“I think,” he said carefully, “that women like you don’t move without ripples.”
He stepped closer, lifting a hand to my jaw—not possessive.
Grounding.
“You’re not just a woman on a retreat,” he continued. “You’re a public figure. You work in violence prevention. You’ve spoken against hunting culture. Against men like me.”
“I know.”
“And now you disappear into upstate New York with one.”
I held his gaze.
“I didn’t disappear.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “You chose.”
My breath slowed.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
“No.”
Not even a second’s hesitation.
His thumb brushed lightly across my lower lip.
“Good.”
He stepped back.
“Get dressed.”
“For what?”
“We’re driving.”
“Where?”
“To Saratoga.”
My heart stopped.
“Aunt Mabel?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if your mother is asking questions, we don’t leave threads loose.”
The shift was immediate.
This wasn’t seduction.
This was strategy.
“You’re coming with me?” I asked.
