Page 6

“Dinner and Defenses”

Noah

I'd caught, cleaned, and cooked more lake bass than I could count over the years, but none had ever made me this nervous.

Back in my cabin after collecting Didi's catch, I surveyed my home through a stranger's eyes.

The open floor plan suddenly felt too sparse, too utilitarian.

I'd renovated my grandfather's old fishing cabin with practicality in mind—hardwood floors that wouldn't show dirt from my boots, stone countertops that could take a beating, furniture built for comfort rather than style.

The place was clean but unmistakably masculine, with fishing gear organized on hooks by the door and framed topographical maps of Hope Peak Lake on the walls.

"Get a grip, Sterling," I muttered, firing up the grill on the deck. "It's just dinner."

But it wasn't just dinner, and I knew it.

Something about Didi from Chicago had gotten under my skin in a way that hadn't happened in years.

Maybe it was the way she'd lit up when she caught that fish, her guard momentarily dropped to reveal genuine joy.

Maybe it was how she scanned her surroundings with trained vigilance while trying to appear casual.

Or maybe it was simply those curves that her tight summer clothes did little to conceal.

I filled a bowl with ice water and submerged Didi's bass, then gathered my cleaning supplies—sharp fillet knife, cutting board, bowl for scraps. The routine calmed me, automatic after years of practice. I'd just laid everything out when a knock at the door sent a jolt through me.

Didi stood on my porch holding a bottle of wine, her blonde hair falling loose past her shoulders. She'd changed into a simple sundress in a pale green that made her eyes practically glow in the evening light.

"I come bearing gifts," she said, her voice dropping into that melodic register that reminded me of warm honey. "Though I realize now I should have asked if you even drink wine."

"I'm not much of a wine expert," I said, holding the door wider, "but I've been known to enjoy a glass or two."

She stepped inside, and I caught the scent of something floral—her shampoo or perfume—that quickened my pulse. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in the cabin.

"Wow," she said, turning in a slow circle. "This is... not what I expected."

"Disappointed?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"The opposite," she replied, running her fingers along the stone countertop. "I was expecting mounted deer heads and beer can pyramids. This is beautiful."

Pride bloomed in my chest as she explored. The renovation had been my therapy after Jessica left—something tangible I could transform when everything else felt beyond my control. Every plank, tile, and fixture represented hours of work, sweat, and occasional blood.

"Did you do all this yourself?" she asked, admiring the hand-built pine shelving that separated the kitchen from the living room.

"Most of it. Called in professionals for the electrical and plumbing." I uncorked the wine she'd brought and poured two glasses. "Ready to see what becomes of your fishing triumph?"

She accepted the glass and followed me to the counter where I'd set up my cleaning station. "Is this the part where I get squeamish and you judge me for being a city girl?"

My lips curved upward. "No judgment. Not everyone grew up learning this stuff."

"Then I'm all eyes," she said, leaning against the counter beside me. "Teach me, Mountain Man."

The nickname sent an electric current down my spine. "First lesson—a sharp knife is safer than a dull one." I demonstrated the proper grip on my fillet knife. "You want clean, confident cuts."

Her attention fixed on my hands as I scaled the fish, my movements practiced and efficient. When I made the first cut behind the gills, she winced slightly but didn't look away.

"The key is knowing the anatomy," I explained, working the knife along the backbone. "Feel for the resistance, let the blade find the natural separation."

"There's something oddly graceful about watching you do this," she observed, sipping her wine. "Like someone with muscle memory for a complicated dance."

I glanced up, catching her eyes. "That's exactly what it is—muscle memory. My grandfather taught me when I was seven. Said a man should know how to feed himself from what nature provides."

"Smart man," she said softly.

"He was." I finished filleting, setting aside the perfectly cleaned pieces. "What about you? Who taught you to cook?"

"Bold of you to call my forays into the kitchen cooking," she laughed.

"My culinary expertise stops at ordering takeout and heating up frozen meals.

My mom worked double shifts most of my childhood, so dinner was whatever I could microwave for me and my sister.

