6. Sable
CHAPTER 6
sable
“ W here are we going for dinner?” I asked him when I could feel my hands again. It had been cold despite the gloves because we’d been in the snow for a good three hours. “And may I buy it as a thank you?”
“We’re going to my place for dinner, and no, you can’t buy because I’m cooking. However, if you really must , the chef likes to be paid in kisses.” He was busy maneuvering his vehicle while he spoke like this was standard date stuff.
I had never had a date cook for me. I’d never had anyone cook for me, ever, not counting the times when some of Jack’s friends invited us for dinner at their place. But that was a party. This here was a man who was going to put together a meal for me and wanted me to pay him in kisses.
“Just because you’re going to feed me doesn’t mean I’m going to put out,” I joked, pretending my heart wasn’t beating faster than it ever had and not because I was standing atop a bunny hill in skis for the first time.
The sun was just dipping behind the mountains as we pulled into Heath’s driveway; the sky was streaked with pinks and golds, making the snowcapped peaks look like it was out of a postcard. It had been a good day. No—scratch that. It had been an amazing day. Skiing had been more fun than I ever imagined, but what stuck with me more than the rush of sliding down the bunny slope was Heath smiling at me like I was good enough.
For once, someone had done something just for me, without expectations or strings attached. He hadn’t teased me for being a beginner, hadn’t rolled his eyes at my anxiety, and, most importantly, hadn’t made me feel like I was a burden, like he was doing me a favor.
I found that Heath lived in Snowmass like me, though I was closer to the main village. Heath was high up, where the views were more expansive. It was also isolated, which told me he liked his privacy. I had looked at homes here, but they were out of my budget.
From the outside, his sleek, modern house, with floor-to-ceiling windows, looked impressive. It was on a ridge with wide-open views of the surrounding valley and peaks.
When I stepped into his house, my chest gave a little hitch. It was gorgeous—clean and open, with windows that framed the mountains like art. A home like this could feel cold and impersonal, but not the way Heath had set it up. Is this who Heath was? Simple, unfussy, and somehow effortlessly warm .
His art collection was eclectic and felt personal. It included black-and-white photographs of Aspen's peaks and San Diego’s sun-drenched beaches, a vibrant abstract painting that brought an unexpected pop of color to the living room, and a framed charcoal sketch of a lone pine tree that tugged at me. On one wall, there was a carved wooden mask that felt old and full of history, alongside a simple watercolor of the Roaring Fork River in spring, and one of a European city, cobblestone streets included. Nothing matched, but it all worked together, as if he had chosen each piece because it was important to him, not because it fit a theme. It gave his minimalist house a warmth that made it feel like a home.
“You have a beautiful place.” I trailed my fingers over the back of the sleek, blue couch as I wandered into the living room.
“Thanks.” He set his keys on the counter. “It took me a year to make it mine.”
I glanced at the bookshelves flanking the fireplace, lined with hardcovers and framed photos. There was a restraint to the whole house. No frills, no clutter—just thoughtful details, carefully chosen. It was a sharp contrast to my old home with Jack, which had been filled with furniture I didn’t like and decor I didn’t pick.
“You’re a minimalist.” I glanced back at him.
He smiled. “I’ve had enough clutter for a lifetime. Now, I stick to what I actually like. No more gold-framed mirrors or chandeliers that look like spaceships.”
That made me laugh, and I could well imagine Alexa having that kind of over-the-top taste. “I moved into my cottage just a few months ago, so I’m still figuring out who I am and what I like.”
“Yeah, I know that process. Alexa and I were together for years and, somewhere down the line, I wasn’t sure what was her taste and what was mine. I knew what I didn’t like, but I didn’t know what I liked.”
“Looks like you figured it out.” I waved a hand around the house.
“You will, too,” he assured me. “Just takes a while…it’s a process, going through a divorce, isn’t it?”
I licked my lips. “Why did you get divorced? Is it okay for me to ask?”
He looked at me keenly and nodded. “Sure. We grew into different people who no longer shared the same values.”
I folded my arms and rested against the back of the couch, facing him and the well-appointed kitchen behind him. I liked his open-plan home. The ground floor, it appeared, was the living space, and the stairs probably led to bedrooms.
“I don’t think Jack and I ever had the same values.”
He arched an eyebrow.
I chuckled in self-deprecation. “You’re probably wondering why I married him then.”
