"Good." He kissed her, slow and deep and full of promise. "Come inside. I made dinner."
Riley pulled back to look at him. "You made dinner?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm capable of cooking."
"I know, but?—"
"But what?"
Riley studied his face, her chest tight. "This feels like a date."
Something flickered in Grant's eyes. "Would that be so bad?"
Yes. Because dates mean something. And this is supposed to be just physical. Just vacation sex that doesn't count.
"No," Riley heard herself say. "It wouldn't be bad."
Grant's smile was soft and real and made Riley's heart do dangerous things.
Inside the farmhouse, the kitchen smelled like garlic and herbs. Grant had actually cooked—pasta with homemade sauce, bread warming in the oven, wine breathing on the counter, the table set for two with actual cloth napkins.
"Grant," Riley said, her voice strange. "You didn't have to?—"
"I wanted to." He pulled out her chair. "Sit."
Riley sat, hyperaware of his hand on the back of her chair, the way he leaned close enough that she could smell his cologne.
He poured wine, and their fingers brushed when he handed her the glass. Riley's breath caught at the contact.
"To..." Grant started, then stopped. "What are we toasting to?"
Not getting caught. Vacation sex. Pretending this doesn't mean anything.
"Whatever we want," Riley said, echoing the quote from Grant.
Grant's eyes held hers. "Whatever we want."
They clinked glasses, and Riley took a sip, trying not to think about how domestic this felt. How right.
The pasta was actually good—better than good. Riley told him so, and Grant's smile was pleased and a little shy.
"My mom's recipe," he said. "She used to make this every Sunday."
"I remember." Riley did remember—Sunday dinners at the Lawson house, Grant's mom teaching him to cook, the warmth of this kitchen. "She'd be proud."
"I hope so."
They ate and talked, and Riley found herself relaxing despite her nerves. Grant asked about work, and she found herself being honest—more honest than she'd been with anyone in months.
"I hate my job," she admitted, the wine loosening her tongue. "I mean, I'm good at it. But I hate it."
"Then why stay?"
"Because I worked so hard to get there. Because it's what I'm supposed to want. Because—" She stopped, took another sip of wine. "I don't know anymore."
Grant reached across the table and took her hand. His thumb traced circles on her palm, and Riley's pulse kicked up.
"You don't have to have all the answers," he said quietly.
