Nobody in living memory has watched me walk into this house with a woman on my arm. The Bardots are handling it about as smoothly as a fire drill.
"Hello, Darcy." Mom crosses the kitchen wiping her hands, and I watch her run through six greetings and land, catastrophically, on all of them at once. "Welcome. Sit down. Don't let us intrude, I know you two have plans. Can I get you anything? Wine? There's a very nice rosé open. Finn, offer her something."
"We're eating in ten minutes, Mom."
"Then something small." She has Darcy's hand in both of hers now and appears to have no intention of releasing it. "It's lovely to have you here. It's been years since... well. It's lovely."
"Thank you for having me," Darcy says, warmly, squeezing back, and my mother beams at her like she's said something remarkable.
From the sofa, without looking up, Evan announces to no one in particular, "A catering van came through at five. Looked fancy."
"It wasn't catering," I say. "It was a chef."
"Chef? Huh." Evan lets the information sit there for about one second. "Did you iron your own shirt?"
Darcy tries to hide her amused smile.
"Ignore him," I tell her.
"I'm impossible to ignore," Evan says. He looks up then, taking his time about it, the grin arriving in stages. His eyes flick to Darcy. "He must like you a lot. He's pulling out all the stops. Which isn't saying much, considering we're talking about Finn."
"Careful, Ev. Your jealousy is showing."
He just cackles and goes back to his phone, and only I catch the half-second where his eyes hold mine on the way down. Evan is the one person in this house who knows about the bet I made with my friends back at The Retreat, because I told him on the auction steps like an idiot with pain-med solidarity. He's never said a word about it since and I hope to hell he knows to keep his mouth shut about it now.
He may be a clown and a jackass most of the time, but my little brother is also a damn good friend to me. As if to prove the point, he gives me a look of quiet approval as I step in closer to Darcy in the kitchen.
Mom releases Darcy's hand at last, and the look she gives me over Darcy's shoulder is quick and says plenty. "Go on," she says, shooing us. "You two go enjoy your evening."
We go out the kitchen door into the long gold evening, and I exhale for what feels like the first time since the driveway.
"Your mother is wonderful," Darcy says.
"My mother is going to interrogate Evan the second that door shuts."
Darcy giggles. "Oh, absolutely."
I take her hand and walk her down the gravel path along the east rows, the light lying long and warm across the vines, the water showing between the hills the way it does for about twenty good minutes a day. Colton's windows are lit at the far guesthouse, he and his son Tyler conspicuously not outside. Darcy walks slow on purpose, taking it in, and I watch her taking it in, which is the better view by far.
The stone guesthouse where I've been staying glows warm and inviting ahead of us. I let us in, and I see the room hit her a beat before I can do anything about it. My duffels along the wall, gear cases stacked next to the cozy furniture, rope coiled over a chair, boots by the door. Three weeks and I've unpacked nothing. The room says it out loud. This is a man who doesn't stay. I have the sudden urge to burn my own luggage.
Her eyes travel the room and catch on the shelf under the window, where the novel and the matching audiobook I brought home from the library yesterday sit squared on top of each other in plain sight. I wonder if she'll ask about them, but she moves past without comment.
"It smells incredible in here."
It does. The chef and her team have the small table by the back windows dressed in white, candles lit against the blue coming down outside. A bottle of the family's best vintage Pinot Noir stands breathing on the sideboard. The whole guesthouse smells like roasting meat, butter and thyme and someone else's Michelin-starred talent.
The chef says a few quiet words about what she's prepared for us tonight. Her team sets the plates. And then, on a cue I never see her give, they're out the door and up the path, and it's just Darcy and me alone in the quiet of the guesthouse.
She looks at the table, the candles, the vines outside going dark through the windows. Then at me, one eyebrow lifting and that pretty mouth of hers fighting a smile.
"I recognize that chef, Finn. She's got her own TV show."
"I considered cooking for you personally." I pull out her chair. "Then I remembered I like you."
She laughs softly, but I can tell I've surprised her. I've pleased her, which pleases me more than anything else about tonight so far. "This is... amazing, Finn."
I hesitate where I am, hands braced on the back of her chair. "Still impressed, then?"
