"Fine." She finishes her whiskey and sets the glass down with a decisive click. "But if you turn out to be a serial killer, I'm going to be very annoyed."
"Noted."
I settle the tab over her protests, and we head into the parking lot where the snow has already started falling in earnest. Fat white flakes that catch in her braids and dust the shoulders of her designer coat. She looks out of place against the rustic backdrop of Crimson Hollow, like someone painted acity woman into a mountain landscape just to see what would happen.
What happens is she catches me staring.
"Problem?"
"You're going to need different shoes."
She glances down at her heeled boots. "These are Louboutins."
"They're going to be ruined by morning."
"They're already ruined. I walked through slush in Chicago, ice in Vancouver, and whatever that gray sludge was in the airport parking garage." She shrugs. "Shoes can be replaced. Toes cannot."
I file that away. Practical underneath the polish. Another detail I shouldn't be noticing.
"Follow my truck. I'll drive slow."
"I can handle a little snow."
"I'm sure you can. But visibility drops fast up here, and you don't know the roads." I point toward the massive black pickup idling near the lot's entrance. "Stay close. Flash your lights if you need to stop."
She salutes with exaggerated formality. "Yes, sir."
The words shoot straight through me.
It's the way she says it. Sarcastic on the surface, but with an edge underneath that tells me she knows exactly what she's doing. Testing. Probing. Trying to figure out what kind of man she's agreed to spend the weekend with.
She has no idea.
"Get in your car, Nadia." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Before the snow gets worse."
Her smile is sharp and knowing as she turns toward her rental. I watch her walk away, hips swaying in a rhythm that's definitely intentional, and I remind myself for the hundredth time that this is supposed to be simple.
The drive up the mountain takes twenty minutes instead of ten. The snow is falling harder now, thick enough to cut visibility down to a few car lengths. I keep my speed steady and my eyes on the rearview mirror, making sure Nadia's headlights stay close.
She drives well. Careful but confident, matching my pace without lagging or crowding. Another point in her favor. Another detail I shouldn't be collecting.
By the time we reach the turnoff for my property, the storm has upgraded from concerning to dangerous. Wind whips the snow into horizontal sheets, and I hear the groan of trees bending under the weight of accumulating ice.
The main house appears through the white, a two story log cabin I built with my brothers fifteen years ago. Warm light glows in the windows where I left the heat running. Behind it, barely visible through the storm, sits the workshop and the smaller guest cabin.
I pull into the garage and wait for Nadia to park behind me. When she emerges from the rental, her eyes are wide.
"You built this?"
"My brothers and I." I grab her suitcase from her trunk before she can protest. "Family property. Been in the Ridges for three generations."
"It's beautiful."
She says it simply, without the performative enthusiasm some people affect when they see something impressive. Just a statement of fact. The cabin is beautiful. End of observation.
I like that about her.
The wind nearly tears the door from my hands as we make our way inside. Nadia stumbles on the threshold, and I catch her elbow without thinking. My palm against her arm, steadying her. The contact lasts two seconds at most, but I feel it longer.
