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Watching him round the counter into the throng of excited people, who light up as he joins them, I feel a sad sinking sensation. I don’t like watching Viggo step into a world I’m not a part of.
“I love you, Tallulah,” Charlie whispers. “You don’t . . . have to say that back. I know you don’t like that word.”
The weirdest part of this isn’t that he’s in soccer gear, surrounded by elementary school kids—it’s his T-shirt. It says nothing about romance but instead, Bergman Northwest Outfitters—Bringing the outdoors to everyone.
“Thank God you’re here,” he says, pulling me into a hug, like he’s on a ship about to go down and I’m his lifeboat.
Another ball smacks him, and he spins around. “Okay, now, that one was my butt. Cut it out.”
“Coach Viggo was referring to my goalie skills at stopping the ball the way water is stopped by a dam. Now, run along, urchin, before he makes you run sprints for your impudence.” The kid blinks, gaping at me, then runs off on a shrill scream.
Beyond him, a dozen or so kids are bouncing around each other, kicking balls, screaming, like feral animals.
Story of my life
The idea of Tallulah with a bunch of kids my niece’s and nephew’s ages, finger painting, reading books, and playing goofy games, makes something warm settle beneath my ribs.
This . . . warmth filling me, when I look at her. Watching her here, this sense of . . . rightness.
My beloved car has been towed to what will probably be its final resting place, and I’m not falling apart.
This new Viggo texts not one of his three local siblings or parents or friends when his car doesn’t start—he texts Tallulah. This new Viggo isn’t lonely and antsy on a Saturday afternoon, putzing around his house, trying to find something to do—he’s sitting here, counting down the minutes until Tallulah comes out of the shower.
This new Viggo . . . is quite possibly falling for his roommate. Quite possibly has been falling for her since the first time he watched her walk into his classroom seven years ago, looking for her since the day he walked out of the world they shared, until they stumbled back into each other’s paths, seven years later.
Im giddy
“Did you trim your beard?” I bring a hand to it, equal parts satisfied and self-conscious. She noticed. “Just a little.” Her smile deepens. “It looks nice.” More warmth spilling through me. You’d think she told me the sun rose when I did, given how good it feels. “Thanks, Lula.” “You missed about four inches, though. And you used the wrong tool.” She makes a buzzing noise and mimes dragging a razor along her jaw. “You leave my beard alone, Clarke. It gives me character.” She laughs, straight from her belly, and I grin like a fool. “You have character aplenty without a woodsman beard, Bergman.”
“You look beautiful, with or without makeup, hair done or undone.
He has some rice in his beard. Leaning in, I brush it away.
My voice is shaky as I knit my hands together so tight it hurts and tell him, “I’ve never done it before. But from what I’ve heard about cuddling . . . it sounds like something I could use right about now.”
“No one’s ever cuddled you,” he says quietly. I nod.
“Then I’d say it’s high time we fixed that.”
“You couldn’t have asked a better person. I am the cuddle king.”
“Trust me, Lu. I can hold you.”
“You could be a bit squishier, but we’ll work on that. Give me some more time to make sure you eat lunch every day, and we’ll fill you in.”
“I was thinking you’re beautiful. That your body is perfect.”
“You built me a stepstool.” His cheeks pink a little bit. “Who says I built it?” He scratches behind his ear. “I could have run to IKEA.”
Viggo’s gaze is fixed right on my ass. “Enjoying the view?” His gaze snaps up to me guiltily. He bites his lip. “I’m just a man, Tallulah.”
Viggo pulls out a hankie from his pocket. I laugh tearily. Of course he’s got a hankie. It’s probably hand stitched. I look closer as he hands it to me. Sure enough, it is embroidered with tall, spindly blue flowers, and in the corner, the initials, VFB. “You are too much,” I mutter before blowing my nose.
Thought it was a very romantic idea, to have an initialed hankie I’d give someone if they needed it, if they cried in front of me.”
“I think it’s sweet. Can I keep it? Or is . . . that too . . . intimate?”
“It can mean whatever you need it to, Tallulah. So long as you know it means I . . . care. So much.”
“You taste so good, Lu.”
“You feel so good,” I whisper. He smiles against our kiss. “So do you.”
His free hand skates up my leg, splayed wide, possessive, up over my ass. He groans. “What kind of panties are these?” “The expensive kind.” He grips the lace tight in his hand and sighs. “You’re gonna kill me.” “I better not. We have unfinished business.” “Yeah, we do.”
“Fuck, you’re wet.”
Viggo smiles softly. A rough swallow works down his throat. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I invited them over to come meet the animals. “Freya and Aiden, they have some fancy dinner to go to, and I said not to bother with a sitter, I’d have them here to hang out and meet the pets. Shit.”
“I want you here. I don’t want you to go. I just . . . have tiny people about to come into my house, when I have a raging boner and all I want to do is lay you down and make you come again.”
“Tell your dick to get the memo.” He groans. “I can’t. You’re here, all flushed and sexy. I have you all over my hand.” “Viggo Bergman!” A grin lifts his mouth. “Wow, I finally scandalized you.” “Wash your hands,” I tell him, stepping back, smoothing my hair. “I’ll handle the tiny humans for now.”
sit on the sofa, stretched out, Theo sprawled in my lap as he crunches sleepily on handfuls of dry Cheerios, mesmerized by the entertainment that is Tallulah and Linnea making up a handshake, an effort that has Linnea bursting into fits of giggles. “No, Lula Blue!” Linnie yells.
Romeo’s ears go back. Juliet whines as she burrows her snout beneath her brother’s head. The dogs were all about Linnea’s enthusiastic pets when she first got here. They are not, however, big fans of her volume level.
A deep smile brightens her face, making those gorgeous dimples appear. Making my heart ache. I’m in deep shit.
“Just keep practicing,” Linnie tells her. “Some things take lots of practice to get better. Like . . . riding a bike without training wheels. But good news—once you get it, you’re all set, your muscles remember and you can always hop on a bike and do it after that, isn’t that cool? It really is hard to learn, though, and I get mad when I keep trying and I still can’t do it. But Mommy says I can do hard things. She says what’s hard about hard things isn’t often the things themselves but believing in ourselves when we try.”
“I like you, Lula Blue.” “I like you, too, Linnie Loo.” “Linnie Loo!” Linnea laughs. “That’s a funny name.” “Well, you gave me a funny name. I owed you one.”
“Lula Blue. May I please touch your hair?”
“So. How’d you get it blue? Markers? Paint?” “I dyed it,” Tallulah tells her. “With chemicals. Well, I paid someone to dye it, with chemicals.” “I want blue-hair-dye chemicals,” Linnea says. “That’s what I’m gonna ask for, for my birthday.”
I love this kid
“We’ll see,” she says, in that way that makes her sound even older than she is, that makes me remember how much she’s growing—a smart, highly verbal, clever kindergartener.
“It’s the same color as Uncle Viggo’s eyes, too!” Linnie yells.
Linnea glances between us. “Did you get hair to look like Uncle Viggo’s eyes, Lula Blue?”
“Good night, Percival!”
“Good night, Penelope! Good night, Pascal! Good night, Pearl! Good night, Paisley!”
“But the kitty cats!” she whines. “They need me. I’m their mama now. I can’t just name and leave them.”
“Those are quite the names. I see we’re putting our study of the baby-name book to good use.”
