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“I ought to go home and change before we start recording,” he said, pulling his dark-green shirt back on. “I like this shirt, but it’s done its duty for the weekend.”

“I think it’s a very attractive shirt.”

“You’ve been pretty enthusiastic about taking it off.” He grinned as he fastened the last button, and I looked at him over the top of my glasses.

“I can appreciate a garment without requiring it to remain on its owner. Although I must admit, you make an excellent argument for shirts with buttons.”

Hudson laughed and followed me into the kitchen, where my stomach finally remembered its responsibilities.

I’d stocked the cottage when I arrived, anticipating several days of recording, reading, and eating whatever required the least effort. The refrigerator held eggs, milk, butter, and apples, while bread, cinnamon, and a bottle of maple syrup occupied the cupboards. I’d been rather proud of myself for buying actual ingredients instead of filling the freezer with microwave dinners.

Hudson inspected the available supplies while I found two clean mugs.

“How do you feel about French toast? My mom used to make it for us when we were kids, and you’ve got everything we need. We could do something with those apples, too.”

I glanced at the fruit bowl, then back at him. “I feel very positively about French toast, especially when someone else offers to make it. I can help with the apples, assuming there’s more involved than handing you one and wishing you luck.”

He laughed and retrieved a skillet from the cupboard I’d indicated. “A little butter, cinnamon, and a few minutes on the stove. Nothing complicated. You want to slice them while I get the bread going?”

“Absolutely.”

We settled into the comfortable business of making breakfast together. Hudson whisked eggs and milk while I sliced the apples into thin wedges, trying to make the pieces roughly equal. The kitchen windows looked toward the maples surrounding the cottage, and the morning sunshine illuminated the jars of dried flowers on the sill. Outside, yesterday’s leaves had gathered along the gravel drive. Inside, the air was gradually filling with the smell of butter and cinnamon.

Hudson stood beside me at the stove, dipping bread into the egg mixture before transferring the slices to a hot skillet. He moved with the same unhurried confidence I’d noticed when he handled his woodworking tools, turning the bread when its underside had browned rather than repeatedly checking whether it was ready.

“Your mother must have taught you a few things,” I said, stirring the apples as the cinnamon began to warm.

“She taught all three of us enough to keep from living on sandwiches. My brothers claimed they couldn’t cook when we were younger, but that was mostly because they knew Mom would take pity on them.” He checked a slice of toast and turned it over. “I liked helping her. Besides, the fellow making breakfast generally gets first crack at it.”

“A sound philosophy. My mother believes an excellent breakfast should prepare you for intellectual achievement, although I suspect she’d approve of this considerably more than my usual bowl of cereal.”

“You don’t cook much?”

“I can cook. I’m simply very good at convincing myself that a bowl of cereal is an appropriate dinner when I’m engrossed in a book. My mother considers this an unfortunate misuse of a university education.”

Hudson laughed, and I leaned against his side long enough to steal a kiss before returning to the apples.

It was a different experience from my usual mornings alone in Minneapolis, when breakfast tended to involve something eaten over a manuscript and the constant possibility of discovering I’d accidentally spilled milk on a page of editorial notes.

I liked cooking with Hudson. He was perfectly happy to let me handle the fruit once he’d demonstrated what he meant, and there was something lovely about working together without a recording deadline hovering over every conversation.

The apples softened and took on a rich golden color, their juices thickening into a cinnamon-scented glaze. Hudson transferred the finished toast to two plates and carried them to the table while I brought the apples and maple syrup.

The first bite was wonderful. Crisp, buttery edges gave way to soft bread, and the warm fruit tasted like everything I loved about autumn.

“This is going to be a problem,” I told him.

Hudson glanced up from his plate, looking amused. “I thought you’d approved the menu.”

“Oh, enthusiastically. But I’ve become accustomed to preparing my breakfast with almost no effort whatsoever. You’ve just demonstrated that breakfast can be delicious and come with exceptionally pleasant company. My standards may never recover.”

“I can live with that.” He reached for the syrup and poured a little over his second slice. “Though I should warn you, if you come back next weekend, I might put you in charge of breakfast.”

I looked at him.

Next weekend.

He’d said it so casually, as though there were every reason to expect we’d still be spending time together after I returned to Minneapolis.