Page 32 of Restored By the Mountain Man
As we head toward the door, I catch Laurel's concerned look.
"Are you sure about this?" she asks quietly.
I glance at Ezra, who's already moving to open the truck door for me and something settles in my chest. For the first time since Laurel's text arrived, I feel like I can breathe properly.
"I'm sure," I tell her.
Because whatever is building between Ezra and me, I trust him to keep me safe. Not just from Tom's well-meaning but overwhelming parents, but from the parts of my grief that still threaten to drown me.
And maybe, just maybe, I can do the same for him.
Ezra's houseis exactly what I expected. Clean lines, minimal decoration, everything in its place. It's the home of a man who values order and control but there's warmth here too. Family photos on the mantle, a well-worn leather chair by the fireplace, books scattered on the coffee table.
"Make yourself at home," he says. "Guest room is upstairs, second door on the right."
I follow him up the stairs, noting the confident way he moves through his space. Everything about him radiates competence and safety.
The guest room is simple but comfortable. Clean white linens, a reading chair by the window, a view of the mountains in the distance.
"Thank you," I tell him as he sets my bag on the dresser. "This means more than you know."
"You don't have to thank me." He turns to face me and suddenly the room feels more intimate. "I know what it's like to feel trapped by other people's expectations of your grief."
The understanding in his voice makes my chest tighten. "How do you do it? How do you move forward when everyone wants you to stay frozen in that moment?"
"I'm still figuring that out," he admits. "But last night helped. Talking to you helped."
We stand there looking at each other, thoughts of my fantasy this morning returning to my mind.
"I should let you get settled," he says finally, though he makes no move toward the door.
"Ezra?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you... would you mind if we cooked dinner together? I don't really want to be alone with my thoughts right now."
His smile is soft and genuine. "I'd like that."
Two hours later, we're in his kitchen working side by side to prepare what has turned into an elaborate meal. Somehow, my simple request for company has evolved into homemade pasta with marinara sauce, garlic bread, and a salad with vegetables from his garden.
"You grow your own tomatoes?" I ask, slicing the red fruit for the salad.
"My mom's recipe for the sauce," he explains, stirring the pot. "She always said store-bought tomatoes didn't have enough soul."
The domestic intimacy of cooking together feels natural, like we've done this a hundred times before. Ezra moves around his kitchen with easy confidence and I find myself stealing glances at him when I think he's not looking.
A small smile plays at his lips when he catches me watching him.
"Wine?" he asks, pulling a bottle from a cabinet.
"Please."
He pours two glasses of red wine and we touch them together in a silent toast. The wine is rich and smooth, warming me from the inside out.
"To unexpected partnerships," Ezra says quietly.
"To new beginnings," I counter.
