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I can’t help the blush that burns across my cheeks. Nor can I help the smile. I can’t think of anything to say to that, so I utilize a Nils communication device and shrug. I take a bite of toast to give my mouth a task before I do something insane like ask if he’d like to see them again.

“Quiet,” Nils notices. “Headache?”

“Mm, sort of. Not bad, though. I think all that water you made me drink after the shower helped. My stomach was feeling a little rough, but it’s a lot better now.” I grin, popping the last of my toast into my mouth and wishing I had another two slices. Nils, reading my mind, places his own food on the counter and goes to make me more.

“Is some-something w-w-w-wrong, the-then?” he asks. I groan, drawing his dark eyes to mine, brows pulled downward as he frowns.

“No. Not really. Sort of, I guess. Just embarrassed, is all. That you saw my pretty underwear and that I was a bit of a sloppy drunk. There’s nothing quite like acting like a fool in front of someone you’re inter—coworkers with.”

“Mm.” Nils hums, dropping the fresh toast onto my plate and eyeing me. He doesn’t believe me.

Discomfort coats my tongue like superglue, my body weaving between hot and cold like it can’t decide which temperature is suitable for survival. I chew on my lip, remembering as I do how I used to make myself bleed when I was younger—unable to stop, no matter how much I got yelled at for the habit. I wasnever doing anything right—either talking too much or hurting myself to try and stop. Deliberately, I take a sip of the coffee Nils poured me in the same chicken mug I used last time I was here. Oh, how I wish we were still living inside that peaceful little snow globe.

Instead of being quiet the way I should—the way Ialwaysshould—I hop down into the grave I’ve started digging and pick up the shovel. In for a penny, as they say.

“But, uh, you know, we’re not just coworkers, are we? We’re friends. Not that I usually strip down in front of my friends either. But the truth is, the other day when you asked if I was interested in anyone, I should have said yes. Because I am. In you, if I’m being honest. Which is probably pretty obvious, but now that you know all my secrets, I guess I might as well just admit it.”

Nils’ dark eyes don’t waver once from mine, fork suspended in the air with a bit of egg on the end. There’s a touch of surprise in the soft curve of his mouth and the wideness of his eyes. Still no disgust, which, honestly, is a big win for me. Should have whipped the lingerie out months ago, I guess.

“So, anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. I’ve practically been swallowing my tongue these past few weeks, trying not to bring us back to that conversation so I could come clean. Although, like I said before, I probably wasn’t very subtle. Also, speaking of subtle, I think I mentioned some things to Ryan last night about your…attributes.”

Nils’ eyebrows rise at that. The fork is finally lowered back to his plate, I imagine because his wrist was getting tired holdingit balanced in midair. I smile at him, waiting, since it’s obvious he’d like a turn to speak.

“I di-di-di-di-di—” Throat working, he closes his eyes briefly. Slowly, he tries again, frustration evident in the slight tensing of his fingers. “I-I-I di-di-didn’t no-no-no-no-notice.”

Inhaling deeply like the sentence cost him more than a bit of oxygen, he twitches his shoulder.

“Oh. Well, that’s okay. It’s possible my flirting doesn’t look any different than just my normal personality. That would make sense, honestly, since I’ve got a terrible track record with men. I probably should have just kept it to myself. But I also should have kept my underwear to myself, yet here we are.”

He huffs in amusement. I think, judging by the look on his face, he’d be bright red if his skin were as fair as mine. I watch as he drops his eyes to his breakfast, fingers on the handle of his coffee mug, spinning it idly. Clearing my throat, I keep talking. He won’t, and now that I’ve begun, the tickle at the back of my throat feels incessant. I want to flip over every card in my deck, spread them out in front of him, and find out what it feels like to have one single person in the world who knows me. I want him to like me today the same way he liked me yesterday.

“You know how I’m not very close with my family? My father wanted me to run a kitchen. To use my culinary school degree by opening and operating a three-Michelin-star restaurant. To him, worth has always been linked with success. He also has some…archaic views of what it means to be a man, and I probably don’t have to go into great detail about all the ways I fall short of that.” Nils’ dark eyes rise and meet mine, lips curled down in a frown. “But the thing is, it’s not only my father who has ideas of who I should be. A lot of guys have pretty rigid standards of how other men should look and behave. I look like a top, act like a bottom, and dress femme. Which is confusing for everyone, apparently. Including me, some days. And people don’t like it.”

