Chapter Six – Sorcha #2
Sorcha found the corkscrew and wine glasses, pouring them each a generous amount of the rich red liquid. She handed him a glass, and their fingers brushed…another spark of that inexplicable connection that had been building all day passed between them.
“To unexpected adventures,” she offered, raising her glass.
“And to finding what you didn’t know you were looking for,” he replied, his eyes holding hers as they clinked glasses.
The intensity of his gaze made her look away first, taking a sip to hide her sudden nervousness. The wine was excellent, full-bodied and complex. Much like her host.
“This is delicious,” she said, grateful for the neutral topic. “I didn’t expect such sophisticated taste in wine from a mountain man.”
Christopher laughed, the sound warming her more than the wine. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet.”
Yet. The word hung between them, full of promise and possibility.
Sorcha took another sip, watching as he added herbs to the pot, the rich aroma filling the cabin. “So tell me something I don’t know about Christopher Stiller.”
He seemed to consider this as he stirred the stew. “Well, you know I used to live in the city,” he said finally. “Where I worked in finance.”
“Finance?” Sorcha couldn’t hide her surprise. “That’s…not what I expected.”
“Most people assume I’ve always been a handyman,” he said with a wry smile. “But I had a whole other life before Bear Creek.”
“What made you leave finance?” she asked, genuinely curious. “I mean, you could have moved here and worked remotely, surely?”
Christopher was quiet for a moment, his expression growing distant. “It wasn’t making me happy,” he said simply. “I was good at it, made decent money, but it felt…hollow.”
Sorcha nodded, understanding completely. How many of her colleagues chased promotions and prestigious assignments without ever stopping to ask if the work fulfilled them?
“So your car breaking down here was fortunate timing,” she observed.
“The best thing that ever happened to me,” he agreed, his smile returning. “Though I wouldn’t have said that at the time.”
As he continued preparing their meal, Sorcha found herself drawn into the comfortable rhythm of their conversation.
Christopher asked about her favorite assignments, and she told him about tracking down ghost stories in New Orleans, sampling street food in Bangkok, and getting lost in the Venetian canals.
He listened attentively, asking thoughtful questions that showed he was genuinely interested in her experiences.
By the time they sat down to eat at the small table by the window, Sorcha felt as if she’d known him for years rather than hours. But she wanted to know more. She wanted to know everything. Because no matter how much he opened up to her, it felt as if he were holding something back.
The stew was delicious, made with root vegetables and herbs that filled the cabin with a mouthwatering aroma.
“This is incredible,” she said after her first bite. “Another hidden talent.”
“My mother’s recipe,” he replied, a touch of pride in his voice. “She always said good food was the foundation of a happy home.”
“She sounds wise,” Sorcha said, thinking of her own mother, who had viewed cooking as just another chore to get through.
“She was,” Christopher agreed, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “She passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Sorcha said, reaching across the table to touch his hand without thinking. The contact was brief but electric.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “What about your family? Do they still live in your hometown?”
Sorcha nodded, taking another sip of wine. “My father died when I was in college, but my mother and sister are still there. I don’t get back as often as I should.”
“The life of a traveling journalist,” Christopher observed, with no judgment in his tone.
“Something like that,” she agreed, suddenly aware of how long it had been since she’d seen her family. Christmas cards and occasional phone calls seemed poor substitutes for actual presence. “I’ve always told myself it was the price of doing what I love.”
“And do you?” Christopher asked. “Love it, I mean.”
The question caught her off guard. Did she still love her job? Once, the thrill of a new assignment, a new place, had been enough. But lately…
“Yes. It was always my dream,” she said firmly, but she sounded as if she were trying to convince not only Christopher but herself, too.
Christopher nodded as if he understood completely. “Sometimes we outgrow the dreams we once had.”
His words settled into her like a truth she’d been avoiding. She’d built her entire identity around being Sorcha O’Neill, globe-trotting journalist. Who would she be without that?
“What would you do,” he asked gently, “if you could do anything?”
Sorcha stared into her wine glass, the question echoing in her mind. What would she do? The answer came with unexpected clarity.
“I’d write a book,” she said. “Something more substantial than magazine articles. Stories that last.”
Christopher smiled, and the warmth in his eyes made her heart skip. “You’d be good at that.”
“How would you know?” she challenged, though there was no heat in her words.
“Because you see things others miss,” he said simply. “Like today at the sanctuary—you noticed how Bob speaks to the animals, how the wolf watches everything. You have an eye for detail and a way with words.”
Sorcha felt herself blushing at the compliment. “Maybe someday,” she murmured.
“Why not now?” Christopher asked.
The question hung between them, deceptively simple yet profoundly challenging. Why not now, indeed?
Before she could formulate an answer, a log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks.
The moment broke, and Sorcha found herself grateful for the interruption.
She wasn’t ready to examine her life choices too closely, especially not with this man who seemed to see through all her carefully constructed barriers.
“More stew?” Christopher offered, already reaching for her bowl.
“Please,” she said, glad for the change in subject. “It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in months.”
As he refilled their bowls, Sorcha glanced around the cabin again, noticing details she’d missed before—a collection of carved wooden animals on a shelf, a guitar propped in the corner, a well-worn quilt draped over the back of the sofa.
This wasn’t just a house; it was a home, filled with objects that told the story of the man who lived here.
For the first time in years, Sorcha felt a pang of envy. Her apartment was stylish and comfortable, but it contained little that was truly personal. It was a place to sleep between assignments, not a home she’d built with intention and care.
As she ate her second helping of stew, she saw her life through a different lens. Had she outgrown her dream? Was she clinging to a life she thought she wanted?
Christopher’s question circled around and around in her head…What would you do if you could do anything?
The answer that came surprised and scared her. Stay here. With him. Forever.