I practice what I want to say to him in my head, but as soon as the door opens, I forget what words even are.
He’s wearing a flannel vest, an ironed one by the looks of it, over a dark henley. His hair looks so good that I almost want to ask what hair products he uses, and the way he fills the doorframe is so breathtaking that it should be illegal.
“Hi,” he says, snapping me out of my trance.
“Um, hello,” I say and extend my hand.
What the hell?He shakes it, and there’s an almost-smile that barely makes it to his mouth but reaches his eyes just fine. I really need to pull myself together.
“Come in.”
I follow him inside. The cabin feels different now that I’m not bleeding or in shock. It’s bigger and cozier than I remember.
I let my gaze sweep over the room while I hang my coat on a hanger. I stop at the kitchen counter where a thin curl of smoke rises from the plate of a hot iron.
“Is your iron supposed to be smoking like that?” I ask.
He turns around, and his face falls. “Hell.”
He crosses the kitchen in two strides and yanks the plug from the wall.
“I borrowed this from a friend,” he says, running a hand through his beard. “Didn’t realize I hadn’t pulled it out. Fuck.”
“Well, no harm, no foul, am I right?” God, what a stupid thing to say. “Here, let’s open this bottle of wine. I bought it from Romy, the woman who runs Hillside Vista Vineyard.”
“Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I couldn’t show up empty-handed. You saved me from a bear, remember? The least I could do was bring a good bottle of wine. At least, I hope it’s good.”
“I’m sure it is.”
He opens the wine while I perch on a barstool at the kitchen counter. After pouring two glasses, he slides one over to me, then checks the stove.
“Is that salmon?” I ask.
“Yeah, the bear caught it for us as a peace offering,” he says.
I laugh. It feels nice to treat the whole bear threat as something funny. It’s the first time I’m feeling completely relaxed since it happened.
“Can I do anything?” I ask.
“No.”
“I could set the table.”
He motions toward a small table by the window. “It’s already set.”
Wow. He set two places with ceramic plates and put a candle in the middle. I also spot real napkins, something I don’t even own myself. I always stuff some paper ones from the diner into my pockets before going home. Did he go out and buy these for us? I pick up my wine glass and take a sip to hide my smile.
“Take a seat,” he says, nodding toward the table.
I slide off the barstool and settle into one of the chairs while he fills our plates with salmon, roasted vegetables, and a wedge of lemon on the side. He sits down too, then gets back up to light the candle, which makes this dinner suddenly very intimate.
“This looks incredible,” I say.
“It’s just salmon.”
“Just salmon? More like perfection if you ask me.”