Nils smiles a little sadly. He opens his mouth to reply but pauses, thinking for a second. I wait, humming a little bit. Probably, I shouldn’t have said that stuff about tops and bottoms. Probably, I shouldn’t say anything to anyone ever again. All thoughts from now on are inside thoughts. Nils clears his throat.

“I like you-you-you-you-you ho-o-o-w you-you—” He stops, dark eyelashes once more fluttering downward and chest expanding in a deep breath. After a second, throat bobbing, he finishes with a soft “Are.”

I like you how you are.Now we both look down at our food, embarrassed for different reasons. I almost open my mouth and start reciprocating by telling him all the things I like abouthim, but sip my coffee to wash the words down. I have word vomited all over him this morning, and I need to get it under control before I make a mess. Surprisingly, it’s Nils who speaks, voice low and words careful. I know I’m making him at least a little uncomfortable, given how much he’s been stuttering. And knowing how much he hates it when that happens, I feel awful. I really should have just gone home.

“You-you-you-you d-don’t wa-a-ant to co-o-o-o-k?” he asks, lifting a hand off the counter to gesture at the kitchen. I don’t need the words “professional” or “commercial” in thatsentence to understand what he’s asking. I shake my head.

“No. I thought I did, hence the culinary school. I love to cook, and I’m actually pretty good at it. But when I got my first job in New York at a restaurant, I realized pretty quick that it wasn’t for me. The best part about cooking is sharing it, right? Like, when I make boat lunch for you and Shiloh, I get to watch you eat it. I get to share leftovers and recipes. And if I’m being honest, I like hearing the praise.” I shrug, grinning. Nils smiles back. “But being a chef in a professional kitchen means giving orders and working together in an assembly line. It’s spending most of your time in the back, away from patrons, and never getting to interact with the people you’re serving. I thought it was the cooking itself I enjoyed, but it’s not. It’s the sharing I like the best.”

Nils nods, accepting the thing that sits like a wedge between me and my family. My father doesn’t understand. To him, money and acclaim is more than enough of a reason to work hard in a position. The fact that I hated it meant nothing to him. And the fact that I moved to Siren’s Point and took a job on a lobster boat is so out of his realm of understanding he’d asked if I’d suffered a psychotic break. In his mind, I will forever be the kind of man he hates—soft and weak and led by my desires.

“Anyway. I don’t see my family often, so it’s not like it matters what they think of me anymore.” I shrug as though my father’s voice doesn’t constantly whisper poison in my ear, even from miles away. Without even meaning to, I add, “It matters what you think of me, though.”

Smiling—very small, and probably not visible to anyonewho doesn’t stare at his face as much as I do—Nils reaches for my empty plate and turns to rinse it off in the sink. I hardly feel hungover at all, which is a not-so-minor miracle in itself. Humming under my breath, I lean an elbow on the island and watch Nils’ back as he cleans off the plates and tucks them into the dishwasher before filling the sink to take care of the pan.

“Never dated,” he says, so softly and with a waver in his voice betraying how much effort he’s putting in to speaking. Usually, things are so much easier between us.

Chapter Eleven

NILS

My mom likes to say every time you make a plan, the universe laughs. Today, the universe is having a riot of a time with me. My days, which are so similar as to be identical, are broken up less by big events than they are slight changes to small things. Different clothes, different tidal patterns, different weather. Oliver wearing a different beanie with a pom-pom on top. Oliver bringing something new and—in his words—exciting for boat lunch. Oliver laughing so hard his eyes shone with tears after he got startled by a raccoon in the crawl space under his porch.

Oliver walking out of my bathroom mostly naked, water droplets on his fair skin, flushed from the heat of the shower, hair messy and dripping onto the towel wrapped across his shoulders, the faint hint of abdominal muscles around a small strip of light fuzz down the center of his belly. Green lace wrapped delicately around his hips, pale thighs and fine hair, the curves and lines of muscles, and just a peek of what remained hidden below.