I expected irate indignation, and Viggo didn’t disappoint.
“My name means battle, fight, war.” He pounded a fist on the rickety picnic table and glowered. “It isfornnordiska, Old Norse. A proud warrior name, not a nickname for chocolate chips or a bag of Doritos.”
“That guywasa bag of Doritos.” I snickered gleefully. “No reason to get testy with me, though. I love your name.”
“What will you name the baby?”
My heart somersaulted and I knew I was wearing a shitfaced grin. “I don’t know. I like traditional names, so maybe Jack or Robert for a boy, Catherine or Grace for a girl. But I’ll change my mind a dozen times between now and December, and I won’t tell anyone what I decide until it’s on a birth certificate. Everyone has a Jack, a Robert, a Katie, or a Grace that bugged them in school, and they can’t wait to tell you about it. And I’ve decided not to find out the sex. I want to be surprised.”
He nodded. “That’s good, I think. Especially if you don’t care if it’s a boy or girl. My sister-in-law, Ingrid, didn’t care either, but she wanted the nursery done and she was picky about colors.”
“What did she end up having?”
“First a boy, then a girl.” Viggo smiled affectionately. “Lukas and Viveca, or Vivi. They’re ten and eight.”
“Were you there when they were born?”
“Ja. I was home a lot at that time.” The light in his eyes dimmed for a beat. He speared a bite of steak and pointed his fork at me. “Who will watch the baby while you work?”
“I’m taking a four-month paternity leave. Janey can handle the store and if she needs me, I’m able to be there. I also have a nanny lined up. She’s a friend of Janey’s who used to nanny for a couple of hockey players in Elmwood before their kids became school aged.”
“What doyouknow about babies?”
“What do you mean?”
Viggo shrugged. “Do you know how to feed them, change diapers? Will you know what to do in an emergency?”
“Well, yes and no. The truth is, I’ll be winging it like most first-time parents.”
He pushed his plate aside and reached for his wine. “I don’t think I like babies. They’re too little. They scare me.”
“Oh, brother.”
“I’m serious.” He wasn’t. His eyes lit with mischief and humor. “Lukas was a screamer. Big lungs, and he was only this big.” Viggo held his hands twelve inches apart. “All that noise from the tiniest little creature. And the spit-up…disgusting. Good luck with that.”
I kicked him under the table. “You’re full of shit. Just for that, I’m making you my emergency contact for all things disgusting—diaper blowouts, snotty noses, the works. Call Uncle Viggo.”
Uncle Viggo? Where had that come from?
We laughed a little awkwardly. Thankfully, one of us immediately changed the subject—something about playing chess or one of the games under the coffee table.
I could have sat with Viggo all night on that porch, trading teasing gibes and stream of consciousness musings to the soundtrack of cicadas and katydids. The air smelled of mesquite embers from the grill, pine needles, damp earth, and the cool lake breeze. It was…kind of perfect.
I woke the next morning with Viggo’s arm draped over my stomach, his lips tickling my ear, his dick nudging my thigh. I grumbled about the bed being so small and cuddled closer. He welcomed me, pulling my back against his bare chest and holding me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The butterflies struck with a vengeance.
Then he was inside, moving so slowly, so tenderly, I thought I could crumble under the weight of the sweetness. The feel of muscular arms, rough hands, and the scratch of a thick beard were a potent contrast to his sensual touch. I didn’t ever want it to end. Seriously. I would have happily canceled our plans to attend Gilbert’s party and stayed in bed all day.
Viggo, however, declared we had fish to catch.
I protested. It was too early, the bed was warm, the sun had barely kissed the horizon, we needed caffeine and fuel…and what about more sex?
Viggo found two thermoses for our coffee and a small cooler for our toasted bagels with cream cheese. We grabbed sweatshirts, the tackle box, and the two rods we’d rented the day before and set out for the boat tied to the dock.
I hadn’t been fishing in…forever, and honestly, I was fine with that. I associated the pastime with sharp hooks, slimy worms, ugly dead-eyed fish, sunburn, and acute boredom. The last one was the worst. Viggo didn’t agree.
“The quiet is the best part,” he insisted. “It’s a chance to connect with nature.”
