Page 18 of Mountain Man's City Girl
"That looks better on you than it ever did on me," he says, sitting up against the headboard.
"I'll take that as permission to borrow it." I strike a mock fashion pose. "What do you think? New Fall trend?"
He laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. "Definitely."
In the kitchen, we move around each other with surprising ease, as if we've done this dance a hundred times before. He retrieves ingredients from the refrigerator while I chop vegetables. He hands me a knife without me having to ask. I find the salt exactly where I expect it to be.
"You're good at that," he comments, watching me dice an onion with quick, precise movements.
"You sound surprised." I flick a piece of onion skin at him.
"I am, a little. You struck me as more of a takeout person."
"I was, for a long time." I scrape the onions into a waiting pan where they sizzle in hot oil. "But after Dad died, I started cooking more. It made me feel...connected to him, I guess."
Victor nods, something soft and sad passing across his face. "He made a mean chili."
"The best," I agree, throat tightening unexpectedly.
He moves closer, resting a hand on the small of my back—not to take over, just to connect. I lean into the touch, grateful for the understanding without words.
By the time we finish preparing our simple meal—pasta with vegetables and venison in a red wine sauce—twilight has fallen. Victor lights candles on the table, the flames casting a warm, flickering glow that softens the cabin's rustic edges.
"This is amazing," I say after the first bite.
"It's just pasta."
"No, I mean..." I gesture between us, at the candlelit table, the comfortable silence. "This. How easy it is."
He looks down at his plate, a small crease appearing between his brows. "It shouldn't be this easy."
"Why not?"
"Because nothing worth having ever is." He twirls pasta around his fork, thoughtful.
I reach across the table and take his hand. "Maybe we've both had enough hard. Maybe we deserve some easy."
He doesn't respond, but his thumb strokes across my knuckles, and the gesture feels like agreement.
"Tell me something about you I don't know," I say, refilling our wine glasses.
He considers this. "I can play the piano."
I nearly choke on my wine. "What? No way."
"My mother insisted on lessons. Said it would make me 'well-rounded.' I hated it at first, but..."
"But you secretly loved it," I finish for him, delighted by this unexpected revelation.
We continue trading stories as the evening deepens around us. He tells me about the first cabin he built here—a one-room structure that collapsed during a heavy snowfall. I share stories about my worst photography gigs, including a wedding where the bride's mother tried to pay me in handmade scarves.
"They weren't even good scarves," I say, gesturing wildly. "They had these weird bobbles that made them look diseased."
Victor's laugh fills the cabin, deep and genuine. It transforms his face completely, erasing the stern lines I first encountered. I can't help reaching for my camera, which sits on the counter where I left it earlier.
I capture him mid-laugh, head thrown back, candlelight turning his beard to gold. The shutter click makes him look at me, but he doesn't protest this time. Instead, he holds my gaze across the table, letting me see him fully, without guards or walls.
As we clear the dishes together, I check my phone out of habit, finding a message from my editor about tomorrow's bus schedule. Reality crashes in like a cold wave.
