Page 25 of The Viking in the Vault
“Hot chocolate,” I mutter to myself, cutting off my own thoughts. “Hot chocolate would be good. Okay…yes, yes.”
I stand, then, and move to the kitchen. It’s not nearly warm enough in here, though Ragnar looks completely comfortable. He’s actually a little too comfortable, sitting on the couch againwith his arms stretched across the back, legs spread like he’s some kind of king. I resist the urge to just look at him, busying myself in the kitchen.
“I hope you like chocolate,” I blurt out, grabbing supplies and putting them in two mugs. “I try to save it for a special occasion, but I guess this is one? I don’t really have boys over. Not that you’re a boy, of course. Like…I mean in general, normal boys.”
I’m distracting him from the TV, when my whole intent was to use the TV to get attention off of me.
I groan.
“...not that you’re not normal,” I shake my head. “I mean, I guess you’re not normal, but not in a bad way.”
I’m rambling, clumsy with the container of precious cocoa powder. My hands are shaking, probably because of the cold and not because there’s a shirtless viking in my living room.
Right.
Definitely the cold.
I look up and catch him watching me, his head tilted slightly, like he’s trying to decipher some ancient text. Or maybe just me. His gaze is steady, his smirk gone, and there’s a strange intensity in his expression that makes my heart pound harder than it should.
“Chocolate,” I say again, pointing at the mugs like an idiot. “It’s, uh, sweet. Warm. You’ll like it.”
Ragnar raises a brow but doesn’t say anything. Fenrik, meanwhile, has draped himself across the couch with the same smug confidence as his master, his head resting on Ragnar’s thigh. He looks completely at home, and I can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since either of them felt safe like this.
I focus on the task at hand, heating up the milk and stirring in the cocoa powder, sugar, and a pinch of chili powder. The smell of chocolate fills the air, rich and comforting, and it helpsme relax. Just a little. I pour the hot chocolate into two mugs and carry them over to the couch, handing one to Ragnar.
“Careful,” I warn, miming drinking from the mug. “It’s hot.”
He takes the mug from me, his fingers brushing mine, and the warmth of his touch sends a jolt up my arm. I freeze for a second, then quickly sit down on the other end of the Fenrik, putting as much space between us as possible without being obvious about it. Fenrik looks at me, clearly unimpressed, then lets out a dramatic sigh and closes his eyes.
Ragnar lifts the mug to his lips and takes a cautious sip. His eyes widen slightly, and he glances at me, nodding in approval.
I smile, feeling oddly proud. “Told you.”
We sit in silence for a while, the only sounds the crackling of the fire, the TV, and the occasional soft slurp as Ragnar drinks his hot chocolate. I sip mine slowly, savoring the warmth, and sneak glances at him out of the corner of my eye.
He looks…different in the firelight. Softer, almost. The harsh lines of his face are gentler, and there’s a quietness about him that I haven’t seen before.
“You know,” I say, talking because…well, I just want to talk to him. “Back at home, hot chocolate is a tradition. Especially when it’s cold like this.”
He nods along, listening even though I’m confident he doesn’t understand.
So I keep talking.
Because it’s actually kind of nice to talk to someone who will listen without any judgment.
“It doesn’t really get this cold much where I’m from,” I say. “More now than it used to, but that means our summers are hotter, too. But on days when we would have ice storms, or there was snow on the beach, my mom would make us all hot chocolate. She’d bundle us up in homemade scarves and hats–like the one I have over there–and take so many pictures.”
I smile at the memory, then I realize I can actually show him.
I put my hot chocolate down on the side table, then I pull open a drawer underneath it to grab a photo album. I hand it over to Ragnar, who takes it as if it’s priceless. He gives me a questioning look, and I nod.
“Open it,” I urge him.
Ragnar carefully flips open the cover, his large hands delicate as he handles the album. I scoot closer, unable to help myself, and Fenrik lets out an annoyed grumble before he slides off the floor and goes to sleep in front of the fire. When I look down, I see a picture of my family: my mom, me, Marcy, and Lisette, standing on the beach about ten years ago.
It was always just the four of us Draycott girls against the world.
“That’s my family,” I say softly, leaning even closer to point at the picture. I’m shoulder to shoulder with Ragnar now, but it’s comfortable–warm, perfect even. “My mom, me, and my sisters Marcy and Lisette. We used to live really close to the beach.”
