Page 36 of Rescuing Aria
“What about you?” she asks. “You’re pretty handy in the kitchen yourself.”
“Mom’s influence. She refused to raise sons who couldn’t fend for themselves.” I reach past her for the olive oil, letting my body brush against hers. “She said no partner of mine should have to do everything.”
“Smart woman, your mom.” Aria leans into the contact, her body warm against mine.
“The smartest.” I press a kiss to her temple before stepping back to the stove. “Pour us some wine?”
“This place suits you.”
My new apartment is a far cry from the one I shared with Charlie and Brett—deliberately so. After they moved on and started building their life together, I needed something that was just mine. Something without memories haunting every corner.
“Feels good to have my own space again.” I stir the risotto, focusing on the smooth, creamy consistency forming.
She hands me a glass of wine, our fingers brushing. “I can see why. It’s very—you.”
“And what exactly is ‘me’?” I ask, curious about how she sees me.
Aria takes a thoughtful sip of wine, looking around the apartment. “Practical, but not austere. Comfortable, withoutbeing showy.” Her eyes meet mine over the rim of her glass. “Strong, steady, with unexpected depth.”
The way she says it—like she’s describing more than just my apartment—warms something in my chest.
“You’ve thought about this,” I say.
“I’ve thought about a lot of things.” She moves to the stove beside me, peering into the pot. “Including how good that risotto smells. What’s your secret?”
“Patience.” I stir slowly, methodically. “And knowing when to let things simmer.”
“Is that just for cooking, or life advice?” Her eyes catch mine, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Take it however you want.” I nudge her playfully with my shoulder.
We work in companionable silence for a while, the kitchen filling with the aromas of garlic, wine, and simmering rice. Outside the window, the city lights glitter against the darkening sky, a private universe of our own making.
“Tell me about growing up in Montana,” she requests, settling onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island. “You mentioned your grandfather taught you to track and hunt?”
“Yeah, he was old-school. Believed a man should know how to provide, how to read the land.” I smile at the memory. “He’d take me out at dawn, show me how to spot broken twigs, disturbed soil, the signs most people miss. Said it wasn’t just about hunting—it was about understanding your place in the world.”
“And what place was that?”
“Part of something bigger. Not separate from nature, not above it. Just another link in the chain.” I add the last of the stock to the rice. “Those lessons came in handy later, in the military. The ability to observe, to really see what’s in front of you—it’s saved my life more than once.”
“Is that why you enlisted? To use those skills?”
I consider the question, wanting to give her an honest answer. “Partly. But mostly it was about service. Grandpa fought in Vietnam, Dad in Desert Storm. Service is in our blood.”
“But not forced?”
“No.” I shake my head. “They would’ve respected whatever path I chose. But the military felt right. I wanted to protect people, to stand between them and harm.”
“And that led you to the Guardians?”
“Eventually. After my second tour, I was recruited for special operations. The work was important, but—impersonal. Too much politics, too much distance between the mission and the people we were supposedly helping.” I stir the risotto one final time before turning off the heat. “Guardian HRS is different. We see the direct impact of what we do. The people we help—they have faces, names, stories.”
“People like me,” she says softly.
“People like you.” Our eyes meet across the kitchen, and I clear my throat. “Dinner’s ready. Why don’t you grab the salad?”
We settle at the small dining table, knees brushing underneath. I’ve kept the setting simple—no fancy tablecloth or candles, just good food and better company. Still, Aria looks around with appreciation.
