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He tilts his head, his eyes settling on my lips for a moment before he looks up to meet my gaze again.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice low and smooth.
Oh my god.
Did he just ask if he could kiss me?
I knew the guy was a gentleman, but I didn’t know how much of one he was.
I swallow the brick in my throat, fireworks going off in my heart.
“Of course,” I say softly, wishing my voice was steady.
This is it. This is it.
Fucking finally.
I close my eyes, my lips parting open, just enough.
I wait.
Nerves on fire.
Heart dancing.
Lips aching for him…
No kiss.
And I don’t feel him come any closer.
I open my eyes and look at him.
He hasn’t moved. Instead he’s just watching me, wearing the cockiest smirk I’ve ever seen.
“I didn’t mean now,” he says. “I just wanted to know for future reference.”
My eyes narrow, my body growing hot with embarrassment and sexual frustration. “You’re a jerk.”
He laughs playfully. “Someone has to keep you on your toes.”
I shake my head and snatch the apron from his hands, bringing it to the small hamper we have in the pantry and tossing it in there.
“So your nickname is moose, huh?” I say, trying to cover up the awkwardness. Even with my back turned to him, I can tell he’s still grinning. “Maybe your nickname oughta be dick.”
“Who’s to say it isn’t?” he answers.
Once everything is dry, I tell the girls to do their homework and tell Callum he has to get ready for bed. Like I thought, he makes a huge fuss, not wanting to miss out on what’s going on with Viktor and the “adults.”
Then I bring up story time.
Then, to my surprise, though honestly, I don’t think I should be surprised by anything he does now, Viktor volunteers for story time.
And suddenly Callum is racing to his bedroom to put on his pajamas and get in bed.
“Do you even know what story time is?” I ask Viktor as we go up the stairs.
When he doesn’t say anything I look down at him over my shoulder and see that his focus is completely on my ass.
His eyes flit up to mine. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. “And story time, that sounds like when you make up a story, a bedtime story.”
“Callum usually has Pike read from a certain book.”
“Nah, I think I’ll just make something up,” he says.
“Suit yourself, he’s a tough critic,” I tell him as we step into Callum’s room. He’s already sitting in bed, big grin on his face, in his faded Superman pajamas. Viktor pulls up a chair from the desk and I sit down on the end of the bed because there’s no way I’m not going to be here for this.
“I know you usually have a book read to you,” Viktor notes, “but I have a special Swedish story to share with you. Do you like trolls?”
Callum shakes his head.
Viktor looks at me, trying not to smile. “Okay, do you like dragons?”
Callum shrugs.
“What about dragons and Vikings?”
Callum sits up straighter. “Are there battles and axes and swords and blood?” he asks excitedly.
“Of course,” Viktor says to him and then he looks at me. I’m shaking my head. No. Not a good idea before bedtime.
“Or maybe not,” he corrects himself.
“Awwww,” Callum whines.
“Or maybe a little.” Viktor nods at me. “Your sister can just cover her ears at that part.”
I raise my brow and try to bite back a smile.
So Viktor launches into a story about a Viking prince named Erling. At first I know he’s making it all up off the top of his head, but the more he goes into the story, the more it seems natural, real, and the more I get involved in it. Soon both Rosemary and Thyme are sitting together on Callum’s bean bag chair and listening intently to the battles and the wars and the Viking boats and the dragons and even the fair maidens that need rescuing. There’s an evil king and a supernatural queen and a witch and flying whales.
By the time it’s all over–almost an hour later–Callum is both wired and half asleep. And out in the hallway is April, skulking around outside the door, having listened to most of it even though she would never dare admit it.
Now it’s late and everyone is tired and Viktor says he should get going.
I want to protest, but he’s right.
The cab is called.
I follow him out in front of the house, waiting with him for the cab. After that whole “can I kiss you” thing, I’m feeling a little slighted but still hopeful. Maybe this is it. Maybe he was waiting until we were really alone.
I gaze up at him, the moon rising behind him. He gazes down at me. But the moment I start to think it might happen for real, Viktor’s eyes fly up to the windows behind me.
