Katya huffs out a laugh. “Or ditzy blonde.”
“Or…someone who’s not getting divorced.”
“And what was that about offering my services to her?” Katya accuses. “I can’t stand that whole family.”
“I was just jerking your chain.” I tuck my arm through hers. “You know I can’t stand them, either. And this time, I don’t have to.”
“Well, after you kneed Papa Winter in the balls, I think they struck you off the Christmas card list.”
I laugh, still a little mortified aboutthat. “I can only hope.”
CHAPTER 38
Aiden
Mia says the last two dates are hers to plan, and I’m absolutely thrilled about it.
The dates were a way to help us rediscover each other, to pick up threads I worried we’d dropped for good because of my mistakes.
If she wants to steer now, that means I’ve done something right.
She drives us north, the mountains rising in the distance, their peaks powdered with early snow.
“So, this is date seven and eight rolled into one?” I ask as we turn off onto a gravel road, winding through dense forest until the trees open to reveal a small cedar cabin tucked into a hollow.
It’s early evening, and the sun is setting, painting the sky awash in hues of orange and purple.
The scent of pine and cold air wraps around us the moment we step out of the car.
“Yep.” She turns off the car and grins. “Come on, ex-husband, let me show you where we’re staying for the weekend.”
The cabin is simple—one big room anchored by a wide, stone gas fireplace. There’s a worn leather couch, and shelves lined with mismatched mugs, some chipped, some with faded slogans.
A little kitchen is tucked into one corner, its counters scarred from years of use. Through the back door, a porch overlooks a forest floor littered with copper and gold leaves that crunch underfoot. The wind threads through the trees, carrying the damp, earthy scent of late autumn, and somewhere above, a raven calls out, its cry deep and lonely.
“This is…gorgeous.” I pull her into my arms and kiss her softly. “Thank you.”
She beams. “Well, why don’t you bring in the suitcases and unpack. I’ll start cooking dinner.”
I rush to get the suitcases and unpack so I can be with her.
I sit at the kitchen counter, elbows propped, chin resting on my fists as I watch her.
Garlic hisses in a cast-iron pan, rosemary and butter blooming into a delicious smell..
The sweater she’s wearing keeps slipping off one shoulder, and every so often she brushes her hair away from her face with the back of her wrist.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up as she chops mushrooms.
“I’m appreciating the view.”
She snorts, but I see the corner of her mouth curve up. “You could offer to help instead of drooling.”
“Tempting, but I’ve been told I’m a hazard with sharp objects and open flames.”
“That’s true.” She adds the mushrooms to the pan. “I still remember the pasta and chicken debacle.”
“That was years ago,” I protest. “The foodwasdelicious…in spirit. And let’s not forget my truffle risotto.”
