The winery tour had run long, stretching into late afternoon with tastings that turned into a five-course pairing. Nick had driven the group back as the sun dropped toward the ridge, his hands steady on the wheel, his attention split between the roadand something he wasn't saying. We'd spent the day in the kind of proximity that felt like a rehearsal for a life neither of us had planned.
The ride back had been quiet. The other guests dozed or scrolled through photos. I watched the landscape blur past the window and tried to remember the last time I'd spent an entire day with someone without checking my phone.
Now evening settled over the lodge in the practical language of departure. Guests confirmed morning transfers. The bar restocked for a final round. Somewhere behind the kitchen, luggage carts rattled across the gravel.
"Ms. Wilder?" The lodge manager appeared at my elbow, tablet in hand. "Just confirming your seven o'clock pickup. Ranger Mercer will be at your suite at six forty-five. Do you need any assistance with your bags this evening?"
"I'll manage. Thank you."
She made a note, smiled, and moved on to the next name on her list.
Excellent. My final evening now had a timestamp and a shuttle confirmation, but still zero actionable intelligence on what came next.
Nick stood near the fire pit at the far end of the terrace, his back to the group. Firelight moved across his shoulders while his attention stayed on the tree line, steady and methodical, the same scan I’d seen every evening for a week. But tonight his shoulders sat higher, his weight tipped toward the dark beyond the terrace.
He'd checked my transfer time twice since we'd returned. Both times casually, both times unnecessary. The second time, he'd asked the manager directly, within earshot, as if confirming a security protocol instead of the exact hour my name came off his schedule.
I didn’t call him on it. The second confirmation had told me enough.
Dinner was a communal affair at the long table overlooking the valley. The chef had outdone himself with kudu shoulder braised in red wine, caramelized root vegetables, and a dark chocolate torte no one had room for but everyone finished.
Graham held court at the far end, clearly drafting the LinkedIn post that would follow this. "Transformative," he kept saying. "Absolutely transformative. You can't put a price on perspective like this."
His invoice would suggest otherwise.
Cufflink complained about the transfer logistics—something about the shuttle timing conflicting with his connecting flight. Owen offered a meditation technique for managing airport anxiety that made me want to throw my fork at his head. Naomi said very little, though her attention kept returning to the fire pit, where Nick stood just outside the lantern light.
Alina caught my eye across the table, her wine glass lifted in a subtle salute. "You look like a woman who's already on the plane," she said.
"Just running the numbers," I said, though the only number I was currently tracking was the cooling distance between me and the fire pit.
"Mm." Her smile was small and surgical. "I'm sure the numbers are very cooperative."
I didn't answer. At the edge of the terrace, Nick stepped away from the group, his hand going to his pocket. The glow of a phone screen lit his face for a moment before he turned his back to the table.
The conversation continued around me. Graham transitioned to a story about a corporate retreat in Patagonia, at Luc’s lodge. Of course. The high-end travel world wasn’t small. It was avelvet-roped cul-de-sac, and my future brother-in-law had built one of its preferred exits from civilization.
Cufflink ordered another Johnnie Walker Blue, because even his coping mechanisms came with brand recognition. Owen said something about "integrating the experience into daily practice" that made Alina's eyebrow twitch.
I watched Nick.
He stood with the phone pressed to his ear, his free hand braced against the wooden railing. His posture had eased. One shoulder lowered. His hand stayed braced on the railing, but the grip had changed. He nodded at something the caller said. Laughed, once, low and quiet. Then his voice dropped too low for the table, the cadence gentler than anything I’d heard from him all week.
My hand stopped halfway to my wine.
He spoke for another few minutes, too far away for me to catch the words, but not far enough to miss the shift in his voice. The low, clipped efficiency he used with the rangers was gone. His free hand flexed once against the railing before going still.
Then he ended the call and stood there, phone still in hand, staring at the dark.
When he finally turned back toward the terrace, his eyes found mine immediately, direct and unguarded for half a second. Then his jaw set, and Ranger Mercer returned.
He tucked the phone away and stepped back into the firelight. Conversation kept moving around us, polished and oblivious. Nick said nothing, but his jaw stayed tight after the phone disappeared. When the evening finally loosened and chairs began scraping against the stone, Nick was already at the edge of the terrace, waiting.
The drive to my suite was silent.
Nick took the long route, the one that curved past the watering hole before climbing toward the ridge. The headlights carvedpale tunnels through the dark, illuminating dust motes and the occasional flash of eyes in the brush. Neither of us spoke. The engine filled the jeep with a low, steady sound.
He parked at the deck and cut the engine. It ticked once, then the ridge swallowed the sound.
