My heart skips. He called it mine, but I wish it were still ours. I nod for him to continue anyway.
“The land is big—five acres. What if, on the opposite side of the cabin, we set up a few campsites? Nothing fancy. Just a clean bathroom with a shower, maybe a small, locked utility room with a washer and dryer, so you, or whoever you hire, don’t have to haul linens all over the place. The campsites could bring in an extra $25 to $50 a night. Low overhead. Minimal maintenance. And still super private from the cabin rentals.”
I stare at him, stunned. “Wow. That’s actually … a really great idea.”
His eyes light up with pride. He straightens in his seat like he just won Builder of the Year.
“It’d help recoup the cabin investment faster, and still give guests privacy,” I add.
“Exactly.” He’s practically glowing. “Win-win.”
The waiter arrives with our bill, but when I reach for it, Sam beats me to it.
“Nope,” he says, sliding it far out of my reach with a wink. “I’ve never let you pay for a date, and I’m not about to start now.”
“But things are different,” I protest. “Let me at least cover the tip.”
“Nope. Not happening. My woman deserves the finestsea-foam tree moss this town has to offer, and she deserves it without paying for it.”
I laugh despite myself and let it go.
As we walk out into the night air, Sam leans close, voice teasing against my ear. “I’ve got dessert waiting for us too.”
I stop short, pulse jumping. Wait, what? My body stiffens. Is he serious? We had one … intimate … phone call, and he is assuming—no. I need to slow down.
“Well,” I snap, lifting my chin. “I’m suddenly stuffed. Dessert’s off the table.”
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he opens the truck bed and pulls out a picnic basket.
“Too bad,” he says calmly. “I also packed your favorite sandwich. Just in case the teaspoon-sized portions didn’t fill you up.”
My stomach growls at the worst possible time. I squint at the basket. “That better be what I think it is.”
“PB&J,” he confirms. “With honey. And fancy raspberry preserves from the farmer’s market.” He hands me the basket like it’s sacred, then opens the truck door and buckles my seatbelt.
“Here you go,” he says, lips brushing my cheek. “Precious cargo, holding our precious sustenance.”
I laugh, warmth blooming in my chest and belly. I peek inside the basket. “Is this … sliced fresh fruit too?”
He grins. “Even got the oranges peeled. Thought I’d get extra points.”
“You did,” I murmur. “You really did.”
And I can’t help it; my gaze lingers on his hands, remembering exactly how they feel on my skin. The pull between us is still there. I feel it in every brush of his fingers, every shared smile, every memory baked into peanut butter and bread.
I don’t know where we’re going from here. But tonight, I let myself want it again. Even if it still scares the hell out of me.
After our drive to the cabin, Sam pulls out a soft plaid blanket and spreads it across the truck bed, then he turns on a tiny flameless candle. He leans back on one elbow, watching me as I unwrap the sandwich.
His eyes linger, and not just on the food. “You’ve got jelly on your lip,” he murmurs.
I go to wipe it, but he stops me with a light grip on my wrist.
“Let me.” His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, then trails down to my chin.
My breath hitches. It’s ridiculous how much power this man still holds, even after everything.
“I remember the first time I saw you eat one of these,” he says, voice roughened with memory. “We were camping at Lake Dexter, and you had on that ugly orange hoodie and were reading that book about financial independence for women like it was a religious text.”
