“Hungry, Nick?” I asked, my voice holding steady. “I thought you were here to cook.”
He pulled his hand away. The pressure lingered.
“I am,” he said, lifting the steaks from the counter and turning toward the deck. “But I don’t work on an empty stomach.”
The grill waited beyond the canvas opening, its metal lid catching the last of the light.
He didn’t rush the steak.
Heat, timing, attention.
While he handled the grill, I brought the place settings out to the deck. Plates. Linen napkins. Silverware. Two wine glasses that caught the amber edge of sunset.
It should have felt practical.
It did not feel practical.
Nick looked over as I arranged the last fork.
“Sit down, Juliette.”
“I can set a table.”
“I know.”
Then, quieter, “You’ve had a day.”
I didn’t move. “You’re very comfortable giving instructions in someone else’s space.”
He plated the steaks with maddening efficiency, the aroma of garlic and butter filling the gap between us. He didn't look back as he carried the plates to the small table overlooking the darkening bush.
"I am. I won't apologize for it."
"It's just an observation, Nick."
I didn't sit.
"You know what I observe, Wilder?"
He set the plates down with a quiet, deliberate click and straightened, filling the narrow space between the table and the deck rail. He reached for his glass, took a slow, grounding sip of Malbec, then set it back down.
Closer now, the scent of seared Wagyu clung to him, sharpened by the cool night air moving over the deck. “I’ve seen people come through here with more money than sense,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register. “They want the wild without the risk. A story they can edit later.”
Another step brought him within reach of the counter. “You didn’t do that.” His gaze held mine, unblinking. “You asked the right questions. Saw it for what it was.”
The air in the suite seemed to hum. “When shit hit the fan, you didn’t freeze.” His voice dropped an octave, rough and private. “You climbed.” Something moved behind his eyes—not amusement, but a deep, quiet approval. “Most don’t.”
His hand came up, thumb brushing my cheek. He traced the line of my jaw, the roughness of his skin catching there.
My lungs stalled. Then corrected.
“I see a woman who knows exactly where she is…” A pause. “…and doesn’t scare easy.” His mouth hovered near mine, close enough that I could taste the wine on his breath. “And that?” The words brushed my mouth. “Gets my attention.”
Nick brushed his lips against mine, careful, restrained, and devastatingly sure.
He didn't pull away, his forehead resting against mine for a heartbeat.
"That," he whispered, "is what I've observed."
