I should change the subject. Should keep things light, superficial. But Harper's looking at me with genuine interest, and something about her makes me want to share.
"She was... different. City girl who fell in love with a logger. Everyone said it wouldn't last, but she learned to love these mountains as much as he did." I take a drink of wine. "Taught me everything – cooking, gardening, which berries would kill you and which would make the best pie."
"Sounds like she prepared you well for taking in wayward city girls."
"Just the one."
Our eyes meet across the table, and the air changes, thickens. Harper bites her lip, and I have to grip my glass tighter to keep from reaching for her.
"Your turn," I say roughly. "Tell me something real."
She considers this, head tilted. "I sleep with a stuffed penguin named Professor Waddles."
"That's what you're going with?"
"Hey, that's deeply personal information!" But she's smiling. "Okay, something real..." Her expression shifts, softens. "I write romance novels."
This surprises me. "Thought you were a bookstore owner."
"I am. Or will be. But I also write. Nothing published yet, but..." She shrugs. "It's what I love. Creating stories where love wins, where people find their way to happiness, even when it seems impossible."
"Is that what you're looking for? Impossible happiness?"
"Maybe." She meets my gaze steadily. "But I'm starting to think impossible might not be the right word."
Damn. She can't say things like that, looking like that, in my kitchen. Not when everything in me wants to show her exactly how possible happiness could be.
"Your ex," I say, needing to remind myself why this is a bad idea. "He didn't support your writing?"
"God, no. Said it was a waste of time. That I should focus on our future, our plans." Her laugh is bitter now. "Turns out his plans included sleeping around while I was planning our wedding, so..."
"He's an idiot."
"What?"
"Your ex. Complete idiot." I lean forward, making sure she sees how serious I am. "Anyone who makes you doubt your dreams isn't worth a second of your time."
She stares at me, lips parted slightly. "That's... thank you."
"Don't thank me for basic human decency."
"No, I mean..." She gestures between us. "Thank you for this. For helping me, for making me dinner, for listening. For making me feel..."
"Feel what?"
"Safe," she whispers. "You make me feel safe."
The word hits me like a punch to the gut. Because I want her to feel safe, want to be the one who protects her, shows her what real trust feels like. But I also want to kiss her until she forgets her own name, want to find out if she tastes as sweet as she looks, want...
"More wine?" I stand abruptly, needing distance.
"Please." Her voice is slightly unsteady.
I refill our glasses, but stay focused on her presence, her scent, the way she watches me move. When I sit again, she's composed herself, but there's still heat in her eyes that threatens my sanity.
"So," she says, too casually, "Emma also mentioned you build furniture?"
"Going to have to have a talk with Emma about gossip."
