The honesty hung between us. No games. No pretending this was just a friendly thank-you visit.
Something shifted in his expression—heat and something else. Something I desperately wanted to put a name to.
He stepped back.
The inside didn’t exactly match the stoney outside. Inside it was warm with a crackling fire in the stone hearth. Masculine but not messy—lived in, not neglected. A book lay open on the arm of the couch. A mug sat on the side table.
He took the pie from my hands, our fingers brushing in the exchange. That same delicious shiver ran up my spine.
“It smells good,” he said, setting it on the counter.
“It’s still warm.” I stood there, awkwardly, but not disappointed. I’d made it inside.
“You drove all the way up here with a warm pie.” He turned to look at me, and I saw it again—that intensity that made me feel like I was the only thing in his world. “At dusk. With a storm coming.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t have.” Another low growl that seemed so protective.
“I wanted to.”
We stared at each other, and the air between us felt charged. Heavy with everything we weren’t saying.
“Do you have plates, or are we eating the pie like animals?” I did my default and resorted to humor and sarcasm. I was at my best when I could combine both, but this situation was different.
He hesitated a beat before pulling plates from the cupboard. His movements were slow and deliberate. He retrieved a knife and two forks from a drawer. “Cut it,” he ordered as he went to the fridge to get some milk. He sat the cups in the center of the table.
I cut two pieces before sitting down. We ate in silence for a few minutes, the fire popping behind us. The tension in the air was softened—still charged, but warmer now.
He took a bite and gave a deep sigh. It was a little haunting, but it made me glad I’d brought him the pie. “I haven’t had anything homemade in a long time.”
“So you don’t bake? I figured you could make a mean chocolate cake.”
That almost earned me a smile.
“My repertoire is limited.” He ate like he did everything—focused, efficient. “But I can make about four things well.”
“Which are?” I had to admit I was enjoying myself. Sharing a pie with this man.
“Coffee. Eggs. Steak. Soup.”
“So no chocolate cake? That’s a shame. But it seems you have the bachelor essentials down to an art form.”
“I had to. You couldn’t always rely on the mess hall for a meal.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned the military. I had to admit I’d read his file at the clinic, for purely professional reasons, of course. He was thirty-five, medically discharged from the military with full retirement. He worked occasionally for Race Gentry, the man whose land he was living on, and suffered from migraines.
“How long were you in?” I asked carefully.
“Seventeen years. I enlisted at eighteen.” He looked down at his plate. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. Small town, no prospects, no reason to stay.”
“Where was home?”
“Nowhere that matters anymore.” His voice had gone flat. “My mother remarried last year and moved to Arizona. We don’t talk much.”
The casual way he said it made my chest ache. Like he’d accepted it so completely that it didn’t hurt anymore—or he’d gotten so good at pretending it didn’t.
“I’m sorry.”
