“At sunset.” His panther was practically preening. “There’s my cabin. Private, good sightlines on all approaches, and I can actually cook without burning it.”
Narla leaned against her doorframe, arms crossed, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She was wearing an oversized sweater and leggings, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she looked soft in a way that twisted his gut.
“Let me see if I understand.” Her voice had warmed, amusement bleeding through the suspicion. “You want me to come to your place at sunset to discuss investigation parameters. Over dinner.”
“Yes.”
“And this is purely professional.”
“Completely.”
“Wyatt.” She pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. Close enough that he could catch the warm scent of her—candle smoke and herbs, the faint sweetness of whatever she’d been baking. “Are you trying to ask me on a date?”
His panther held its breath. Waiting.
“I’m trying to—” He stopped. Started again. “The investigation requires?—”
“Wyatt.”
He met her gaze. Those deep brown eyes, seeing right through him, stripping away every professional excuse he’d constructed.
“Yes.” The admission scraped past his defenses. “I’m asking you on a date. I’m doing it badly, apparently, but yes.”
Her smile broke through fully, warm and unexpected and devastating. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“It was excruciating.”
She laughed—a real laugh, startled out of her—and the sound hit him somewhere deep. When was the last time he’d made anyone laugh? When was the last time he’d tried?
“Give me twenty minutes.” She was already stepping back into the cottage. “And for the record, Sheriff, your strategic framing needs work.”
“Noted.”
She closed the door, and Wyatt stood on her porch, heart hammering, feeling more off-balance than he had in decades.
His panther practically preened.
She said yes.
“She said yes.” He repeated it out loud, testing the reality of the words. “She actually said yes.”
Inside the cottage, Ember hooted. It sounded suspiciously like approval.
SEVENTEEN
WYATT
His cabin looked different with her in it.
Wyatt hadn’t thought about that when he’d decided to cook dinner—hadn’t considered that a woman at his kitchen table, a bottle of wine on the counter, the smell of something actually edible coming from the stove might feel like home. He was realizing it now, watching Narla’s expression as she took in the space.
“You actually cook.”
“Simple things.” He set a bowl on the table. “Don’t read into it.”
“You made pasta from scratch.”
“I had time.”
