Page 7

"Someone unexpected. Someone who challenges her." Her eyes meet mine briefly before darting away. "It's silly, I know."

"I don't think so." The words come out softer than intended.

She looks up, surprise evident. "Most people dismiss romance novels. Especially men."

"I've never understood why. People risk their lives for love all the time. I've seen it in rescue work."

Something shifts in her expression—interest, maybe. "That's... not what I expected you to say."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Something dismissive about bodice-rippers or Fabio covers."

I allow myself a small smile. "I try not to have opinions on things I know nothing about."

"That's remarkably rare." She returns the smile, and something tightens in my chest.

"I should let you work." I take my coffee and retreat, feeling distinctly like I'm running away.

Hours later, I find her still typing, curled up in the guest room's reading chair, brow furrowed in concentration. I stand in the doorway longer than I should, watching her work. There's something captivating about her focus and the way she bites her lower lip, the small furrow between her brows, how she occasionally mouths dialogue to herself.

I knock on the doorframe, breaking her concentration. "Dinner," I say. "You should eat."

She blinks, surfacing from whatever world she's been creating. "What time is it?"

"Seven-thirty."

"Already?" She stretches, and I look away from the sliver of skin revealed as her shirt rides up. "I lost track."

"Your writing going well?"

"Actually, yes." She seems surprised by this. "Sometimes a change of environment helps. Different energy."

In the kitchen, I heat the stew I prepared earlier. She hovers nearby, watching me move around the space.

"Do you cook? Or is it all military-grade rations and protein bars?" she asks.

The question makes me almost smile. "I cook. Living alone, you learn or you starve."

"Or you order takeout," she counters. "That's my usual approach in the city."

"Not many delivery options up here."

"No, I imagine not." She smiles. "Thank you for dinner. And for checking on me. And for everything, really."

I nod, uncomfortable with gratitude. "Sit. It's ready."

We eat at the kitchen island, the silence surprisingly comfortable. She's less talkative now, fatigue from the day's events catching up with her. I should be relieved by the quiet, but instead, I find myself wanting to know more.

"Have you always written romance?" I ask.

She seems startled by my continued interest. "Since college. I published my first novel at twenty-one."

"That's impressive."

"It did well, surprisingly. The second one..." She makes a face. "Not so much. This one needs to succeed or my publishing career might be over before it really begins."

"High stakes."