“How adorable? Quirky? Cheesy?” I supply.
“Vintage,” he finishes.
“Nice save,” I say. “And yes, they’re all hideous. But I love them. I love this whole place. It’s exactly perfect.”
“It’s great. Better than the St. Regis.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “Really?”
“Really,” he says.
Warmth floods my chest at his appreciation. “I think so, too.”
We choose the loft bedroom and set down our things. Then I take his hand and lead him out the back door and into the waiting woods.
Our afternoon is spent walking the highlands and taking in the views from the highest hills before the wind turns cold and finally chases us back inside.
Dante gathers an arm full of split logs from the wood box outside and sets about making a fire while I head to the kitchen to see what’s available in the pantry. I pretend like I’m really focused on looking for food, but really I’m watching him from the corner of my eye to see if he knows what he’s doing.
He methodically arranges a few of logs in the grate, then adds crumpled newspaper and twigs between them for kindling, and then sets a few more logs on top like a good Boy Scout. Minutes later, a small, crackling fire lights up the fireplace. He patiently watches the flames, making minor adjustments until a solid fire is burning.
I’m impressed. For a man who’s never had a proper vacation, he managed that like a pro. I take down two cans of tomato soup and dump them into a pot on the stove. Then I open a box of mac and cheese and fill up a saucepan with water, setting it to boil. Dante walks over and looks curiously at the stove.
“Gourmet enough for you?” I tease.
“Looks great. Then again, I’m probably hungry enough to eat cardboard.”
“Ha ha,” I say, wrapping my arms around him. “Think you can handle the macaroni while I shower?”
Dante frowns, looking dubiously at the box on the counter.
“Youhavecooked before…” I sort-of ask.
He levels me with a stare that might mean anything, but I just laugh.
“Just follow the directions on the box. If anything catches on fire, throw it in the bay.”
Turns out that Dante manages just fine. By the time I get out of the shower he’s got two bowls of soup set on doily placemats on the table, along with plates of mac and cheese topped with parmesan and black pepper. He even lit the decorative taper candles in the center.
“Fancy,” I say, grinning.
His eyes sweep over me as I saunter to the table in my satin sleep shorts and matching camisole. He pulls out the chair for me, his fingers caressing the side of my neck before he snaps open a fabric napkin and sets it on my lap.
“This is going to be the finest shelf-stable meal you’ve ever had. Chef’s promise.”
I grin at him across the table. “Considering I never checked the expiration date on the box, I’m going to let you taste it first.Chef.”
He takes his seat across from me and spears me with another heated look. “I’m much more excited about dessert.”
I swallow hard, and suddenly food is the last thing on my mind. How can he always make me want him, just like that? One look, one perfectly dropped word. Every single time.
We’re able to work our way through the meal, which is better than decent, but the second our spoons are down, Dante drags my chair away from the table and scoops me up in his arms.
“I’m taking you upstairs,” he says, his voice low.
The possessive timbre of his voice sends lusty chills down my spine. “It would be a shame to waste this gorgeous fire. Maybe we should put the futon mattress—”
I don’t have to tell him twice. After setting me down, Dante drags the mattress over to the fireplace and sets it on the floor. My heart thumps with anticipation as he holds out his hand to me. I take it, and he pulls me down beside him, guiding me back onto the cushions.
