Page 12 of Only and Forever
“I...” He clears his throat, whacking his chest again. “Nothing.”
“It’s clearly not nothing. What’s Escondido to you?”
Viggo stares at me, his expression growing uncharacteristically serious. He brings a finger to his mouth and bites the nail. He’s nervous.
Instinctively, I reach a foot toward him and knock my toe into his grandpa slipper. “Tell me.”
His eyes are tight, searching mine. “Why should I? Miss Begrudgingly, Barely Answering My Questions.”
I hold his eyes, wrestling with myself. He’s right. Why should he confide in me? More importantly, why do I want him to?
Viggo sits back in his chair, still turned toward me, folding his arms across his chest. “My connection to Escondido is a secret. One my family doesn’t even know—”
I keep my expression blank, trying hard to hide my interest. I love a good secret. That pent-up anticipation of the truth finally being uncovered. It’s one of my favorite parts of thriller writing, building a story’s momentum toward that climactic revelation.
“—but I’ll tell you,” he says, “ifyou tell me a secret, too.”
Oh, no way. No bonding secret swaps with Viggo Bergman. “You can keep your secret, then.”
He sighs, eyes narrowed analytically, like I’m a code he’s trying to crack. “AndI’ll drop the remaining questions I was going to ask. For context, I had twenty-two left.”
I lift my eyebrows. Now, that’s appealing. After letting him hang for a minute, I stand from my chair and tell him, “Deal. But first, I need more coffee.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he says, springing out of his seat. “Last time I made this ‘deal’ with you, you got a drink out of it and I got a big old goose egg.”
Something about the way he says it tickles me, and I duck my head, biting back a laugh. But when I glance up, all amusement drains from me. Viggo is standing very close—not inappropriately, just... close. Closer than a person’s been to me in too long.
I feel heat pouring off his body, smell that damn delectable evergreen and cinnamon-sugar scent clinging to his skin. I drink in his clothes, soft and worn, draped lovingly over his lean, hard body. I can see two defined pecs beneath his shirt, and one of his flannel sleeves is rolled high, rucked up on his arm, revealing a taut, round bicep.
I swallow thickly. “I’ll get the coffees,” I say, trying to sound resolute.
“I’llget them. You,” he says, pointing to my chair, “will sit your butt down, enjoy the sunrise, and be right here when I get back.”
“Someone’s bossy.”
A twinkle settles in his eyes. He grins. “I can be. But generally, I much prefer when it’s the other way around.”
My mouth falls open as he plucks my mug from the rictus of my clenched hand.
And then Viggo Bergman strolls right by, his arm brushing mine, leaving me to melt into a resentful, lusty puddle on his deck.
THREE
Viggo
Playlist: “Make a Picture,” Andrew Bird
I step back onto the deck, a mug of coffee in each hand, dragging the door shut with my elbow. Tallulah glances over her shoulder and lifts an eyebrow at me, her mouth set in a firm, frigid line. My dick twitches in my sweatpants. There’s something wrong with me. Tallulah’s chilly gaze should not turn me on like that.
But God, is there something about that woman’s serious scowliness that my devious self enjoys, that makes me want to tease and play, see if I can get a little rise out of her, or better yet—and as Charlie pleaded—finally turn that frown upside down.
I smile, handing her a cup of coffee. “Your caffeine, madam.”
She takes the cup, peering up at me skeptically. “Thanks.”
“Very welcome.” I plop back into the Adirondack and scooch the chair her way, holding my coffee out and steady with the other hand so I won’t spill. “So. Let’s swap secrets.”
She rolls her eyes as she sips her coffee, but, for just a second, I swear I catch the tiniest sliver of a smile hiding behind her mug.