Chapter 5
Celia
W e settle on opposite ends of my couch, the wine tray balanced on the coffee table between us.
Candlelight flickers across the room, casting dancing shadows on the walls and making everything feel intimate and removed from the ordinary world.
The storm continues its assault outside, but inside this circle of warm light, we might as well be the only two people left on earth.
“This is charming.” Aleks raises his glass, and the crystal catches the firelight. “Thank you for thinking of it.”
“I hate being alone during power outages.” I take a sip of the Pinot Noir, letting the wine warm my throat. “When I was little, my dad used to tell me stories during storms to keep me from getting scared. Now, I just feel restless without the distraction of television or internet.”
“What kind of stories?”
“Adventure stories, mostly. Tales about brave princesses who rescued themselves and explorers who discovered hidden worlds.” I smile at the memory. “He had this theory that girls needed to hear about women who solved their own problems instead of waiting to be saved.”
“Smart man.”
“He was. I miss the way he could make ordinary moments feel special just by paying attention to them.”
Aleks leans forward slightly. “He passed away?”
“Three years ago. Heart attack.” The words still catch in my throat sometimes. “He was relatively young, only fifty-eight. One day he was teaching me how to change my car’s oil, and two weeks later, he was gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” I take another sip of wine, feeling the familiar ache that comes with missing someone. “What about your family? Are you close with them?”
Something shifts in his expression, so subtle I almost miss it. “My brother died six years ago. We were very close.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been devastating.”
“It changed everything.” He stares into the fire for a moment, and I see grief there that matches my own. “He was younger than me, always getting into trouble, always sure that rules were just suggestions, but he had this way of making everyone around him feel more alive.”
“Sounds like he was lucky to have you looking out for him.”
“I wasn’t there when it mattered most.” The words come out flat and final. “I should have protected him better.”
The pain in his voice makes me want to reach across the space between us, to offer comfort the way he might have offered it to me.
Instead, I curl my legs under me and study his profile in the candlelight.
“Guilt is a terrible companion,” I say softly.
“I spent months after Dad died thinking about all the things I should have said, and all the visits I should have made. It doesn’t bring them back, but it’s hard to let go of the feeling that somehow we failed them. ”
He looks at me then, and something passes between us. Recognition, maybe. The understanding that comes from sharing similar wounds.
“Your father sounds like he raised you well.”
I nod. “He tried. He and my mom both worked hard to make sure I could take care of myself.” I smile, thinking of Dad’s endless safety lectures and Mom’s practical advice about everything from budgeting to cooking pork to one-hundred-sixty degrees and never mind the newer chefs’ guides.
“Sometimes, I think they prepared me too well for independence. I’m not very good at needing people. ”
“That doesn’t sound like a weakness.”
“Maybe not, but it can be lonely.” The admission surprises me.
I don’t usually share personal revelations with near-strangers, especially after half a glass of wine.
“I think that’s part of why my last relationship ended.
I was too self-sufficient, too focused on planning and controlling outcomes instead of just letting things happen naturally, but he was also never going to commit, so. ..”
“What happened?”
“Three years together, and when I finally asked where we were heading, he acted like I was being unreasonable for wanting clarity about our future.” I realize I’m probably sharing too much, but the wine and candlelight and his attentive silence make it easy to keep talking.
“He wanted to enjoy the present without thinking about tomorrow. I wanted to build something that would last.”
“Incompatible approaches to time.”
“Exactly.” I’m impressed by how succinctly he’s captured the heart of my failed relationship. “He thought I was too intense and too controlling. Maybe he was right.”
“Or maybe he was scared of commitment and blamed you for wanting what most people want in a serious relationship.”
The gentle defense catches me by surprise. Tripp never acknowledged that my desire for clarity might be reasonable rather than demanding. “That’s... Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping wine and listening to the storm.
The conversation has shifted something between us, created a different kind of intimacy than the polite guest-host dynamic we maintained during the day.
“Can I ask you something?” I set down my wine glass and turn to face him more directly.
“Of course.”
“Earlier today, when we were hiking, you talked about traveling like someone who really sees places rather than just passing through them. What made you that way?”
He considers the question, swirling wine in his glass. “When you spend a lot of time in unfamiliar places, you learn that every city has its own logic, its own rhythm. If you don’t take time to understand the pattern, you miss everything that makes it unique.”
“That’s a very philosophical approach for business travel.”
“Business can be...unpredictable. Understanding your environment becomes a survival skill.”
Something in his tone suggests he’s choosing his words carefully, but the wine has dulled my usual analytical instincts.
Instead of pressing for details, I admire the way firelight plays across his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the intelligence in his dark eyes.
“You’re very different from what I expected when I started hosting. ”
“How so?”
“I thought I’d get middle-aged business travelers with tired complaints about airline delays, or maybe young couples trying to save money on vacation accommodations.
” I gesture at him with my wine glass. “I definitely didn’t expect someone who discusses the philosophy of travel and makes me question assumptions I didn’t know I was making. ”
“What assumptions?”
“That strangers are just strangers. That you can share space with someone without really connecting.” I take another sip of wine, feeling bold. “That someone could walk into your life for one night and make you remember what it feels like to have a real conversation with another human being.”
The words hang between us, more honest than I intended. The wine has definitely affected my judgment, but I don’t regret the admission. There’s something about Aleks that feels safe, even if he remains largely mysterious beneath his handsome facade.
“Celia.” He sets down his wine glass and leans forward, closing some of the distance between us on the couch.
“Yes?”
“I should tell you that I?—”
Thunder crashes overhead, so loud it shakes the windows, and we both startle.
The moment breaks, but the intensity lingers in the air between us like electricity before a lightning strike.
“I should probably check the flashlights,” I say, though I make no move to get up.
“Make sure the batteries are still good.”
“Probably.” He doesn’t move either.
We look at each other across the small space of the coffee table, and something shifts, some invisible barrier dissolving in the candlelight and wine and shared confidences. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read, intense and careful at the same time. “Aleks?”
“Yes?”
“What were you going to say? Before the thunder interrupted?”
He studies my face for a long moment, and I see him wrestling with some internal decision. Finally, he shakes his head slightly. “It wasn’t important.”
I don’t believe him, but I don’t push. Instead, I reach for my wine glass, and he does the same.
Our fingers brush as we both grab our drinks, and neither of us pulls away immediately.
The contact sends a small shock through me, an awareness that has nothing to do with static electricity and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me now.
His fingers linger against mine for just a moment longer than accident would explain.
“Celia?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you for this. For the wine and conversation. For making me feel welcome.”
“You are welcome.” The words come out softer than I intended. “I’m glad you decided to stay another night.”
“So am I.”
The simple admission carries weight that has nothing to do with travel logistics and everything to do with the growing tension between us.
I should probably suggest we call it a night and retreat to our separate rooms with proper boundaries.
Instead, I set down my wine glass and move closer to him on the couch. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Anything.”
“Are you always this mysterious, or is it just the candlelight making you seem like you have secrets?”
He laughs, but there’s something rueful about it. “Everyone has secrets.”
“Some more than others.”
“True.” He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture so gentle and unexpected that it makes my breath still for a second. “What about you? What secrets are you keeping?”
“Nothing nearly as interesting as yours, I’m sure.
” I lean into his touch without meaning to.
“Right now, my biggest secret is that I’m attracted to my guest, which is probably terrible hosting etiquette.
” The admission is honest and slightly embarrassing.
I can’t believe I just said that out loud, but the wine and the intimacy of the candlelit room have dissolved my usual filters.