Chapter 6
Dean
"So," Harper says, twirling pasta around her fork, "do you cook like this for all your stranded houseguests, or am I special?"
The candlelight catches in her hair, and I force myself to look at my plate instead. "Don't get many stranded houseguests." I had insisted she stay in the guest room in my cabin instead of the guest cabin. It was a practical decision, that’s all.
"I find that hard to believe. Tall, handsome mountain man who makes homemade pasta sauce? There should be a line down your driveway."
I nearly choke on my wine. "Handsome?"
Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't back down. "Oh, please. You own mirrors."
"Actually, returned them all. Scared the bears."
She laughs, bright and unexpected, and something in my chest loosens. "Did you just make a joke? Should I check for fever?"
"I'm capable of humor."
"Mm, debatable. Emma says you once went six months without smiling."
I set down my fork. "You've known Emma for twelve hours."
"And she's very informative." Harper's eyes dance with mischief. "Did you really punch Jake Morgan for stealing your lunch in third grade?"
"Fourth grade. And he deserved it."
"Of course he did." She takes another bite, making a small sound of appreciation that does dangerous things to my self-control. "This is amazing, by the way. Where'd you learn to cook?"
"My mother." The answer comes easier than expected. "She believed every man should know how to feed himself properly."
"Smart woman."
"She was." The past tense hangs between us for a moment before Harper speaks again.
"Tell me about her?"
I should change the subject. Should keep things light, superficial. But Harper's looking at me with genuine interest, and something about her makes me want to share.
"She was... different. City girl who fell in love with a logger. Everyone said it wouldn't last, but she learned to love these mountains as much as he did." I take a drink of wine. "Taught me everything – cooking, gardening, which berries would kill you and which would make the best pie."
"Sounds like she prepared you well for taking in wayward city girls."
"Just the one."
Our eyes meet across the table, and the air changes, thickens. Harper bites her lip, and I have to grip my glass tighter to keep from reaching for her.
"Your turn," I say roughly. "Tell me something real."
She considers this, head tilted. "I sleep with a stuffed penguin named Professor Waddles."
"That's what you're going with?"
"Hey, that's deeply personal information!" But she's smiling. "Okay, something real..." Her expression shifts, softens. "I write romance novels."
This surprises me. "Thought you were a bookstore owner."
"I am. Or will be. But I also write. Nothing published yet, but..." She shrugs. "It's what I love. Creating stories where love wins, where people find their way to happiness, even when it seems impossible."
"Is that what you're looking for? Impossible happiness?"
"Maybe." She meets my gaze steadily. "But I'm starting to think impossible might not be the right word."
Damn . She can't say things like that, looking like that, in my kitchen. Not when everything in me wants to show her exactly how possible happiness could be.
"Your ex," I say, needing to remind myself why this is a bad idea. "He didn't support your writing?"
"God, no. Said it was a waste of time. That I should focus on our future, our plans." Her laugh is bitter now. "Turns out his plans included sleeping around while I was planning our wedding, so..."
"He's an idiot."
"What?"
"Your ex. Complete idiot." I lean forward, making sure she sees how serious I am. "Anyone who makes you doubt your dreams isn't worth a second of your time."
She stares at me, lips parted slightly. "That's... thank you."
"Don't thank me for basic human decency."
"No, I mean..." She gestures between us. "Thank you for this. For helping me, for making me dinner, for listening. For making me feel..."
"Feel what?"
"Safe," she whispers. "You make me feel safe."
The word hits me like a punch to the gut. Because I want her to feel safe, want to be the one who protects her, shows her what real trust feels like. But I also want to kiss her until she forgets her own name, want to find out if she tastes as sweet as she looks, want...
"More wine?" I stand abruptly, needing distance.
"Please." Her voice is slightly unsteady.
I refill our glasses, but stay focused on her presence, her scent, the way she watches me move. When I sit again, she's composed herself, but there's still heat in her eyes that threatens my sanity.
"So," she says, too casually, "Emma also mentioned you build furniture?"
"Going to have to have a talk with Emma about gossip."
"Please don't. She's my only source of Dean McKnight intel." She grins. "Did you really build all the furniture in the guest cabin?"
"Most of it." I gesture at the table between us. "This too."
Her fingers trail along the wood grain, and I imagine those fingers on my skin instead. "It's beautiful. You're full of surprises, mountain man."
"Speaking of surprises," I desperately need to change the subject before I do something stupid, "how's Professor Waddles adjusting to cabin life?"
Her startled laugh is worth the hit to my dignity. "Did you just make another joke? That's two in one night. Should I be worried?"
"Deflection noted."
"Fine." She sits back, eyes sparkling. "He's settling in nicely. Says the view is excellent and the company isn't bad either."
"High praise from a professor."
"He's very discerning." She takes another sip of wine, watching me over the rim. "Usually takes him weeks to warm up to people."
"And how long does it take his owner?"
The words hang between us, charged with meaning. Harper sets down her glass slowly, deliberately.
"Depends," she says softly. "On the person."
On you, her eyes say. It all depends on you.