His eyes meet mine. "I'm starting to realize that."
The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold. We walk in silence for a moment, our shoulders occasionally brushing.
"You hungry?" he asks abruptly. "There's a place on the way to the lodge. Better than the diner if you want something more substantial than a sandwich."
Is he asking me to dinner? The thought makes my pulse quicken. "I could eat," I say, trying to sound casual.
"Good." He nods, looking almost relieved. "It's just up here."
The restaurant turns out to be a small Italian place tucked between a bookstore and a gift shop. Warm light spills from the windows, and the scent of garlic and tomato sauce greets us as we enter.
"Diesel!" The host, an older man with a thick Italian accent, greets him with enthusiasm. "Twice in one month! What's the special occasion?"
"Just hungry, Paolo." Diesel nods toward me. "Table for two?"
"Of course, of course." Paolo leads us to a corner booth, lighting the small candle in the center with a flourish. "Your usual table."
Once we're seated, I raise an eyebrow. "Your usual table? I thought you didn't do frills."
A hint of color touches his cheeks. "Food's good," he says defensively. "And Paolo doesn't make small talk."
"Mmm-hmm." I hide my smile behind the menu. "So what's good here?"
"Everything. But the lasagna's exceptional."
I close the menu. "Lasagna it is, then."
We order wine with dinner, a rich red that warms me from the inside out. The conversation flows more easily than I expected, ranging from books we've read to places we've traveled. Diesel is surprisingly well-read, with strong opinions on everything from classic literature to modern engineering manuals.
"No way," I argue, laughing. "Hemingway is not overrated. The man revolutionized American prose."
"By eliminating adjectives?" Diesel scoffs, but there's amusement in his eyes. "Any writer who needs to rely on a gimmick isn't as good as people claim."
"That's rich coming from a man who communicates primarily in grunts and glares," I tease.
He chuckles, the sound warming something in my chest. "Fair point. But I never claimed to be a good communicator."
"I don't know about that," I say, swirling the last of my wine. "You seem to get your point across just fine."
Our eyes meet over the candle, and I swear the air charges between us. The playful debate fades, replaced by a tension thatmakes it hard to breathe. His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.
"Sandra," he says, voice lower than before.
"Yes?" My own voice sounds breathless even to my ears.
He seems to struggle with what to say next. "I don't usually do this."
"Do what?" I ask, though I think I know.
"Mix business with..." He gestures between us. "This."
"And what is 'this' exactly?" I'm pushing him, I know, but I need to hear him say it.
He leans forward, the candlelight casting shadows across his face, emphasizing the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. "I'm not sure yet. But I'd like to find out."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Me too."
The moment stretches between us, electric with possibility. Diesel reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. His hand is rough with calluses, warm and strong as it covers mine.
