Page 27 of Art of Love

“You didn’t,” he said, unsure of his own voice. He didn’t want to say anything that would make her leave now. So, instead, he asked her if she’d help feed the horses and then join him for dinner.

After a moment, she nodded and they quickly finished brushing down the horses and then fed them, scooping oats and tossing hay. She stayed by his side, listening when he spoke about Blaze’s progress and laughing when Stormy nuzzled her shoulder for treats.

As the sun started to dip lower over the Pacific, golden light streamed through the barn slats, soft and unhurried.

Abe watched her, something in her eyes shifting, opening.

This this was what he’d been hoping for.

She was finally letting him in.

They walked back to the house, and she sat in the kitchen, watching him and listening to him talk about his ranch, horses, and home while he cooked up some cast-iron-skillet fajitas, one of the few things he could make on a gas stove without screwing it up.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she said, one brow raised, clearly impressed as she watched him slice peppers and onions like he actually knew what he was doing.

“Yeah, I don’t really mention it in interviews,” he joked. “I can only make a handful of meals without burning down the kitchen.” He tossed the colorful strips into the hot pan, where they hissed on contact. “I can handle the basics. You live on the road long enough, you either learn to cook or you live off beef jerky and diner pie. Road trip food can only satisfy you for so long.”

She chuckled, her arms crossed lightly over the table. “Road trip food isn’t so bad.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never been stuck on a tour bus in the middle of Texas during a heatwave with nothing but a half-melted granola bar and a broken AC unit.”

He flashed her a grin and caught the way she smiled back, soft, relaxed, unguarded. It hit him low and deep, how natural this felt. Her, sitting in his best friend’s kitchen. Him, cooking like they’d done this a hundred times before.

As he plated the sizzling fajitas, she stood and grabbed the silverware and napkins without being asked. It took her a few times to find everything, but it was almost like she belonged there.

They sat across from each other at the table, sunlight slanting in through the window, painting golden lines across the wood grain.

“So,” he said between bites, “when were you going to tell me you are a private investigator?”

She almost choked on the bite of food she’d taken. “I…” She shook her head. “How did you know?”

“It wasn’t hard to find out.” At first, it had pissed him off. He was used to people lying to him. He’d hoped that Dylan was different.

He really hoped she wasn’t there for him, but something told him she was.

She stared at him, searching his face, probably trying to gauge just how pissed he was. But the truth was he wasn’t. Not anymore. Not really. And not after that kiss. He was curious. Intrigued. But mad?

Not when she looked at him like that. Like maybe she hadn’t expected kindness from him… and wasn’t sure she knew what to do with it.

He dropped his voice a little. “You can ask me anything, Dylan. If you want answers, just ask.”

For a long beat, she didn’t say anything, just studied him in that quiet, intense way of hers.

And then, slowly, she set down her food and nodded. “Okay.”

Abe took another bite, doing his best to act casual while every part of him felt like it was holding its breath.

Because that single word meant something.

It meant maybe. It meant not yet.

And most importantly…

It meant she wasn’t running.

“Kara Sinclair.” The name hung in the air like an iron fist to the gut.

He set his fork down slowly and took a sip of the cold soda.