She laughs, that bright, breathy sound that loosens every knot in my chest. “Fine, Chef Denver. Enlighten me.”
I find the salt jar, shake a little over her shoulder. “There. Fixed.”
She tilts her head back, eyes meeting mine. “Show-off.”
“Fast learner.”
Our gazes lock, steady, unhurried. Something dangerous hums between us. I pull back first, before I forget what the hell self-control means.
But the electricity crackling between us doesn’t pull back. It only thickens. Unnamable, impossible to ignore.
We eat at the small table by the window. Bear curls near the hearth, the wind whispering against the logs. The stew’s better than it has any right to be.
She spoons a bite, chews, grins. “See? Told you it was edible.”
“Edible’s underselling it.”
“High praise from a man of few words.”
“Don’t talk much ‘cause most things ain’t worth saying.”
Her smile fades into something softer. “And this? Tonight?”
“Worth it.”
She swallows hard, eyes glossy in the lantern light. “You really don’t miss the city? The people?”
“World’s still out there,” I say. “Just stopped needing it.”
“Must be nice … to not need anything.”
“Didn’t say that.” My hand curls around my mug. “Still need coffee. Good tools. Decent dog.”
She tilts her head, waiting.
“And?” she whispers.
Her voice does things to me. Makes truth slip free before I can stop it. “Maybe someone who gets the quiet.”
Silence settles. Comfortable, then charged. The fire pops. Her foot brushes mine under the table, accidental or not, I can’t tell.
“Denver…” she starts, but words trail off.
“Yeah?”
“Nothing.” She stares into her bowl, color rising to her cheeks. “Just glad fate brought me here.”
“Me, too,” I admit.
We clean up side by side. I wash, she dries. Every time her fingers graze mine, I feel that spark again, the one I’m not supposed to want.
When the dishes are done, she lights candles on the mantle, small flames flickering coppery. Then, she turns off the living room lights. “Candles are more … atmospheric,” she giggles.
“You mean romantic?” I ask without thinking. The trouble this tongue gets me in. No wonder I rarely talk.
“You could put it that way.”
She turns toward me, face haloed in warm light. For the first time in years, I forget every scar, every reason I shut the world out. I only see her—alive, bright, unafraid.