He came close to me and cupped my cheek. “There’s no judgment from me. I know you keep expecting it, and I understand that’s been your experience, but that’s not who I am.”
I swallowed and leaned into his touch. He had big hands. They were warm, and I liked them on me. Skin to skin. Comforting and erotic.
“I married him because he was decent. After the way I grew up, I wanted decent. Desperately .” I took a deep breath and let it out. “Then he knocked up his assistant, who’s a freaking kid, and I realized he was just like all the creeps I’d been battling my whole life. Men who thought they could put a hand on me at school, at foster homes, at work….”
He cradled my face with both his hands and brushed his lips against mine. “You don’t ever have to worry about that with me.”
He was telling me that if we embarked on a relationship, I wouldn’t have to worry about him cheating on me. I already knew that. There was a solid and palpable integrity about Heath.
“But I also want to let you know that I’m only looking for companionship, affection, and friendship.” He smiled and smoothed my hair. “Is that okay?”
He was being up front, and I appreciated that. And the truth was that I didn’t have the time or faith for anything beyond what he was offering. “I’m not expecting anything beyond respect and kindness, Heath.”
“That I can do.”
I went on tiptoe and bravely kissed him on the mouth. “Now, I heard about you cooking us dinner.”
He understood my need for levity. “Hungry?”
“Starving. ”
“Skiing does that. Come on, Bambi, you can be my sous chef.”
I didn’t expect Heath to cook for me. Jack had never done that, and in all my years of marriage, I’d been the one to plan the meals, shop for the groceries, and somehow still be the one to be criticized when the food wasn’t up to par, especially when we had company.
The idea of sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of delicious white wine while someone else did all the work felt downright foreign and decadent.
“What are we eating?” I asked as I tore the lettuce for the salad. This was the only task he’d given me because I’d nagged him, saying I wanted to be his sous chef. He told me a good sous chef drinks wine and stays out of the way of the culinary genius.
“Pasta vongole.”
“Fancy.”
He laughed. “They had some nice-looking clams at Roxy’s. I couldn’t resist.”
He had texted me to check if I had any allergies, and when I told him I didn’t and ate everything except pickles, he’d replied with a thumbs-up emoji.
“And, of course, a simple salad that you are making with your fine hands.” He waved his spatula at the salad bowl.
“I slave and slave and slave,” I joked.
“Hey, I’m not the one who pleaded to help out,” he teased as he expertly chopped garlic cloves.
“I feel weird not helping.”
“I’m grateful for all the help I get.” He tossed the chopped garlic and herbs in a pan where olive oil had been heating up.
It was obvious that he enjoyed cooking and did it quite a bit. You could tell by the way he moved around the kitchen and how he handled ingredients.
“I’ll admit” —I popped a cherry tomato in my mouth— “this is a first for me. Usually, I’m the one doing the slaving over the stove.”
He turned to face me, leaning casually against the counter. “Always?”
I nodded, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Jack wasn’t much of a cook or lettuce shredder.” I regretted my words. I didn’t want to be a cliché who talked about her ex with a man she was on a date with.
“Well” —he smiled at me softly— “tonight, you’re not lifting a finger…well, beyond what you already have. I’ve got this.”
His simple kindness made my heart flutter. I wasn’t used to being taken care of, and it was heady, intoxicating.
“Yes, Chef.”
Dinner was perfect.
The pasta was fresh and light, the wine smooth, and the conversation easy.
After hearing all the horror stories of dating after divorce, I felt like I had fallen into a basketful of goodies with Heath. He’d taught me how to ski, and then cooked me a meal, and to top it off, he was an excellent conversationalist. Going back to being a cliché, Jack was abysmal at dating or being a partner, compared to Heath .
“This is so good.” I twirled another forkful of pasta. “Where’d you learn to cook?”
“My mother insisted her sons know how to cook at least one good meal. But after the divorce, I started experimenting. I spend my days talking to people and sitting in bars and restaurants in a resort. When I come home, I want the quiet. I want a home-cooked meal.”
“I don’t know what I like,” I told him honestly. “As in, what I prefer. I have to learn that about myself. I think I like going out. I like being around people—not especially to talk with them, but to have them so I don’t feel lonely. I suddenly think being all alone is requiring some adjusting.”
