Burke looked between the two of them—the silk and the sandpaper—and visibly reconsidered his life choices. He cleared his throat.
3
Bridlepath Farm Cottage — Later
By the time Burke carried her suitcase onto the little front porch and Grant unlocked the cottage door, dusk had begun to settle across the farm in soft blue layers.
“It’s cute,” Izzy said, stepping inside.
Behind her, Grant made a low sound, more resigned than disapproving.
The cottage smelled faintly of old wood and dust, with a heavier, shut-in note underneath.
Izzy wrinkled her nose. “That’s… atmospheric.”
Burke stepped in behind her and sniffed once. “I don’t know, Iz. He might be right. Smells like it’s been closed up a long time.”
“Because it has,” Grant said from the doorway.
The main room was small but charming. Wide plank floors ran beneath a faded rug in muted reds and cream. A deep stone fireplace took up most of one wall. Two old wicker chairs faced it with a small table between them. A narrow galley kitchen opened off one side, and beyond the main room, a short hallway led to a tiny bathroom and what she assumed was the bedroom.
The last of the evening light filtered through the wavy old windowpanes, stretching unevenly across the floor.
Izzy turned slowly in place.
“This is a woman-goes-to-the-mountains-and-rebuilds-her-life cottage.”
Burke laughed under his breath.
Grant didn’t, exactly—but something in his shoulders loosened, his gaze sweeping the small space before settling back on her.
He stood inside the doorway, hat still on, arms folded across his chest like a man bracing for a project he didn’t want.
“The plumbing works,” he said. “Mostly.”
Izzy looked over her shoulder. “That is not reassuring.”
“The heat’s on,” he added. “And it holds it.”
“Still not reassuring,” she said, but her mouth curved.
“There are extra blankets in the chest at the end of the bed.”
She arched a brow. “Are you always this warm with guests?”
“I don’t usually have guests,” he said. “Especially not ones Burke volunteers me for.”
Burke sighed. “Grant.”
Grant lifted a shoulder. “What? I’m being honest.”
Izzy smiled sweetly. “You do that with everyone, or am I special?”
For the first time, something flickered in his expression. Not quite a smile.
“You seem high maintenance,” he said, but there was a thread of dry humor under it.
Izzy bristled. It was a familiar jab—one she usually laughed off in Denver over expensive appetizers. But here, with her heels sinking into a rug that probably hadn’t been beaten since the Nixon administration, it felt like an indictment. He didn’t see the woman who managed million-dollar acquisitions; he saw a girl who couldn’t handle a little grit.
