The sound of the front door came just as she finished lighting the last candle. Boots crossed the floor inside. A pause. Then movement from upstairs.
The shower kicked on a minute later.
Izzy smiled to herself and went back outside, pouring a glass of wine.
A little while later, the back door opened.
Izzy turned slightly.
Grant stepped out onto the patio, still damp from the shower, a white T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, jeans sitting low on his hips. The porch light and candles carved out the lines of his forearms, the curve of his throat, the water still clinging to his hair.
He stopped.
Nobody moved.
Izzy’s fingers tightened just a little on the stem of her glass. A tiny, ridiculous flash of nerves flickered—what if he hated it, the food, the setup, all of it—but it passed as quickly as it came.
His eyes moved over the table. The food. The candles.
Then to her.
And stayed there just a little too long.
“What’s this?”
Izzy lifted her glass. “This,” she said, “is me showing proper gratitude for your gracious hospitality.”
His gaze went over the table again, then slid back to her, taking in the hair, the dress, the bare line of her shoulders like he was trying not to.
“You cooked.”
“I did.”
“For me.”
“For you.”
A beat passed.
He stepped farther onto the patio.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she said easily. “That’s what makes it a gift.”
Something shifted in his expression. His jaw eased, some of the tightness from the day bleeding out of his shoulders. He moved closer, slower now, like he didn’t want to miss anything.
“What is it?”
“My nonna’s best,” she said. “Rigatoni with her Sunday sauce. Or at least my version of it.”
“You Italian?”
“Enough to take this seriously.”
That almost got a smile.
He pulled out a chair without taking his eyes off her.
