By the time they sat down to eat at the small table by the window, Sorcha felt as if she’d known him for years rather than hours. But she wanted to know more. She wanted to know everything. Because no matter how much he opened up to her, it felt as if he were holding something back.
The stew was delicious, made with root vegetables and herbs that filled the cabin with a mouthwatering aroma.
“This is incredible,” she said after her first bite. “Another hidden talent.”
“My mother’s recipe,” he replied, a touch of pride in his voice. “She always said good food was the foundation of a happy home.”
“She sounds wise,” Sorcha said, thinking of her own mother, who had viewed cooking as just another chore to get through.
“She was,” Christopher agreed, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “She passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Sorcha said, reaching across the table to touch his hand without thinking. The contact was brief but electric.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “What about your family? Do they still live in your hometown?”
Sorcha nodded, taking another sip of wine. “My father died when I was in college, but my mother and sister are still there. I don’t get back as often as I should.”
“The life of a traveling journalist,” Christopher observed, with no judgment in his tone.
“Something like that,” she agreed, suddenly aware of how long it had been since she’d seen her family. Christmas cards and occasional phone calls seemed poor substitutes for actual presence. “I’ve always told myself it was the price of doing what I love.”
“And do you?” Christopher asked. “Love it, I mean.”
The question caught her off guard. Did she still love her job? Once, the thrill of a new assignment, a new place, had been enough. But lately…
“Yes. It was always my dream,” she said firmly, but she sounded as if she were trying to convince not only Christopher but herself, too.
Christopher nodded as if he understood completely. “Sometimes we outgrow the dreams we once had.”
His words settled into her like a truth she’d been avoiding. She’d built her entire identity around being Sorcha O’Neill, globe-trotting journalist. Who would she be without that?
“What would you do,” he asked gently, “if you could do anything?”
Sorcha stared into her wine glass, the question echoing in her mind. What would she do? The answer came with unexpected clarity.
“I’d write a book,” she said. “Something more substantial than magazine articles. Stories that last.”
Christopher smiled, and the warmth in his eyes made her heart skip. “You’d be good at that.”
“How would you know?” she challenged, though there was no heat in her words.
“Because you see things others miss,” he said simply. “Like today at the sanctuary—you noticed how Bob speaks to the animals, how the wolf watches everything. You have an eye for detail and a way with words.”
Sorcha felt herself blushing at the compliment. “Maybe someday,” she murmured.
“Why not now?” Christopher asked.
The question hung between them, deceptively simple yet profoundly challenging. Why not now, indeed?
Before she could formulate an answer, a log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. The moment broke, and Sorcha found herself grateful for the interruption. She wasn’t ready to examine her life choices too closely, especially not with this man who seemed to see through all her carefully constructed barriers.
“More stew?” Christopher offered, already reaching for her bowl.
“Please,” she said, glad for the change in subject. “It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in months.”
As he refilled their bowls, Sorcha glanced around the cabin again, noticing details she’d missed before—a collection of carved wooden animals on a shelf, a guitar propped in the corner, a well-worn quilt draped over the back of the sofa. This wasn’t just a house; it was a home, filled with objects that told the story of the man who lived here.
For the first time in years, Sorcha felt a pang of envy. Her apartment was stylish and comfortable, but it contained little that was truly personal. It was a place to sleep between assignments, not a home she’d built with intention and care.
