“Very.”
He falls into step beside me as Pumpkin leads the way. Tail wagging and body prancing as if he’s leading a parade.
The trailer glows warm from within. Quinn opens the door, I stop.
It’s the same small space I saw earlier this week. Tiny galley kitchen, small couch, and two doors at the back.
But it’s been transformed. A dish towel has become a makeshift table runner. Two mismatched candles flicker in short jars, filling the room with vanilla and spice.
Plates are placed carefully on either sides of the table with cutlery and mason jars beside them. A bowl of apples acts as the centerpiece.
It’s still every bit a bachelor pad, but it’s been dressed up with extra care.
“You did all this?” My voice tips up at the end, surprised and a little undone.
“I had help.” He moves toward the slow cooker. “From an appliance.”
He lifts the lid, and a savory-sweet smell envelops us. Apples, cinnamon, a touch of thyme. It’s the kind of scent you want to take a path in.
“Pork chops with apples and mashed potatoes. Which I did not burn, even though Chase bet me five bucks I would.”
“You’re a regular chef.”
“Don’t get used to it.” He reaches for a drawer. “Want to make yourself comfortable?”
I sit at the table. He plates with concentration. When he sets the food in front of me, I have to hold my hands under the table to keep from reaching for him instead.
The first bite melts on my tongue. I moan.
He laughs—low in his throat, clearly relieved. “Good?”
“Criminally good.”
We eat like people who worked hard and earned it.
Conversation finds an easy track.
We discuss our favorite lunches as kids, the worst coffee we’ve ever had, and what music we listen to when no one else is around.
He clears our plates before I can insist on helping. When he turns back, he’s holding a foil-wrapped secret behind his back like a magician.
“Room for dessert?” asks.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” He reveals two perfect slices of apple pie, crust shiny with egg wash, sugar glinting at the edges. “Borrowed from the Snack Shack. Don’t tell Chase.”
I take a bite and close my eyes because I’m only human. “If I marry into this family, it will be for the pie.”
I realize what I said a heartbeat after I say it. My eyes fly open. He has paused, fork in midair, expression unguarded and startlingly soft.
“Noted,” he says, voice gruffer than before. He sets the fork down with care. “For the record, if you ever want seconds, I’m not above bribery.”
“Duly noted,” I whisper.
The candles burn lower. The heater hums. Pumpkin snores like a truck downshifting. The world outside narrows to a circle of light from the moon, sheltering us from the dark.
We migrate to the couch. He sits first; I tuck in beside him, not quite touching. Our knees bump. Neither of us moves away.
