After a while, Izzy pushed off the rail. “I’ve got some reading to catch up on,” she said lightly. “A few calls I should probably return.”
Naomi gave a short nod, already focused elsewhere.
Grant looked at her once, like he might say something.
Didn’t.
“Alright,” he said.
Izzy lifted a hand and headed out, leaving the barn behind her.
The house was quiet when she got back. Late afternoon light stretched across the floors, warm and slow.
Izzy dropped her bag in the guest room, then wandered into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator, then the freezer, then the pantry.
She paused. “Well,” she said softly.
It wasn’t sparse. It was stocked. Meat, pasta, fresh herbs, oil, garlic. The basics. Good basics.
Izzy leaned her hands on the counter and thought for a second.
Then smiled.
* * *
An hour later, the kitchen looked different.
Alive.
Garlic softened in olive oil. Tomatoes simmered low and steady on the stove—rich, thickening, sending out a smell that wrapped around her like memory.
Izzy moved through it easily. No hesitation. Her nonna’s voice somewhere in the back of it all—measure by feel, not by cup. Taste everything. Don’t rush it.
She didn’t.
By the time the sun dipped low, she had carried everything outside.
The patio overlooked the back acreage, the land stretching out into soft shadows and fading light. Low landscape lights flickered on around the stone, casting a warm glow that settled into the evening.
She set the table simply. Plates. Glasses. A bottle of wine she found and hoped was the right choice.
Then she stepped back.
Looked at it.
Satisfied.
She went inside and changed.
Something softer.
Her hair down this time, falling loose around her shoulders.
She caught her reflection for half a second and almost laughed.
Apparently, she’d decided on a mountain dinner date without consulting him.
Too late now.
