"Yes." Brilliant conversation, Judith.
His gaze sweeps the cabin, noting the well-maintained fire, the orderly kitchen, the plate of cookies. Then it returns to me, intensifying. "You managed."
"I told you I would." I push the plate toward him. "Cookie?"
He crosses to the kitchen in three long strides, his presence immediately filling the space. He selects a cookie, studies it briefly, then takes a bite. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes softens.
"Good." Coming from him, it's effusive praise.
"My dad's recipe." I busy myself with wiping down the already clean counter. "He made them every Christmas."
Dario watches me, silent and assessing.
"We should talk about yesterday," he finally says.
My heart stutters. "About the playroom."
"Yes." He sets down the half-eaten cookie. "About that, and about what happens now."
"What happens now?" I echo, searching his face for clues.
"That depends on you." His voice drops lower, intent. "On your answer to my question."
The question that's been burning in my mind since he asked it.Have you ever submitted to anyone, Judith?
"No," I say simply. "I haven't."
He nods once, as if confirming a suspicion. "But you've thought about it."
Not a question. An observation. "Yes."
His eyes never leave mine, searching, assessing.
"Our arrangement is temporary," he reminds me, though whether he's telling me or himself isn't clear.
"I know."
"Complicating it would be unwise."
"Probably."
He takes a step closer, close enough that I can feel the cold still emanating from his clothes, smell the winter air clinging to him. "I'm not a man who does things casually, Judith. When I take someone into my playroom, it means something."
My breath catches. "And what would it mean with me?"
"That's what we need to determine." His gaze is unwavering. "Because once we cross that line, there's no going back to just business."
The implications spiral through me. He's right. If we explore this attraction, this compatibility we both sense, our neat arrangement shatters. Emotions would inevitably complicate everything.
"I need time to think," I say finally.
He nods, stepping back, giving me space. "Take it. This isn't a decision to make lightly."
The moment breaks when his satellite phone buzzes. He checks it, frowning. "Micah. The town's Christmas committee wants to know if we'll be at the tree lighting ceremony next week."
The abrupt change of subject gives me whiplash. "The what?"
"Crimson Hollow goes all out for Christmas. Tree lighting, market, caroling, the works." His expression suggests dental surgery would be preferable. "They're expecting the new Mrs. Wallace to make an appearance."
