Page 9 of Only and Forever
Tears slip down my cheeks, and I clench my teeth, willing myself to stop. I hate crying. I wipe my cheeks and eyes with the heel of my hand.
Taking a deep breath, I steady myself and cross the great room toward the sliding doors that lead to the back deck. I’m still teary-eyed and sniffling, but at least there’s no one to see me like this. At least I’m alone.
As I step onto the deck, my gaze fastens on the first moments of dawn, the sun just a faint yellow smudge on the bruised blue-black horizon. I drag the sliding door shut behind me, then start to ease into an Adirondack chair beside me.
“Well, good morning to you, Tallulahloo.”
I startle violently, spilling coffee all over my hand. Fuck me. Shaking my hand free of the scalding coffee droplets, I glare in the direction of the only person who’s ever used that ridiculous name, who’s here, where I was supposed to be alone, left in peace to wallow in my early morning pity party.
Viggo. Of course it’s Viggo.
He smiles my way and lifts his coffee mug.
A weird kick knocks against my ribs. There’s no ball cap this morning. Just thick, chocolate-brown bed-head waves that almost touch his shoulders, that dense beard obscuring his mouth and jawline. He’s wearing an open plaid flannel shirt in shades of deep blue and green over a white graphic tee that features a mug of coffee, a couple embracing on its ceramic surface. Above the mug his shirt says,I like my romance novels like I like my coffee—hot and steamy. A pair of hunter-green joggers that are a little short reveal bare ankles and the most grandpa pair of slippers I have ever seen—plaid flannel that matches his shirt, with a little leather bow.
It feels weirdly... intimate, seeing him like this.
I’m reminded, as I glance down at myself, that I am in similarly informal clothes, and that feels... weirdly intimate, too. My stretchy black palazzo pj pants flutter in the spring breeze. The matching dolman-sleeved pj top is half off one shoulder, cool air kissing my bare skin. I shrug it up. At least, I try to. But it slips right back down.
Viggo’s eyes hold mine, not for a second dipping to where my eyes definitely would be, if a lady with as fantastically ample, braless tits as mine walked out onto my deck first thing in the morning.
Well, well, well, we have a gentleman on our hands.
In hindsight, I should have realized that already, given the hotcoffee inside. Viggo didn’t selfishly make himself a quick single pour-over cup of coffee. He stood at the stove and heated a whole kettle, made a big pot of coffee for anyone who needed it, then set out mugs for them, too.
How despicably thoughtful.
Annoyed, unsettled, I grumble, “Of course you beat me in the wake-up race,” before bringing the cup slowly to my lips. I try another sip and stop myself. Still too hot.
“I wasn’t aware we were competing for first awake,” he says wryly, before bringing his coffee cup to his mouth.
“Ours is a brief history, Viggo, but it is undeniably defined by competition.”
He pauses, mug poised an inch from his mouth. His eyes dart to mine. “You saw us as competitors? In class?”
I blink, processing his question. Is this a surprise to him? He seemed so confident in class, so quick to speak and debate, to offer insight. And he was a damn good writer. The man could write a beautiful turn of phrase, though like hell am I admitting that.
“Don’t get a big head,” I tell him.
His face transforms from serious curiosity to the charming playfulness that greeted me last night. “Too late for that.”
I roll my eyes. Viggo watches me as I set my cup on the chair’s arm and try to lean back. I nearly fall flat, the chair is so deep. Swearing under my breath, I scooch until I’m nestled against the back of the chair, then scowl at the sunrise.
For a few minutes, nothing but silence hangs between us. At any moment, I’m anticipating some pithy, provoking quip from Viggo, something about me not being a morning person, about how I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but he’s quiet. Perplexed, I glance his way.
Viggo’s smiling at me.
I glare at him. “What are you looking at?”
He turns back toward the horizon, then lifts his mug to the sky. “Just a stunning view.” After a beat he says, “I get the sense you aren’t generally up this early.”
“How did you ever guess?” I deadpan, tucking my legs up onto the chair. I’m so damn short, when I’m eased into the back of the chair, my feet don’t touch the ground. An Adirondack is usually the one kind of chair I can count on to fit in like an adult rather than a child, legs dangling from a high chair. These Bergman giants and their long legs would have specially made long-legged-friendly Adirondacks.
Viggo sips his coffee, then sets his mug on the arm of his chair, a wry smile lifting his mouth. He’s quiet. Which really confuses me. I never got to know him well—I made a point not to—but I did share a classroom with him for a whole semester, and, once he got me my drink last night, I spent my energy avoiding yet nonetheless constantly aware of him. Last night, it was clear he’s as much of a nonstop talker as he was in college. Making conversation, telling jokes, laughing, instigating antics and noisy debates.
But not now. Right now, he’s surprisingly quiet.
“Now what areyoulooking at?” he asks, eyebrows raised as he turns his head my way.