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He chuckles.
“Not quite, but I did model the design off of an Alpine lodge,” he says as he pulls up in front of a detached three-bay garage.
I sit there in awe, staring up at the beautiful home.
He hits another button, and one of the dark wood garage doors slides open to reveal a matte-black Harley-Davidson.
“Come on,” he says as he exits the truck.
I open my door, hop down, and follow him into the garage.
When I make it by his side, he picks me up off of my feet and sets me down on the bike.
“I’m wearing a dress,” I say as I straddle the seat.
He shrugs.
“I’ve never been on a motorcycle before,” I admit.
“I’m glad I get to be your first,” he says smugly.
“Graham, are you sure you know how to drive this thing?” I ask the stupid question. He owns it, so he obviously knows how to operate it.
He walks over and grabs a helmet off of a hook. He places it on my head and tightens the chin strap. I reach up and clasp his wrist. His eyes come to mine, and he grins.
“Don’t be nervous. You’re in good hands.”
He secures his helmet and puts on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Then, he takes a seat in front of me. I fist the front of the dress and scoot closer to him.
“Rest your knees against my hips and wrap your arms around me,” he instructs.
I do just that, and he tugs me forward, flush against his back.
“Now, relax and trust me. Lean with me and the bike. I’ll handle the rest,” he says before cranking the beast.
The low rumble of the engine and the vibration of power between my legs cause a thrill to shoot through me. I squeeze him and bury my face in his neck as he hits the gas, and we take off.
Graham keeps us at a slow and steady pace as we descend the mountain, very careful not to jolt me around too much, but once we reach the paved road of the valley, he lets loose, and we fly.
It’s exhilarating.
We make our way out of town and onto one of the scenic Smoky Mountain byways and cruise. He makes a point to stop at every observation lookout, so I can take in the views. At one point, we are so high that the clouds settle around us like a mist.
By the time the sun starts to set, I’m as comfortable on the back of his bike as I am seated in the passenger side of a truck. I loosen my grip on him and raise my arms into the air, letting the wind whip through the ends of my hair peeking beneath the helmet, flying around me.
We navigate off the byway to this quaint little restaurant tucked into the side of the mountain and stop. Graham helps me off the bike, we remove our helmets and we make our way inside. We are greeted by a hostess, and Graham requests a table next to a window.
As she leads us into the restaurant, Graham tells me that we are one mile up.
We stop at a table that is draped in white linens. It’s beautiful but pales in comparison to the breathtaking panoramic views overlooking the mountain range outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Graham,” I gasp.
“I thought you’d like it,” he says as he pulls a chair out for me.
“It’s stunning.”
And romantic.
He leans down and whispers in my ear, “Wait until you taste the lobster bisque.”
He orders a bottle of wine, and I let him make our dinner selections. He orders a few dishes he wants me to try, and he is obviously excited to introduce me to his favorites.
“I’m sorry I forced you into spending the day with me,” I tell him, a little embarrassed.
“You didn’t force me to do anything.”
“I put you on the spot,” I point out.
He pauses for a moment.
“Yeah, you kind of did,” he teases, as the server returns with our glasses.
“I’m having a really nice time,” I tell him.
He reaches over the table and takes my hand. He holds it and lightly runs his thumb in a circle on the inside of my wrist. I’m terrified he can feel the increase of my pulse.
“So am I. It’s nice to step away from work and enjoy the countryside. Living here, I think we sometimes forget to appreciate the beauty. We take it for granted. Today was a reminder of why I love home so much,” he confesses.
I take a sip of my wine and swallow down the lump of emotion in my throat. He just verbalized what I’d been contemplating all day.
How did I ever feel suffocated here?
I look out the windows at the beautiful view.
“I envy trees,” I say.
His brow creases.
“Why?”
“Because when it’s time to change, they do. They let their leaves glow bright with color in autumn, and then, come winter, they let them go so easily to make room for new growth in the spring. New adventure. New purpose.” I muse.
His eyes follow mine out to the landscape.
“Yeah, I guess they do.”
Our entrees arrive a moment later and we enjoy our candlelit meal.
“Try this.”
He raises a spoon to my lips.
I close my eyes as the smooth, velvety texture of the rich soup hits my tongue.
“Oh my God, that’s amazing,” I tell him.
“Right? It’s the best I’ve ever had.”
Graham did an excellent job with all his selections. Every mouthful is better than the last.
I learn all there is to know about his family while we eat. Each of his brothers has chosen very different career paths. Langford is spearheading the new ski resort in Balsam Ridge, Corbin is the chief of Valley Fire and Rescue, Weston has his organic CBD farm, Garrett is the country music star, and Morris—the baby—is still at home with his parents, trying to figure out what he wants from life.
I sigh. “Your family is not real.”
“Why do you say that?” he asks.
“Y’all are too perfect. Real families are messy.”
“That’s awfully cynical and presumptuous. We are far from perfect. Langford is divorced. Garrett can’t hold down a real relationship; he just moves from groupie to groupie. I’m a widower, and Morris is twenty-seven and still lives with his mother.”
I giggle. “Okay, so not perfect, but close enough.”
We finish our meal, Graham pays the bill, and we head back out to the motorcycle. The evening air is crisp and chilly.
“I didn’t think this through,” he says as his eyes gaze my sleeveless arms.
He unbuttons his flannel shirt and removes it, revealing a tightly fitted tee underneath. “Here, put this on,” he instructs.
I take the shirt and pull it on. It swallows me, but it’s warm, and it smells of him. I bury my nose into the collar and inhale.
“Aren’t you going to be cold?” I ask.
“Not if you snuggle in close,” he says.
