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Hudson grinned as he handed me a cutting board. “Cut them into chunks, toss them with oil, salt, and a little seasoning, and spread them out on the tray. Nothing too complicated. I trust you not to turn the knife into an enchanted weapon.”

I set about my assignment, discovering that Hudson was almost as enjoyable to watch in the kitchen as he was at the microphone.

He moved with easy confidence, checking the heat of the skillet and preparing the pork chops while I arranged the potatoes on a baking tray. The apples and onions went into another pan, where their sweetness mingled with the savory smell of the meat.

The kitchen grew warm as the oven heated. From my place at the counter, I could see the darkening trees through the window, their branches silhouetted against the last pale light of the afternoon. The overhead light reflected off the polished wooden table, and the quiet sounds of cooking made the room feel comfortably domestic.

“You certainly know your way around a kitchen,” I said, sliding the potatoes into the oven.

“I like eating decent food, and I don’t always have somebody around to make it for me. Besides, I enjoy cooking.” He adjusted the heat beneath the skillet and glanced toward me. “It’s nice making something that turns out the way you want.”

I thought of the furniture in his living room and the professional satisfaction I’d seen when he talked about his workshop.

“That seems to be a recurring theme with you. You enjoy making things, whether it’s furniture, dinner, or keeping a complicated job running properly.”

Hudson considered that while he turned the pork chops.

“Never thought about it that way. I suppose I do. At least with dinner I usually know how it’s going to turn out. Furniture can take a few tries.”

“Well, I’m certainly not complaining. So far, your talents have been extremely beneficial to me.”

He laughed, and I felt deliciously pleased with myself.

While dinner cooked, we talked about the recording schedule and the possibility of visiting each other once I returned to Minneapolis. It wasn’t an elaborate discussion about moving or changing our careers. We simply admitted that neither of us wanted Sunday to be the last time we saw each other.

“I’m usually up early for work,” Hudson told me as he checked the potatoes, “but I can make time for calls in the evenings, and I’ve got weekends off when the schedule allows. I’d like to see you again without having to arrange the whole thing around a dragon’s love life.”

“I’d like that too.” I rested my elbows on the counter, watching him move the roasting tray onto a heatproof surface. “My narration work is flexible enough that I can travel occasionally, although I do have deadlines. And there’s no reason you couldn’t visit Minneapolis when your schedule allows. I suspect you’d enjoy some of the places I was telling you about this afternoon.”

“I probably would. Especially if you’re showing me around.”

I smiled at him.

“Then perhaps we should plan on that.”

Hudson set down the oven mitts and came toward me.

“Peyton, I’d be disappointed if we didn’t.”

I slipped my arms around his waist and kissed him, lingering just long enough that he had to remind me about the pork chops waiting on the stove.

By the time dinner was ready, I was thoroughly enchanted with both the food and the man who’d cooked it.

The pork chops were tender, the roasted potatoes perfectly seasoned, and the apples and onions added a lovely sweetness. Hudson set our plates on the table, and we ate beside the window while the last of the evening light faded over the trees.

I told him about a particularly disastrous early narration assignment involving a mystery novel whose author had given three minor characters nearly identical names. Hudson listened with interest, then described an equally frustrating woodworking project in which he’d discovered that a cabinet door could be perfectly square and still refuse to fit a crooked opening.

He’d spent most of an afternoon trying to understand why his measurements weren’t working before discovering the frame itself was the problem.

“After that, I learned to check the opening before I started cutting anything,” he said. “Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble if I’d done it the first time.”

I laughed.

“That sounds remarkably like narration. Sometimes I’ll spend half an hour trying to improve a line before realizing I’ve misunderstood what the character actually wants. Once I correct that, the words usually come much more easily.”

Hudson studied me with interest.

“I’ve noticed that. You don’t just tell me whether something sounds good. You explain what the scene’s supposed to be doing.”