After that, I never bothered to learn properly. "

I nodded, understanding washing over me. Her self-sufficiency wasn't just a personality trait—it had been a necessity. "Sounds like you had to grow up fast," I said quietly.

"Well, you're about to expand your resume," I said, nodding toward the refrigerator. "Would you mind putting together a simple salad while I get this fish ready for the grill? There's lettuce and veggies in the crisper drawer."

She looked momentarily uncertain, then squared her shoulders. "I think I can handle chopping vegetables without disaster. Point me to your cutting board and knife."

I directed her to the drawer with utensils, and we soon established a natural rhythm—me preparing the fish with my special blend of herbs and spices, her carefully slicing cucumber and tomatoes for the salad.

The domestic scene resonated in an unexpected way, as if we'd done this a hundred times before.

"I'm also going to need you to butter those rolls," I said, nodding toward a package of bakery rolls on the counter. "If you think you're up for such an advanced culinary challenge."

She flicked a piece of lettuce at me. "Don't push your luck, Sterling. I'm already exceeding my kitchen competency quotas here."

I laughed, enjoying the easy banter. By the time the fish hit the grill, Didi had not only assembled a decent salad but had set the table on the deck—plates and utensils arranged with the precision of someone compensating for unfamiliarity with the task.

"I bet you were the kid who color-coded their school folders," I teased, noticing how she'd aligned the silverware at perfect right angles.

"Says the man whose fishing lures are organized by color and size," she countered, gesturing toward my tackle box that sat open on the counter.

"Touché."

The sun hung low over the mountains as we settled at the table, the fish perfectly grilled, her salad providing a crisp accompaniment. The warm evening air carried the scent of pine and lake water, creating an atmosphere that no high-end restaurant could match.

The first bite pulled an appreciative moan from her that shot straight through me. "Oh my God," she said, eyes closing briefly. "I've never tasted fish this good."

"That's because it was swimming a few hours ago," I replied, savoring her reaction perhaps more than the food itself. "Can't get fresher than that."

We ate as night fell around us, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine.

I learned she knitted when stressed, that she was allergic to cats but loved them anyway.

Small details that painted a fuller picture of this woman who'd dropped into my life just yesterday but already felt strangely significant.

Throughout dinner, I noticed how she deftly changed the subject whenever questions about her work or reason for visiting Hope Peak arose. Her redirections toward the town or lake life were so smooth they might go unnoticed by someone less observant.

After dinner, we moved to the deck chairs with the remainder of the wine. Stars emerged above us, bright against the dark sky. The soft glow from the cabin windows illuminated her profile—the delicate curve of her nose, the fullness of her lips, the way her hair caught the light.

"You know," I said, circling back to something that had been bothering me since our fishing lesson, "you've managed to dodge every question about your work. But that voice of yours—it's distinctive. Trained. Professional."

A faint blush colored her cheeks, visible even in the dim light. "Anyone ever tell you that you're persistent, Detective Sterling?" she replied, swirling the wine in her glass.

"Part of the job description," I countered with a half-smile.

She adjusted her position, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "Do many people stay in Hope Peak year-round? I can't imagine what it's like in winter."

I noted her continued evasion, filing it away as another piece of the puzzle. Whatever her secret, she guarded it carefully. I let her change the subject, answering her question instead of pressing mine.

"Not always," I told her, keeping details minimal. "Had different plans at one point. Sheriff Callahan suggested I consider law enforcement. Said I had good instincts."

"He was right," she said softly. "You noticed immediately that I was in trouble on the lake yesterday."

"That was just basic observation."

"No," she insisted, her body angling more fully toward me. "Most people wouldn't have recognized the signs so quickly. You pay attention in a way most don't."

Her eyes held mine, and the atmosphere between us transformed. The conversation faded as we looked at each other, the distance between our chairs suddenly feeling like both too much and not enough space.

My body inclined forward slightly, drawn toward her like a magnet. Her lips parted, her gaze dropping to my mouth. The moment stretched, electric with possibility.

My phone buzzed loudly against the wooden table, shattering the connection. I swore under my breath, checking the screen.

"My cousin Kyle," I explained, reluctantly answering. "Hey, what's up?"