“Nothing fancy. Just stir-fried vegetables. I’ve got venison to add, if you eat meat.”
“I do.”
“Good. Wine?”
“Please.”
He pours two glasses of red, hands me one. Our fingers brush in the exchange. The contact is brief but electric, sending a spark up my arm.
We eat at a small table near the window. The food is delicious. The venison is perfectly seasoned and tender. The wine is nice. The conversation flows easily, no awkward silences, no forced small talk.
He asks about my work, and I find myself talking about projects I actually care about instead of the ones that pay the bills. The community center I designed that won an award last year. The affordable housing project I’m consulting on. The way I’m trying to make spaces that serve people, not just impress clients.
He tells me about tracking a black bear family through the territory last spring, how the cubs played while their mother foraged. About finding lost hikers and helping them battle hypothermia until the search and rescue team could arrive. About the quiet satisfaction of knowing the mountain intimately enough to feel completely at home in the woods.
At some point, I realize we’ve finished the bottle of Pinot Noir.
At some point after that, I realize I don’t want to go to the guest room.
We’re standing by the sink, both reaching for our empty plates, when our hands touch again. This time, neither of us pulls away.
Duke turns to face me fully. His expression is serious, but his eyes are warm. Intent.
“I should tell you something,” he says.
My pulse quickens. “Okay.”
“I’m not good at pretending I don’t feel things,” he continues. “And I’ve been feeling something since I found you on that trail.”
Heat floods through me. “Me too.”
He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell pine and wood smoke and something distinctlyhim.
“I don’t do this,” he says quietly. “Bring women to my cabin after just meeting them. I’ve never felt… whatever this is… this fast.”
“Neither do I,” I say honestly. “I don’t do any of this. But I want to.”
His hand comes up, fingers brushing along my jaw, tilting my face up. The touch is gentle but deliberate. “Tell me if this isn’t what you want.”
“It is,” I whisper. “It really is.”
He kisses me then, and it’s not tentative or questioning. It’s sure.Claiming.His mouth is warm and firm, tasting of wine andwant. Of something that feels inevitable.
I kiss him back, hands coming up to grip his shoulders, and he pulls me closer, his other arm wrapping around my waist. The contact sends heat spiraling through me, pooling low in my belly. This is real. This is happening. And I don’t want it to stop.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing harder.
“Bedroom?” he asks, voice rough.
I nod, unable to form words.
He takes my hand and leads me down the hall to his room. The space is simple, dominated by a large bed with a thick quilt. The window faces the trees, curtains open to the night. Moonlight streams in, painting everything in silver.
Duke closes the door behind us, then turns to face me. In the dim light, his expression is intent, focused entirely on me in a way that makes my skin flush.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he says.
I reach for the hem of my sweater and pull it over my head, letting it fall to the floor. “I’m not changing my mind.”
