“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Gretel’s eyes twinkled as she looked at Sorcha. “He’s a good one, my dear. A heart of solid gold.”
“I don’t know about that,” Christopher said as he brushed away the compliment, though Sorcha caught the hint of a smile.
“Oh, hush, you know I think the world of you.” Gretel waved him off. “Now, you two go and have fun. Don’t rush back on my account. I can get someone in to work the night shift if…”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time…” Color flushed Christopher’s cheeks as he shook his head.
“I was hoping to stay on for a couple more nights,” Sorcha said, to cover Christopher’s embarrassment. “But I know you’re busy at this time of year…”
“No problem,” Gretel said quickly, her eyes flickering to Christopher once more. “I had a cancellation come in overnight. The weather…” She waved her hand in the air.
“Perfect,” Sorcha said, surprised at the intense relief she felt that this was not her last day in Bear Creek. With Christopher.
“Great, shall we go?” Christopher asked.
“Have fun,” Gretel said and turned away, chuckling quietly.
Christopher guided Sorcha toward his truck. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” Sorcha replied. “You can tell a lot about someone by how their employer speaks about them.”
“Employer…I…” He glanced back toward Gretel.
Sorcha winced; she’d obviously embarrassed him. “Although I guess when you work closely with someone, you see yourselves as more like friends.”
“Gretel is a good friend.” His hand hovered near the small of her back as they walked, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his palm through her coat. The gentlemanly gesture made her feel oddly cherished.
When they reached the truck, he opened the passenger door for her and hooked his hand on her elbow to help her climb inside. There was that familiar shock of recognition she felt whenever they touched. Or was it desire, pure and simple?
Although there was nothing pure in her thoughts about Christopher. Or simple.
She wanted to get complicated with him.
But then he removed her arm, and the moment was gone. Leaving her feeling as confused as ever. Maybe over the course of the next couple of days, she’d stop feeling as if every touch from him rewrote the story of her life. Or maybe she’d just admit she didn’t want it to stop.
Once they were settled in the truck, the heater blasting warmth against her chilled fingers, Sorcha turned to him. “Where are we going?”
Christopher’s lips curved into a mysterious smile. “It’s a surprise.”
Normally, surprises made Sorcha twitchy. She preferred knowing what was coming, having a plan, and being prepared. But with Christopher, the uncertainty felt exciting rather than unsettling. She realized with a start that she would go wherever he wanted to take her, without question or hesitation. She trusted him completely not to let her down.
The revelation should have terrified her. Instead, it felt oddly comforting.
“You’re smiling,” Christopher observed as he navigated the truck down a winding road that cut through dense pine forest.
“Just thinking about how nice it is not to know where I’m going.” The words slipped out before she could filter them, more honest than she’d intended.
“I guess in your job everything is mapped out, where you’re going to stay, what you’re going to see,” Christopher said.
“Something like that,” Sorcha agreed. “When I get an assignment, it’s detailed. There are points I have to cover and places I need to visit, people to talk to. But within that framework, there’s room for the unexpected. That’s actually my favorite part.”
Christopher glanced at her, curiosity warming his expression. “What’s the most unexpected thing you’ve discovered on an assignment?”
Sorcha thought for a moment, memories flashing through her mind like slides in a presentation. “In Thailand, I was supposed to be covering traditional festivals, but I ended up writing about this tiny noodle shop run by an eighty-year-old woman who’d been making the same soup for sixty years. Her customers included everyone from local farmers to government officials.” She smiled at the memory. “She let me into her kitchen and showed me how she made her broth—a recipe she’d never written down, just carried in her head.”
“That sounds amazing,” Christopher said, his eyes still on the road but his attention clearly focused on her words.
“It was. Her hands were so gnarled with arthritis, but she moved with this incredible precision.” Sorcha gestured, mimicking the old woman’s movements. “My editor loved that piece. Said it captured the soul of the place better than any festival coverage could have.”