I turn around and look up to see everyone watching us from the bedroom windows, goofy smiles on their faces. I wave, sigh, and look back at Viktor with a wry smile.
“Always an audience, huh,” I say.
“I’m used to it,” he says just as the cab pulls up. “So tomorrow we’ll get more…professional.”
Professional? Fucking great.
“Of course,” I tell him, pasting a smile on my face. “Thanks again for dinner.”
“It was my pleasure,” he says and does a little bow.
I curtsey to him in return which makes him burst out laughing. Then he gets in the backseat and the cab drives off.
Chapter Twelve
Maggie
“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” Viktor says, seemingly out of the blue. We’ve been talking about the Swedish football (you know, soccer) for what feels like forever, so this change of conversation throws me.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, folding my legs up under me, careful not to knock over the bottle of wine between us.
It’s Wednesday evening and after two days of Viktor and I having rather “professional” meetings after work, either in coffee shops or in the minivan, I decided that enough was enough. I wanted to have some fun.
Actually it was Viktor who decided it. Maybe he could tell the interview was coming out stiff and formal after a while. Maybe it was because I was so damn rusty at it, maybe because I don’t actually like interviewing Viktor. I like talking to him, having an exchange of ideas, being honestly invested in what he says, because I want to, not because I have an article to write.
To be honest...I don’t think I want to do the article anymore. I haven’t completely vetoed the idea but I’m leaning toward it. Even with the formalities of asking rote questions and listening to the playback to make sure I got it all, scribbling notes when something strikes me later, I keep feeling the same feeling I had when he made us dinner. That our relationship, whatever it was, our time together, it was just for me and him. No one else. I want to keep it close to me and protect it like the fragile and precious thing it is.
And so today after work, Viktor picked me up in his sweet mustang, now fully-fixed thanks to some help from Pike, and we’re here, sitting on the top of the highest hills to the south of town, a plaid blanket I found in the garage laid out beneath us.
We have a bottle of wine. Actually two. Plus tubs of olives, slices of cheese, and onion and fig jam, and crackers. The sun is setting to one side of us, bathing us in gold that shines on the soft fresh grass of the rolling hills below us. From here it looks like Tehachapi is another world, a beautiful world. Viktor wanted to go somewhere enchanting and this was the only place I could think of.
Right now, it feels like we’re the only two people left in the world.
Right now, it’s perfect.
He sighs and leans back so he’s propped up on one elbow, one of his long legs stretched out, the other knee bent, and though he has sunglasses on, his gaze is focused on the setting sun. “I’m talking about everything, Maggie. Everything you do.”
“We’re not talking about me here,” I tell him.
“We never talk about you,” he says. “It’s been nothing but me the last two days. Frankly, I’m boring.”
“You were the one who suggested I interview you,” I point out, popping an olive in my mouth. And you’re never boring.
He looks over at me. “I know. But tonight, it’s all you.”
“Then why have you been talking about soccer this whole time?” I ask with a teasing smile.
He takes his sunglasses off to give me a steady look, the blue of his eyes popping like cornflowers against the sunset. “It’s called football, my dear.”
“My dear. So formal.”
“Did you ever want kids?”
He just lays that question on my lap, just like that.
I blink at him. “Excuse me? Did I ever want kids? Shouldn’t the question be, do I want kids? No wait,” I wave my hand dismissively, “why are we even talking about this.”
“Because I’m curious,” he says gravely. “Because the last two days I’ve been talking, and I’ve wanted nothing more than to hear you talk. Because I want you to tell me the things you keep inside, I want to be the man that you confide in, that you trust, that you want to let in.”
If that’s what you want, what even are we?
But I don’t ask that. Instead I run my hands over the plaid, the scratchy wool pricking the sensitive skin of my palm. “Kids? Honestly, I never gave them much thought. When I was younger, having a family wasn’t on my mind. All I wanted was out of this town. I wanted to be the journalists you read about, the ones out there getting the important stories, making a difference in people’s lives, shining light on injustices. That’s what I wanted. I thought that getting out of this town and going to New York would change everything. So no, I never really wanted kids, I guess. I certainly didn’t think I would be saddled with five of them, that’s for sure.”
