After dinner,I insist on doing the dishes. Finn tries to argue—apparently his hosting instincts override his preference for solitude—but I pull rank as the person who made the mess in the first place.
“You can dry,” I offer as a compromise.
He accepts with a grunt that I’m choosing to interpret as agreement.
We work side by side at the sink, our movements finding an unexpected rhythm. I wash, he dries, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I start talking. Telling him about my food blog, about how I started it as a creative outlet during my marriage and how it became my lifeline after the divorce. About my fifty thousand followers and my dreams of maybe writing a cookbook someday.
Finn listens. Asks a question here and there—brief, pointed, showing he’s actually paying attention. And slowly, gradually, I feel the last of my nervous energy drain away.
“What about you?” I ask, handing him the last pot. “The furniture—is it just a hobby, or...?”
“Business. Sell online, mostly. My sister has a gallery in town, moves some pieces there.”
“You have a sister?”
“Moira.” His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “She’s... persistent.”
I laugh. “That sounds like a sibling description if I’ve ever heard one.”
“She calls too much. Worries.”
“About you being up here alone?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Yeah.”
There’s weight in that single word. History I’m not privy to, pain I can only guess at. I want to ask—want to know everything about this quiet, complicated man who eats my cooking like it’s salvation.
But I’ve pushed enough for one night. So instead, I just nod and reach for the dish towel to dry my hands.
“Come on,” Finn says, hanging the damp towel on its hook. “I’ll show you around. Where everything is.”
I follow him out of the kitchen, expecting... I don’t know what. Small talk, maybe. The usual getting-to-know-you pleasantries that fill awkward silences between strangers.
Instead, Finn McGrath gives a tour like he’s briefing troops for a mission.
“Bathroom. Towels in the cabinet. Hot water takes two minutes.” He points down the short hallway. “Bedroom’s upstairs. You’ll take it tonight.”
“I can sleep on the couch?—”
“You’ll take the bedroom.”
I open my mouth to argue, but something in his expression stops me. This isn’t negotiable. For whatever reason, Finn McGrath has decided I’m sleeping in his bed tonight, and he’s not interested in discussing alternatives.
“Okay,” I say instead. “Thank you.”
He nods once, sharp, and continues the tour. “Wood stove’s the main heat source. I’ll keep it fed through the night. If it gets cold, there are extra blankets in the chest at the foot of the bed.”
He moves to a panel by the front door, pointing at various switches and gauges. “Generator controls. This one’s the manual override if the automatic switch fails. This gauge shows fuel level. Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to.”
“Got it. Don’t touch the mystery switches.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. I’m learning to spot them now—these tiny cracks in his stoic exterior.
“Kitchen you’ve already found.” There’s a hint of dry humor in his voice. “Propane stove, works independent of the electrical system. Water comes from a well. If the pump freezes, there’s backup in these containers.”
He indicates a row of large water jugs lined up against one wall. I hadn’t noticed them before—too busy panicking about my life choices to take inventory of survival supplies.
“You really are prepared for anything,” I say.
