Page 211 of Savior
When I arrive home from work, Viking’s motorcycle is parked by the house. I pull my car beside Dean’s Silverado, noticing there is a bunch of pink carpet, rolled up in the back of his truck. The busted up wooden crib that had been in the spare room at the end of the hall, is with the discarded carpet.
Ever since our initial conversation, after that fiasco in the driveway last summer with Lucinda, Maddie and Daniel, Dean and I haven’t talked about any of it. I never told him I saw inside what had been Maddie’s baby room, before Lucinda left him and broke his heart. Once I found out the truth of the situation, it was easy enough for me to put together what happened in that room, for myself. He couldn’t bring himself to redo it when he remodeled the rest of the house. To erase what little he had left of the baby girl he fell in love with and believed to be his own for months. The destruction of the crib, was an outward manifestation of his immense pain and anger. The brokenness of his heart and soul.
My hand drops to Ace. I can’t imagine ever hurting Dean, or Ace. Especially not in the ways Lucinda has with Dean and Maddie.
I find Viking and Dean inside the room that will now be Ace’s nursery. What had been pink walls, are now a robin’s egg shade of blue. The wallpaper trim that had been baby elephants, monkeys and giraffes, is now illustrated motorcycles in shades of blues and greys.
The men are preoccupied, unaware of my presence just yet. I watch as Viking, moving on his hands and knees along the wall, slams his knee repeatedly into some kind of carpet laying tool. Putting his entire muscular body into each thrusting slam, progressing along the base of the wall with a smooth, powerful, efficiency.
I wonder if he puts that much power behind other things...
Ew! I mentally chastise myself immediately, for even thinking that way about Viking, of all people!
As he nears the door, he catches me watching him, and grins that damn grin of his.
“Impressed?”
I clear my throat, trying not to sound flustered. “You look like you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m good at laying all kinds of things, Vanna. Rules… Carpet… Pipe…”
“I get it.” I interrupt his list, already knowing exactly where he’s going with his comment. He chuckles and resumes his work for the last few feet, then stands to his full, towering height.
“Just stretching the carpet over the tack strip for a better, tighter fit.”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“What?” he laughs, “That’s what I was doing! Get your mind out of the gutter, Vanna.”
Shaking my head, I shift my attention to Dean.
“Hey, doll.” He smiles, standing up from the trim they have laid out on the opposite side of the room. “Was hoping to surprise you and have this finished by the time you got home, but we were at the mercy of drying paint… Do you like it?” his tone is hopeful, and I can’t help returning his smile.
“I love it. It’s perfect. Ace will love the motorcycles.”
“Great.” He sounds relieved. “Well, this trim is finally dry.” Dean grabs a few pieces and hands two off to Viking. “We’re almost done.”
“I’ll get dinner going.” I say, looking back at Viking. “Since you helped Dean today, would you like to stay for dinner?”
He only scoffs, as if I should automatically know the answer to that.
“So, you guys talk about wedding plans yet?” Viking asks, slurping up a heaping fork full of spaghetti. I always cook pasta when Viking joins us for dinner. I can easily make a few pounds of it and he won’t leave here, still hungry. “Should probably hire security, whatever you plan to do.” He adds. I notice the look Dean shoots him, then how Dean’s eyes slide to me, clearly hoping I didn’t read into that last statement.
“Why would we need security?”
“Nice one.” Dean mutters at Viking, ripping off a piece of garlic bread and shoving it into his mouth as he glares at his brother.
Viking grins, looking back down at his plate as he twirls the fork in his pasta, chuckling to himself.
“What?” I ask again. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s not that funny.” Dean insists.
“Yes it was.” Viking grabs his napkin, wiping his mouth with it, then seems to stare at the napkin for a moment before he laughs.
Dean is shaking his head at him. “Don’t.”
“Please do.” I push. “What’s so funny about the napkin? Tell me, or there will be no dessert.”
