Chapter 7
Bridlepath Farm — That Evening
The barn had settled into its rhythm by mid-afternoon.
Izzy stayed out of the way.
Mostly.
She leaned against the rail of the indoor arena for a while, watching a lesson unfold—quiet instructions, steady circles, the soft drum of hooves against packed footing.
She didn’t miss the looks.
When she stepped a little too close to the rail, Naomi’s voice came without turning. “Stay behind them.”
Izzy paused.
Then smiled faintly to herself and stepped back. “Yes, ma’am.”
Grant caught it—the smile, not the words—and let it pass.
After a while, Izzy pushed off the rail. “I’ve got some reading to catch up on,” she said lightly. “A few calls I should probably return.”
Naomi gave a short nod, already focused elsewhere.
Grant looked at her once, like he might say something.
Didn’t.
“Alright,” he said.
Izzy lifted a hand and headed out, leaving the barn behind her.
The house was quiet when she got back. Late afternoon light stretched across the floors, warm and slow.
Izzy dropped her bag in the guest room, then wandered into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator, then the freezer, then the pantry.
She paused. “Well,” she said softly.
It wasn’t sparse. It was stocked. Meat, pasta, fresh herbs, oil, garlic. The basics. Good basics.
Izzy leaned her hands on the counter and thought for a second.
Then smiled.
* * *
An hour later, the kitchen looked different.
Alive.
Garlic softened in olive oil. Tomatoes simmered low and steady on the stove—rich, thickening, sending out a smell that wrapped around her like memory.
Izzy moved through it easily. No hesitation. Her nonna’s voice somewhere in the back of it all—measure by feel, not by cup. Taste everything. Don’t rush it.
She didn’t.
By the time the sun dipped low, she had carried everything outside.
The patio overlooked the back acreage, the land stretching out into soft shadows and fading light. Low landscape lights flickered on around the stone, casting a warm glow that settled into the evening.
She set the table simply. Plates. Glasses. A bottle of wine she found and hoped was the right choice.
Then she stepped back.
Looked at it.
Satisfied.
She went inside and changed.
Something softer.
Her hair down this time, falling loose around her shoulders.
She caught her reflection for half a second and almost laughed.
Apparently, she’d decided on a mountain dinner date without consulting him.
Too late now.
The sound of the front door came just as she finished lighting the last candle. Boots crossed the floor inside. A pause. Then movement from upstairs.
The shower kicked on a minute later.
Izzy smiled to herself and went back outside, pouring a glass of wine.
A little while later, the back door opened.
Izzy turned slightly.
Grant stepped out onto the patio, still damp from the shower, a white T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, jeans sitting low on his hips. The porch light and candles carved out the lines of his forearms, the curve of his throat, the water still clinging to his hair.
He stopped.
Nobody moved.
Izzy’s fingers tightened just a little on the stem of her glass. A tiny, ridiculous flash of nerves flickered—what if he hated it, the food, the setup, all of it—but it passed as quickly as it came.
His eyes moved over the table. The food. The candles.
Then to her.
And stayed there just a little too long.
“What’s this?”
Izzy lifted her glass. “This,” she said, “is me showing proper gratitude for your gracious hospitality.”
His gaze went over the table again, then slid back to her, taking in the hair, the dress, the bare line of her shoulders like he was trying not to.
“You cooked.”
“I did.”
“For me.”
“For you.”
A beat passed.
He stepped farther onto the patio.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she said easily. “That’s what makes it a gift.”
Something shifted in his expression. His jaw eased, some of the tightness from the day bleeding out of his shoulders. He moved closer, slower now, like he didn’t want to miss anything.
“What is it?”
“My nonna’s best,” she said. “Rigatoni with her Sunday sauce. Or at least my version of it.”
“You Italian?”
“Enough to take this seriously.”
That almost got a smile.
He pulled out a chair without taking his eyes off her.
“Sit,” she said.
He did.
She poured him a glass of wine.
Set it in front of him.
Her fingers brushed the rim as she slid it toward him; his hand landed on the stem a half-second later, warm and solid. A tiny shock of awareness skipped up her arm before she pulled back.
Then she took her own seat.
For a while, neither of them said anything.
Just the quiet of the evening, the low hum of the land stretching out around them, the soft scrape of cutlery, the flicker of candlelight between them.
Grant picked up his fork.
Took a bite.
Izzy watched him.
Didn’t try to hide it.
He didn’t react right away.
Just chewed.
Considered.
Then—“Damn.”
She laughed softly, some coil of tension easing low in her chest. “I’m going to assume that’s positive.”
He looked at her. “That’s…” He shook his head once. “That’s not what I expected.”
“From me?” she asked.
“From anyone.”
That landed.
Heat slid through her at the way he said it—flat, sincere, like he didn’t hand out that kind of praise often.
