"I'm not. I mean I run a very successful veterinarian clinic and rescue." He pauses, and it's the first time I've seen him search for words. "I also notice when people undervalue themselves. I don’t like you doing that, sweetheart. You’re worth so much."
The wind moves through the pine trees below us. Somewhere down in the dark valley, something, probably an elk, moves through the snow.
"Why did you never get married?" I ask, because apparently, I'm doing honesty tonight, blunt, embarrassing honesty. Why do I sometimes just blurt out exactly what I’m thinking?
He doesn't seem surprised by the question. "Holly tell you I hadn't?"
"Holly is providing what she calls context, even when I don’t ask her about it."
Something moves through his expression, not quite a smile, more rueful than that. "I spent my twenties building the practice and establishing my nonprofit rescue. Here in Colorado, there are so many animals that need to be rehabilitated. I’ve had literally thousands of animals come through my rescue in the last two decades, large birds of prey, bears, elk, deer, foxes, even big horn sheep. It’s been very rewarding and as my businesses grew, I became more and more busy. By the time I had become successful at both, I'd gotten very comfortable with my own company and that of my furry friends." He looks towards the mountains. "I've dated. It never stuck. I was looking forsomething very specific and not finding it, and I've never been good at pretending otherwise."
"What were you looking for?"
He looks at me then. Fully. He’s trying to decide how much he can trust me with.
"Someone I can take care of," he says, simply. "Who actually lets me."
The air goes out of me. In the way something you've heard a hundred times landing differently the hundred-and-first time because you're finally ready to hear it.
Someone I can take care of. Who actually lets me.
When did I last let anyone take care of me? How often have I wished for a Daddy to step in and take charge?
He’s a Daddy. He has to be.
I don't say any of what I’m thinking. I look at my hot chocolate and take a sip and listen to the wind.
"That's very specific," I say, finally.
"I'm a specific person."
"I'm noticing that."
He's watching me again. I don’t have to turn to confirm it, I can feel it the way you feel a change in air pressure, something shifts in the quality of the dark beside me.
"What about you?" he asks. "Last relationship?"
"A few years ago. Lasted fourteen months. He was also in travel, which seemed like it would be the thing that made it work and turned out to be the thing that made it not." I think about it. "We both moved through everything at the same speed. I move through life fast. I don’t always stop to think and weigh the consequences before I do things. I can be a bit… impulsive? Not in a bad way but in an exciting way. But, sometimes I need someone who is…” I stop and think about what I’m going to say without giving too much away.
"Is what?"
"Grounded," I say, after a moment. I wanted to say in charge. I wanted to say dominant. I wanted to say a Daddy. But I weigh my words carefully. "Someone who can let me fly while also keeping me grounded." I shake my head. That came out incredibly wrong.
He's quiet for a moment. "Is that what you're looking for? Someone who's grounded?"
I have never thought about it in those words. But as soon as he says them I know the answer with a certainty that has nothing to do with our walk tonight, the romance of the mountains, the warmth of the hot chocolate or any of the things I might blame later if I needed to.
Yes. That is exactly what I'm looking for.
"I think so," I say, which is less than the truth but more than I'm ready to say out loud.
He nods, like that's enough for now. Like he can hear the rest of what I meant even though I didn’t say the words out loud. Like he can read my mind.
I think he probably can.
We walk back slowly.
The resort has gone quieter, the employees and their preview day guests gone, just the lights and the staff moving in the warm golden windows. Our footsteps on the path are the loudest thing. At some point, and I can't say exactly when, his hand brushes mine as we walk. Not quite holding. Just a brush, fingers against fingers in the cold air.
