Page 56 of Running to You

“Hercule Poirot—with the mustache.”

“You’re killing me, Watson.” But it wasn’t any of those fictional detectives gazing her way. It was all Sam. Humor and affection and…attraction.

Desire skimmed over her, warm and tingly.

The moment stretched between them, a million memories from when they were together.

And then he snapped his gaze forward. Squeezed the steering wheel with one hand. Shifted into first and sped through the green light.

Maybe trying to leave that moment in the Porsche’s dust.

And maybe for him, he had. But Eliza’s feelings weren’t so easily forgotten.

* * *

Eliza stared up at the so-called cottage.

The two-story log home sat on a giant lot at the end of a long driveway that meandered through the forest. It wasn’t visible from the road, but the area around it had been cleared, giving visitors a great view of the peaked roof with its river-rock chimney in the center, flanked by windows on both sides.

After Sam got out to open the garage door, he settled back in the car and caught her staring. “Wait till you see the inside.” He parked the Porsche in the garage, and they climbed out into a tidy two-car garage lined with skis, fishing rods, snowshoes, and winter coats. With their backpacks in hand, he opened the door leading to the house, and she stepped into a kitchen and gazed at the great room.

Wood beams, wood floors, wood trim. But because the walls were painted soft white, it wasn’t dark or overpowering. There was very little color, aside from the natural tones, but huge windows overlooked the forest, adding a thousand shades of green and, at this high altitude, hints of the yellows and oranges and reds that would explode in the next couple of weeks. The rain had stopped, and the clouds parted, allowing the last hint of sunlight through. She stepped deeper inside and caught a view out the back windows of snow-capped mountains in the distance.

Not a bad place to hide.

Beyond the kitchen, a long dining room table separated this area from the cozy sectional that faced the fireplace, which seemed even more grand from the inside. A plush white area rug in front of the hearth had her wanting to take off her shoes and squish her toes in. Except it was way too cold to take off her shoes. Or her jacket.

Behind her, Sam dropped the sacks of groceries they’d picked up in town on the granite countertop.

“Oh, sorry. I can help.” She pulled items out of the bags, unsure where to put them. She gave up trying to find a pantry and just stacked them near the oven. “Why don’t I get started on the soup?”

He turned from where he was loading things into the refrigerator. “Are you hungry?”

“It’s better if it simmers a little while.”

“And you don’t need a recipe? Because I have my laptop.”

“It’s not that hard.” Why she could remember how to make taco soup—and trade bullion—but couldn’t remember where she’d spent the previous Sunday, she had no idea.

“I’ll just put this in your room and find the thermostat.” He carried the backpack with her things up the stairs while she searched cabinets. She should have thought this through better. Her recipe would make enough soup for a crowd. The two of them would barely make a dent. Maybe they could put the leftovers in the freezer for Colton to enjoy after skiing this winter.

She found a heavy cast iron pot—one of those uber-expensive ones they sold at Williams Sonoma—and lit the stovetop, then started searching again.

“Whatcha looking for?”

“Cutting board?”

He snatched a wooden one leaning against the tile backsplash. “Will this work?”

No idea how she’d missed that. She reached for it, but he held it to himself. “What am I cutting?”

Oh. He wanted to help? She tossed him the onion, and he snatched it out of the air. “Dice it, please.”

While he did that, she started the ground beef browning, then added the onions when he was finished. “You chopped them small.”

“You said diced.” He looked confused. “Isn’t that diced?”

“It’s perfect.”