He took another bite.
Then another.
Izzy leaned back in her chair, satisfied.
She caught a smear of sauce on her thumb and absently swiped it away with the edge of her tongue. His gaze flicked down, then back up so fast she might’ve imagined it—except for the brief, betraying flex of his jaw. Heat moved low through her stomach before she could stop it.
“Careful,” she said. “You’re going to hurt my feelings if you don’t pace yourself.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
She smiled.
The light shifted as the sun dropped lower, the patio settling deeper into warm gold and shadow.
Grant leaned back, studying her now instead of the food.
“You always do this?”
“Cook?”
“For people.”
Izzy shrugged lightly. “For the ones who deserve it.”
Something unreadable flickered across his face at that.
“And I made the list?”
“You had a rough night,” she said. “Seemed fair.”
Grant’s gaze held hers a second longer. “You cook like this a lot in Denver?”
The question caught her slightly off guard—less small talk, more like he was actually trying to picture her life somewhere else.
Izzy looked down at her wineglass, turning the stem slowly between her fingers. “I used to.”
Something in her voice shifted.
Small.
But enough that Grant’s eyes locked onto hers.
The evening settled quieter around them, warm air drifting through the patio with the scent of tomatoes, garlic, and summer grass.
“Caitlin and I used to have people over all the time,” she said softly. “Artists. Friends. Too much wine. Everybody jammed into my kitchen until two in the morning.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “I cooked constantly back then.”
Grant stayed quiet, letting her talk.
“But after she moved here…” She shrugged lightly. “Things changed.”
Her gaze drifted out toward the darkening pasture.
“And now Halpern’s bought the gallery.”
That landed differently—sharper, more personal.
A short, humorless laugh slipped out.
“I gave that place everything,” she said. “The buying trips. Artist outreach. Installations. Launches. Twelve-hour days. Flights every other week. And now there’s some new owner walking around moving walls and changing things and pretending we’re remotely on the same page.”
A tiny flicker crossed her face then—fast enough she probably thought she hid it.
But Grant saw it.
The shine gathering briefly in her eyes before she blinked it away and reached for her wine like she was annoyed at herself for even getting close to emotional.
She looked exhausted.
Not dramatic.
Not broken.
Just… tired in a way that settled deep.
Grant’s hand tightened around his glass, thumb rubbing once along the stem. He leaned back slowly in his chair, studying her in the candlelight.
“You miss your friend,” he said quietly.
The softness of the observation caught her off guard more than the question itself.
Izzy looked down, smiling faintly into her wineglass. “Yeah,” she admitted after a second. “Turns out she took a lot of the noise with her.”
Grant’s gaze stayed on her a second longer than necessary.
And for the first time since she’d arrived at Bridlepath Farm, she didn’t look polished or untouchable.
She looked human.
And that, somehow, was more dangerous than the version of her who’d stepped out of that ridiculous car in silk and sunglasses.
He reached for his glass. “So,” he said, voice lower now, “what else haven’t you told me?”
Izzy tilted her head. “About what?”
He glanced once toward the barn in the distance.
Then back at her. “About you.”
She held his gaze.
Didn’t answer right away.
And he didn’t look away.
The candlelight threw soft gold across the strong lines of his face, shadowed his mouth. Awareness prickled along the back of her neck at the steadiness of his attention, at the way the blue of his eyes had gone darker.
Then—“You’ll have to earn that,” she said.
There were things she didn’t hand out just because someone asked nicely.
Grant gave a slow nod, his gaze dropping briefly to her mouth before settling back on her eyes. He swallowed once, throat working, and if she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she might’ve missed it.
In the shifting light, he looked entirely too at home across from her, like this—him, her, a table between them, and a night stretching wide and quiet—was something he could get used to.
That felt dangerous all by itself.
Yep, Izzy thought, her pulse giving a treacherous little kick. That could be fun for a minute.
She could see the appeal of the cliché—the summer guest and the rugged rancher. A few days of something fast and hot. A story she could laugh about later over cocktails in Denver.
But as soon as the thought formed, it went cold.
This was Burke’s brother. The man who’d be sitting across from her at Caitlin’s wedding. The man she’d have to make polite conversation with at every holiday and milestone if her best friend stayed in Sylva.
She couldn’t do casual here. It would be a wreck.
And Caitlin would be standing in the middle of it.
She took a long, steady sip of her wine and pulled herself back together.
Look, but don’t touch, Moreno.
Under the table, her knees had drifted toward his somewhere in the middle of the conversation. She made herself ease back an inch.
Grant nodded once, like he expected her answer, and went back to his plate.
But his attention wasn’t on the food anymore.
The night settled in around them.
And between candlelight and mountain dark, the space across the table felt suddenly charged.