I flip the steaks. “I like simple.”
She leans forward, elbows on the island, chin in her hands. “You’re deflecting.”
I meet her eyes—those damn green eyes that see too much. “You’re prying.”
A small smile tugs at her lips, the first one I’ve seen since the overlook. It’s slow, teasing, dangerous. “I’m a reporter. Prying is my job.”
“Not tonight it isn’t.”
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m the story now. “You’re good at dodging questions, bodyguard.”
I snort. “Flattery won’t get your phone back.”
“Who said I was flattering you?” Her voice drops, playful now. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure out why a man who looks like he could bench-press a truck lives like he’s afraid of getting attached to anything heavier than a coffee mug.”
I set the spatula down, lean my palms on the island, mirroring her posture. “And why does that bother you so much?”
Her smile fades a little, but the spark in her eyes stays. “Because it makes me wonder what happened to make you build walls that high. And because…” She pauses, licks her lips. “Because I’m starting to think I want to know what’s behind them.”
The air between us crackles.
I hold her gaze. “Careful what you wish for, Megan.”
She doesn’t blink. “I’m not the careful type.”
Silence stretches. Steaks sizzle. Potatoes roast. The cabin fills with the smell of garlic and butter and meat.
She speaks again, softer. “How’d you get the scar on your jaw?”
My hand pauses on the spatula. I don’t answer.
She doesn’t push. Just watches.
I slide a plate in front of her. Pour two glasses of water. Sit across from her. We eat in tense silence. Every bite feels loaded.
She cuts her steak, takes a small piece, chews slowly. Watches me.
“You’re good at this,” she says finally.
“Cooking?”
“Everything.” She gestures with her fork. “The calm. The control. The way you just handled tonight like it was nothing. The way you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether to kiss me or strangle me.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I keep my voice even. “I’m not going to strangle you.”
Her smile is slow, wicked. “But you’re thinking about the other thing.”
I meet her gaze. “You’re making it very hard not to.”
The air between us crackles.
She leans forward, elbows on the island. “Then why don’t you?”
I set my fork down. “Because you’re the asset. I don’t cross that line.”
She studies me, long and searching. “What if I want you to cross them?”
My pulse slams. “Then we have a problem.”