“Since I’ve been divorced longer than you have, I’m happy to mentor you through the process.” He winked at me and held his wine up for a toast.
I touched my glass to his. “Teaching me how to ski and how to be a good divorcee. Maybe we should just call you Professor Falkner.”
For dessert, he confessed he’d picked up a vanilla velvet cake at the Baker’s Table because he couldn’t bake if his life depended upon it.
The vanilla cake with mascarpone cream cheese frosting went very well with a shot of espresso. We shared the habit of drinking coffee at night and not worrying about being able to sleep.
“I get into bed, and I’m a log.” I licked the tines of my fork. “I used to not be able to do that growing up, but now, there could be an earthquake, and I’ll sleep through it. ”
“I have only now started sleeping well.” He took a sip of his espresso. “I realized that it didn’t have anything to do with what I ate or drank. It was stress that woke me up and kept me up. Magically, after I decided to divorce, I began to sleep like a baby.”
I laughed. “And no one talks about that as a benefit of divorce.”
“Right?” Heath agreed. “Everyone told me it was going to be a shitshow. And it was, especially when Alexa said she wanted us to go to marriage counseling, which was a nightmare. When she finally agreed to sign the papers, she said she wanted to move to Aspen. I was worried about Juno. She was fourteen and leaving everything she knew. I was trying to figure out how to make that work for Juno, and me with my job. But, through it all, I slept fine.”
“How’s Juno doing now?”
“Good. She’s very resilient—and smarter than Alexa and me. She adjusted just fine. I miss San Diego. I miss the ocean. I miss surfing.”
Of course, he surfed.
“Would you move back?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Depends upon where Juno ends up going to college. For now, I’m here, and I’m staying so she has both her parents with her.”
He was a dad first, I thought, smiling to myself. That, in my book, made him a decent man—with a good heart and a sensible mind. I knew, deep down, that spending time with him, however fleeting, was something I would never regret. It was probably foolish to trust so quickly after what had happened with Jack, but I couldn’t help it. His charm and sincerity disarmed me completely.
We cleaned up together after dinner. I insisted.
We took our glasses of wine to his living room. I settled on the blue couch, my feet tucked under me. Heath walked up to his entertainment center. It had a large flat-screen television, and I suspected there were speakers around the house. But he also had a turntable. It was so quaint and said so much about Heath. I think he was a traditionalist in some ways—not enough to stay in a marriage where his wife no longer shared his values but enough to rely on LPs for music.
Soon, the soft, moody sound of Miles Davis filled the room.
He came to me and held out his hand. “Dance with me?”
I hesitated, feeling a flutter in my chest that I hadn’t felt in years.
“I’d love to.” I set my glass of wine on the coffee table next to the sofa and slid my hand into his.
We moved slowly in the middle of his living room, the music wrapping around us. His hand rested lightly on my back, warm and steady, and I didn’t feel like I had to be the strong one.
When was the last time I danced? At some wedding or party with Jack? I didn’t have the usual milestones with prom, sweet sixteen, and birthday parties to learn to dance. We hadn’t had the kind of wedding where you could dance—but we still had because it was tradition, and Jack had weird ideas about that shit .
We got married at city hall and then had a small reception at one of the local restaurants. Jack hadn’t started his practice but was planning to, and money was tight; if not, he’d have wanted to show off, I was certain. When he married Molly, he probably would.
Jack hadn’t cared about the details, just the cost. “Keep it simple,” he instructed, and I had. Thirty or so people came—mostly his family and a handful of friends. I didn’t have any family to invite, just a couple of people from my foster years and Hillary.
Our first dance had been awkward and stiff, a slow shuffle to some forgettable pop song. He wasn’t a dancer, and I wasn’t either, so we moved in a circle that felt more like an obligation than a moment. I remembered feeling out of place, like I was trying to fit into a picture that wasn’t really mine. It wasn’t a bad wedding, but it wasn’t magical either. It was practical—just like Jack had been for me.
This dance with Heath was miles apart. I still wasn’t a great dancer, but he knew how to lead.
As seductions went, this was delicious.
“Thank you,” I murmured, my face upturned.
He was handsome, ridiculously so. The flecks of gray in his hair, his blue eyes that looked stormy right now, those cheekbones that could cut glass…all of it combined into an indelibly attractive package.
“For what?”
“For taking care of me today.”
He brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Anytime, Bambi.”