"Habit. In my line of work, being careless had consequences." He pauses. "Here, let me show you an easier way to do that."
He steps closer, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. "You want the pieces more uniform. Like this." His hand hovers near mine, demonstrating the cutting motion without actually touching me. But God, I wish he would touch me.
"Better?" I ask, trying the technique.
"Perfect." His voice is lower now, rougher. "You're a quick learner."
The compliment makes me warm in a way that has nothing to do with the stove.
We finish prep in comfortable silence, moving around each other with surprising ease. He reaches for the olive oil at the same moment I do, and our fingers brush. The contact is brief, electric. We both freeze.
"Sorry," I murmur.
"Don't be." His eyes hold mine for a moment too long before he pulls back. "You get it."
Soon the cabin fills with the smell of garlic and herbs and roasting chicken. Silas opens a bottle of wine—red, from Jonah's collection—and pours us each a glass.
"To charity weekends," he says, raising his glass.
"To taking chances," I counter.
Our glasses clink, and his eyes hold mine over the rim. There's heat there, intensity, something that makes my stomach flutter and my breath catch.
Dinner is delicious. We eat at the small table near the windows, darkness pressing against the glass, snow falling in soft flakes outside. The wine loosens us both, and conversation flows easily.
He asks about my students, and I tell him about the chaos of teaching first grade, the lost teeth, the playground drama, the brutal honesty of six-year-olds.
"One of them asked me last week if I was married," I say, laughing. "When I said no, she asked if it was because I'm too bossy."
Silas's lips quirk. "Are you? Too bossy?"
"Maybe a little. I like things organized. Under control."
"Nothing wrong with that. Control keeps things from falling apart." Something dark flickers across his face. "When you lose control, everything goes to shit."
"Is that what happened? Overseas?"
He's quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his glass. "Sometimes. You plan everything perfectly, but one variable changes and suddenly people are dying and you're making impossible choices and—" He stops. "Sorry. That's heavy for dinner conversation."
"Don't apologize. I asked." I reach across the table, not quite touching his hand, but close. "I want to know. About you. Your life. All of it."
His eyes meet mine, and the intensity there steals my breath. "Why?"
"Because I think you're someone worth knowing."
"You don't know enough about me to make that judgment."
"Then tell me more. Help me know you."
He stares at me for a long moment, something warring in his expression. Finally, he says, "I was Captain Silas Northwood. Led a tactical unit. Did things I can't talk about in places I can't name. Lost people I cared about. Got pieced back together with titanium and months of physical therapy." He takes a drink. "That enough knowing for now?"
"For now," I say softly. "But I want more eventually. When you're ready."
"And you? What's your story, Iris Whitfield?"
So I tell him. About growing up in Lovesbury, losing my mom to cancer when I was eight, watching my dad struggle to raise me alone. About going to Seattle for college, dreaming of traveling, writing children's books, living a big life.
"Then Dad got sick," I continue. "And those dreams didn't matter anymore. He needed me. So I came home, took care of him for three years until he passed. By then, I was established here. Had my teaching job, my volunteer work, my little house. It seemed easier to just... stay."
