Grant leaned back, studying her now instead of the food.
“You always do this?”
“Cook?”
“For people.”
Izzy shrugged lightly. “For the ones who deserve it.”
Something unreadable flickered across his face at that.
“And I made the list?”
“You had a rough night,” she said. “Seemed fair.”
Grant’s gaze held hers a second longer. “You cook like this a lot in Denver?”
The question caught her slightly off guard—less small talk, more like he was actually trying to picture her life somewhere else.
Izzy looked down at her wineglass, turning the stem slowly between her fingers. “I used to.”
Something in her voice shifted.
Small.
But enough that Grant’s eyes locked onto hers.
The evening settled quieter around them, warm air drifting through the patio with the scent of tomatoes, garlic, and summer grass.
“Caitlin and I used to have people over all the time,” she said softly. “Artists. Friends. Too much wine. Everybody jammed into my kitchen until two in the morning.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “I cooked constantly back then.”
Grant stayed quiet, letting her talk.
“But after she moved here…” She shrugged lightly. “Things changed.”
Her gaze drifted out toward the darkening pasture.
“And now Halpern’s bought the gallery.”
That landed differently—sharper, more personal.
A short, humorless laugh slipped out.
“I gave that place everything,” she said. “The buying trips. Artist outreach. Installations. Launches. Twelve-hour days. Flights every other week. And now there’s some new owner walking around moving walls and changing things and pretending we’re remotely on the same page.”
A tiny flicker crossed her face then—fast enough she probably thought she hid it.
But Grant saw it.
The shine gathering briefly in her eyes before she blinked it away and reached for her wine like she was annoyed at herself for even getting close to emotional.
She looked exhausted.
Not dramatic.
Not broken.
Just… tired in a way that settled deep.
