“Yup.”
“You’re making sausage donuts?”
I chuckled at her gobsmacked expression as I stirred chorizo in the large skillet. “Technically, so are you.”
She gave a full-body shiver. “I’ve never heard of a sausage donut. Will it taste good?”
“Heck, yeah! It’s chorizo jalapeño. Savory with a kick.” I punctuated my claim with a side kick, pleased to earn a giggle.
Our recent weekly donut dates had felt a little strained lately, and I knew that had to do with news about the baby. I wasn’t sure if Gretchen was hurt that she hadn’t known sooner or perhaps bummed that I’d succumbed to societal norms regarding reproduction.
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 atall. 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 typeto 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.
