Then the music, faint but unmistakable, filtering through the windows that glowed too warm and golden for an empty house. I circle the property, checking the unfamiliar rental SUV with Colorado plates, running scenarios that range from lost hiker to home invasion. Or maybe—God help me—one of Moira’s bright ideas? She’s tried to hook me up with one of her friends before, but having someone actually show up here, cooking dinner at my stove? Even she wouldn’t go that far.
But none of them prepare me for the sight of a woman standing at my stove, stirring something in my Dutch oven. Dark hair piled in a messy bun, curves wrapped in a green sweater thatlooks soft enough to touch, hips swaying slightly to the music. She’s gorgeous. That’s my first thought, and I hate myself for it.
My second thought:What the hell is she doing in my kitchen?
I pull open the door and step inside, boots heavy on the worn floorboards. She doesn’t hear me at first, still humming along to whatever’s playing from her phone. The kitchen smells incredible—better than anything that’s been cooked here in the four years I’ve lived alone. My stomach growls, a traitor.
“Excuse me,” I say, my voice sounding rough to my ears, evidence of months passing without me speaking to another human being beyond radio check-ins.
She whirls around, wooden spoon raised like a weapon, then freezes. Her eyes widen – deep brown, expressive, framed by thick lashes. Full lips parted around a surprised breath. Olive skin flushed from the heat of the stove.
Beautiful. Terrified. Standing in my house like she belongs here. On Valentine’s Day, of all nights.
“Oh my God.” She presses her free hand to her chest, the spoon still held out defensively. “You scared me half to death. I didn’t hear you—the music was—” She fumbles for her phone, silencing it. The sudden quiet feels heavy. “Sorry, I was just finishing up before you got here. I wanted everything to be perfect.”
She’s smiling now, nervous but warm, like she’s genuinely happy to see me. Like she was expecting me.
Which means something’s very wrong. Especially tonight—a night I usually spend alone, ignoring heart-shaped reminders that I’m not part of the world outside these walls.
“Before I got here,” I repeat slowly. My voice sounds rusty even to my own ears. I should talk more, Moira keeps telling me that. “You were expecting me.”
“Well, yes?” Her smile falters slightly, uncertainty creeping into those brown eyes. “I mean, Coralyn said six o’clock, and it’s only—” She glances at the clock on the wall. My clock. On my wall. “—five forty-five, so I know I’m running a little behind on the bread, but the short ribs are perfect, I promise. I hope you like braised short ribs? I probably should have asked about dietary restrictions, but Coralyn said you were outdoorsy and not picky, so I figured?—”
“Who the hell is Coralyn?”
Her smile disappears completely. “My... my best friend? She set this up?”
The woman takes a step back, bumping into the counter. “You’re Boyd, right? Boyd Mitchell?”
Boyd Mitchell.
I’ve never heard that name in my life. My sister’s been known to meddle, but even Moira wouldn’t have the nerve to orchestrate a Valentine’s Day blind date in my kitchen.
“No.”
“No?” She blinks. “But this is Tower Seven. Ridgeback Road. The cabin for the—” Her face goes pale. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”
I watch understanding dawn across her features in real time: the way her eyes dart around the room, actually seeing it now instead of just looking. The personal books on my shelves. The wear patterns in my leather chair. The coffee mug I left in thesink this morning because I was rushing, because Moira called and I forgot to lock the damn door.
“This isn’t a rental cabin,” she says faintly. “Is it.”
“No.”
“This is your home.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not Boyd.”
“No.”
She makes a sound—half-laugh, half-sob—and presses both hands to her face. The wooden spoon slips from her fingers, clatters against the floorboards, too loud in the hush. My heart stutters. She looks so small, folded in on herself.
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “I’ve been cooking in a stranger’s house. I broke into your home and started making dinner. This is—I’m so sorry, I thought—Coralyn gave me this address for a blind date, she said Tower Seven, and I just—the door was open and it looked like a rental and I?—”
She’s spiraling. I recognize the panic, raw and ugly, and my body moves before my mind catches up.
“Breathe.” The word comes out sharp, that command voice I used to use with recruits in the desert, men one wrong step from shattering. It works. She obeys, shoulders shaking as she drags in a breath, meets my eyes. There’s trust there, for a split second, like she believes I might be the sort of man who can make things okay.
