Page 52 of Only and Forever
My eyes snap open. Viggo’s romance novel lowers, just enough to reveal pale blue eyes, one arched eyebrow. “You that dependent on coffee, you can’t walk forward or with your eyes open till you have it?”
I grumble under my breath, storming back into the kitchen, past him, toward his pullout pantry cabinet.
Viggo grins, his gaze darting over me as he sets down the kettle. “Coffee will be ready in just a minute.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing a breakfast bar from its box, the same one I eat most mornings. I pull out my PDM—personal diabetes management—device, a little iPhone look-alike that makes diabetic life a bit simpler than it used to be back when I had to manually calculate my insulin needs based on the carbs I’d eat, and enter the carbs in my breakfast bar to bolus the correct amount of insulin. Then I tear off the wrapper and take a big bite.
Viggo is quiet, leaning against the counter as he reads. It reminds me of last year on the deck, watching the sunrise, the way he sat still and watched the sun spill light across the ground, the treetops, his gaze drinking it all in.
Chewing my breakfast bar, I let myself do the same. I stand still and just... drink in the moment. I’m aware of how rare it is, how long it’s been since I was fully present to the moment I was in andfelt.
Cool morning air whispers through the open windows, rippling the curtains until they billow like ship sails. The coffee slides through the filter and lands in the glass carafe in a steady, soothingdrip drip drip. Viggo drags his finger beneath the paper’s edge of his romance novel, chased by a faintshushas he turns the page.
I feel hyperaware of every detail, nearly overwhelmed by the beauty of it. And I feel like I’ve been here before, like I’ve woken up from what I’d sworn was a dream that wasn’t a dream after all. A shiver ripples through me. Déjà vu weirds me the hell out.
Plopping onto one of the kitchen island stools, I take another bite of my breakfast bar, surrounded by the rich aroma of percolating coffee, Viggo’s visceral presence, soft clothes draped over his hard body, as he turns, sets down the novel, and pours a cup of coffee, then another.
I stare at him, so... torn, so confused.
Why do I feel this draw to him? Why can’t I contain it like I have with plenty of other people? Put it in a box with discrete boundaries and points of contact in my life, my thoughts, my feelings?
What do I do about that?
Viggo turns and sets my coffee in front of me, then slips onto a stool on my other side. Our arms brush and I flinch, drawing back, hoping I hide the movement by lifting my mug to my lips and bracing my elbows on the counter.
Viggo sips his coffee. I sip mine. It’s not boiling hot this time like it was at the A-frame, and I wonder if he remembered that I burned myself, how he managed to make it just right for me. Then I see the ice cube floating in the middle of my coffee cup, dissolving rapidly.
My heart thumps. I tip back my mug and gulp a third of its contents.
Viggo watches me as I lower my cup. Then he says, “Now that you’re somewhat caffeinated, I want to talk about last night.”
My eyes widen. I set down my coffee cup and stare into its contents’ smooth, dark surface. “Okay.”
Slowly, he turns my way on his stool. His knee knocks into mine. “I want to apologize for the direction I took things.”
My head jerks up, my eyes finding his. “Viggo, I was right there with you. Hell, I started it.”
“But you’re my guest. You’re helping me out, you’re staying here, and it was shitty of me to talk about...that,” he says delicately, “when we’re going to be working together, living together. I never want you to feel cornered or uncomfortable—”
“Viggo.” My voice is firm. I turn and face him, too.
This guy. I want to shake him. I want to kiss him. He is so different from any other person I’ve known. He so far outstrips anyoneI’ve ever met, so much thinking, feeling, worrying, the energy he expends, torn about doing what’s right, about doing right by me, when we’re barely evenfriends.
He swallows, his eyes searching mine. “Yes, Lula?”
Gently, I wrap my hand around his and squeeze. “You did nothing wrong. I wasn’t uncomfortable. I’m sorry if I madeyouuncomfortable—”
“No,” he says quickly, leaning in, his knees brushing mine again. “No, you didn’t.”
Our eyes search each other’s. “You sure? Because you seem a bit...uncomfortableright now, if you know what I mean.”
His eyes narrow as he seems to try to figure out what I mean. I point downward. He glances at his lap, then his head snaps up, heat high on his cheeks. “Tallulah Clarke!”
“What?” I laugh. “My dude, how was I not going to notice that?”
Viggo glares at me, scooching himself closer to the bar, which does very little to hide that he’s still hard inside his shorts. “Our discussion was vivid last night, and its impact hasn’t exactly... diminished.”
“There is definitely nothing ‘diminished’ about that.”