’t know where, for sure. No one has seen him in years. My mother remarried twice more. Husband number two was a lawyer. Nice guy, but he drank too much and Mom didn’t put up with that shit. Husband number three is Gilbert. He’s a well-connected businessman, and best of all, he puts up with my mom’s shit.”
“What kind of shit?”
“My mother likes to get her way. She’s an executive at a venture capital firm. Tough boss lady. Sure, she’s from money and she married into more money a couple of times in a row, but she’s no slouch. Mom has a master’s, a PhD, and has spent decades working her way up the corporate ladder. On one hand, I admire her. On the other hand, my mom forgets that her family members aren’t her employees.”
“Does she know that you hired a surrogate?” Viggo asked.
“She knows I intend to. I mean…I think I mentioned it once…a long time ago. But she doesn’t know about Freya. I told you…no one knows but you.”
“Will she be happy to be a grandmother? Or is she one already?”
I shook my head. “Nope. This will be her first, and honestly, I don’t know if she’ll be happy. How sad is that?”
“Sad for her, maybe. Not for you.”
“I was thinking more about the baby not having a warm and loving extended family. At least not the traditional kind.”
“Fuck tradition.”
I snickered. “You’re right. Fuck tradition.”
He smiled again and damn it, my heart flip-flopped in my chest.
Viggo pointed at the console. “If you want to listen to music, you can attach your phone to the Bluetooth.”
“No, that’s okay. I’d rather talk.” I chuckled as he groaned. “And I’m curious about you. I live in a town of lumberjacks, but I’ve never really spent much time with one.”
“Loggers, not lumberjacks,” he corrected.
“Oh, right. I’ve been lectured on the cultural construct of lumberjack versus logger. To me, a lumberjack is a badass who takes care of shit. Logger sounds tame, like someone who rolls logs around. Not quite the whole job description, I’m sure.”
“Not at all.”
“And this is where you tell me what a logger does.”
Viggo shot an annoyed glance at me. “I’m not giving descriptions or dissertations. I like wood. That’s it.”
I nodded fervently. “Fuck, me too.”
“Åh, jisses.”
“You’re blushing. I love it!”
