I can picture him easily—bent over an engine, hands capable and sure, or standing on some mountain trail, surveying the landscape.
“What are your goals? Personal ones, not work,” he continues, and now I’mdefinitelybeing interrogated, albeit in the most polite way possible.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” I admit. “Just the usual, I guess. Be happy. Find fulfillment.”
“Those aren’t goals, they’re outcomes,” he says, not unkindly. “What are you working toward?”
I open my mouth, then close it. No one’s asked me this kind of question in years, if ever. Maia certainly never did. Our conversations revolved around her aspirations, her plans, her dreams.
Before I can formulate an answer, Naya leans toward Slade, placing her hand on his forearm. “I’d love to hear more about your motorcycle restoration. I’m fascinated by people who work with their hands.”
Slade responds to her with polite interest, but his eyes keep finding their way back to me. It’s disconcerting, this attention. I’m not used to being the focus of anyone’s interest, especially not someone like him.
Across the table, Maia feeds Jace a bite from her fork, her fingers lingering near his lips. He captures her hand, kissing her palm with exaggerated devotion. I grip my napkin under the table, twisting the fabric between my fingers. They’re performative in their affection, like they’re auditioning for a rom-com.
“So, Owen,” Zara says, drawing my attention away from the nauseating display, “you sound like you enjoy solving problems. I’ve got this design challenge that’s been driving me crazy—maybe you could help me think through it sometime?”
I force a smile. “Sure, happy to try.”
My gaze drifts back to Slade, who’s now engaged in a discussion with Bryce about something medical. The way he listens is different—fully present, focused, like whatever’s being said is the only thing that matters in that moment. I wonder how it would feel to have that attention directed at me for more than just polite dinner conversation.
The thought startles me, and I reach for my wine again.
“Let’s talk about this weekend,” Ava announces as the main courses arrive. “Bryce and I have put together what we think is a perfect balance of activities and free time.”
Bryce nods, placing his hand over hers on the table. “We wanted to give everyone a chance to enjoy what the lodge has to offer.”
“Tomorrow morning we’ll hike to the waterfall,” Ava continues excitedly. “It’s supposed to be gorgeous, and not too strenuous. Then, after lunch, there’s a pottery class where we can make our own eco-friendly souvenirs.”
“On Sunday,” Bryce adds, “we’ve booked a cooking class with the lodge’s chef. He’s going to teach us how to prepare a sustainable farm-to-table meal.”
“And there’s optional yoga at sunrise for early birds,” Ava finishes. “The instructor is supposed to be amazing—she incorporates elements of sound healing and forest bathing.”
Naya clasps her hands together. “That sounds divine. I’ll be there.”
“I’m more of a sunset than a sunrise person,” Zara says with a laugh. “What about you, Owen?”
“Definitely not a sunrise yoga person,” I say, draining my third glass of wine. “But the hike sounds good.”
The alcohol is finally doing its job, softening the edges of my discomfort. My thoughts are looser, less guarded. As the conversation flows around me, I find myself studying Slade more openly—the sharp line of his jaw beneath his closely trimmed beard, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders when he reaches for his water glass, how his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
His hands capture my attention most of all. Large and strong, with long fingers that move with precision even in casualgestures. Surgeon’s hands. Hands that hold lives, that fix what’s broken.
A bizarre thought crashes into me: If I were interested in men, I’d be all over Slade.
The realization jolts me. My arm jerks, knocking over my empty wine glass. It clatters against the table, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Shit, sorry,” I mutter, fumbling to right it.
Slade reaches over, his movements swift and sure. Our fingers brush as we both grab for the glass, and a current of something electric shoots up my arm. I withdraw as if burned.
“I think I need a stronger drink,” I announce, pushing my chair back. “Anyone else want anything from the bar?”
No one does, or if they do, I don’t hear them. I make my way across the dining room. At the bar, I order whiskey, neat. When it arrives, I down it in a single burning swallow.
“Another,” I tell the bartender, who raises an eyebrow but complies.
I need to get a grip. This is ridiculous.
