“So, tell me about the little dude.”
Grey beams. “Sonny just turned three, loves cars and trucks, swimming, and strawberries. But blueberries are his favorite. Seriously, you have to be careful because he’ll eat a pound of them. Found that out the hard way.” A grin plays on his lips, reminding me that boys, guys too by the looks of it, all think poop is funny.
Sonny toddles over and hugs Grey’s legs. He looks up at him with big blue eyes that are the same as his father’s in every way except the color.
Grey picks him up. “Sonny, I forgot my manners. I didn’t introduce you to—” He pauses as though not sure what to call me. “Buttercup?”
Sonny giggles, then in his squeaky little kid voice, he says, “I like smør.”
“That means butter,” Grey says.
“Hi, Sonny. I like butter and buttercups, too. It’s nice to meet you.”
The little boy looks at me for a long moment. Hope lights in his eyes and his chubby little fingers reach for me. “Mamma?”
Grey grunts.
I take Sonny into my arms and he clamps down with a hug like he doesn’t ever plan to let go.
There is something else Grey isn’t saying. Something hidden beneath the surface. Another piece of his sad story that he won’t tell. Over Sonny’s shoulder, as he clings to me like a little koala, my gaze floats from Grey’s chiseled cheekbones, to the scar on his lip, to the snug bind of his T-shirt around his muscles. Had itnot been for the fish story, I’d think he was hewn out of the solid rock of the island.
After a walk around the property where we try to track down the bunnies, or thekaniner,as I learned in Norwegian, we return to the cabin, as Grey calls it. More like a mansion, but I’m learning the man who isn’t much for talking has plenty to say and more answers he owes me. While he finishes preparing dinner, I read to Sonny from a stack of books Elsie brought.
Out the big windows, the sun hovers just above the tree line, painting the lake shades of citrus.
Once at the table, the three of us join hands in prayer, completing the moment. It’s like we found a missing chapter of the story I didn’t even know I was part of.
The three of us quickly form a connection and it fills me up.
I could attribute it to the natural environment, Grey and I telling each other personal stories or the fact that he brought me to the place that’s very special to him, but I’ve seen another side of Grey that I couldn’t have imagined. From hiking around the island with Sonny riding piggyback, to the two of them singing together, to him blowing raspberries on his sweaty little neck.
Sonny brought him to life.
And as upset as his omission of this very major detail makes me, seeing him in the kitchen, in jeans and barefoot while making dinner—fully domesticated yet every bit still a Viking—makes my heart race and stop at the same time. What could this mean? Have I fallen for my marriage of convenience husband?
“What?” he asks in a new, non-gruff, flirty tone when he catches me staring.
Smirking, I shake my head. When Grey looks in the mirror, I’m guessing all he sees is the Viking, the Hulk, so he acts like one when there’s so much more to his man if he’d only allow it.
I’m only three bites into the meal with balsamic grilled chicken, sweet potatoes, and a salad when I realize that this could be my life...
And I could eat this way every day for the rest of my life. I close my eyes, savoring the moment and the fresh flavors. When I blink my eyes open, Grey stares at me with...curiosity? Mirth? Something else?
We talk about all the things from the garden on our plates. Sonny gives us a long list of the foods he likes and the ones he doesn’t. At the top of that list islutefisk.
Grey sticks out his tongue. “It smells as bad as Mathias’s feet.”
Sonny giggles.
“Bestemor, Grandma, used to make me eat it when I was your age. She’d even try to disguise it in a grilled sandwich.”
“Do I have to eat it?” Sonny asks as though petrified.
Grey raises a pointed finger in the air. “No. There will be no lutefisk in this house by order of official decree.”
“What islutefisk?” I ask.
“It’s yucky,” Sonny informs me.
