“Sit,” she said.
He did.
She poured him a glass of wine.
Set it in front of him.
Her fingers brushed the rim as she slid it toward him; his hand landed on the stem a half-second later, warm and solid. A tiny shock of awareness skipped up her arm before she pulled back.
Then she took her own seat.
For a while, neither of them said anything.
Just the quiet of the evening, the low hum of the land stretching out around them, the soft scrape of cutlery, the flicker of candlelight between them.
Grant picked up his fork.
Took a bite.
Izzy watched him.
Didn’t try to hide it.
He didn’t react right away.
Just chewed.
Considered.
Then—“Damn.”
She laughed softly, some coil of tension easing low in her chest. “I’m going to assume that’s positive.”
He looked at her. “That’s…” He shook his head once. “That’s not what I expected.”
“From me?” she asked.
“From anyone.”
That landed.
Heat slid through her at the way he said it—flat, sincere, like he didn’t hand out that kind of praise often.
He took another bite.
Then another.
Izzy leaned back in her chair, satisfied.
She caught a smear of sauce on her thumb and absently swiped it away with the edge of her tongue. His gaze flicked down, then back up so fast she might’ve imagined it—except for the brief, betraying flex of his jaw. Heat moved low through her stomach before she could stop it.
“Careful,” she said. “You’re going to hurt my feelings if you don’t pace yourself.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
She smiled.
The light shifted as the sun dropped lower, the patio settling deeper into warm gold and shadow.
