"Isolation. Too much time in your own head. Nowhere to hide from yourself."
She studies me with those too perceptive eyes. "Is that why you take jobs like this? To escape the isolation?"
I've never thought about it that way, but there's truth in her observation that I'm not entirely comfortable with.
"The pasta's ready," I say instead of answering. "Plates are in that cabinet."
She lets me evade the question, getting plates while I finish the sauce. We work around each other with surprising ease, as if we've done this dance before.
"Where should we eat?" she asks, holding the filled plates.
"Deck's nice this time of day. It has a view of the valley."
I grab a bottle of wine and two glasses, leading her through the French doors onto the wraparound deck that offers panoramic views of the mountains. The sun is starting to lower toward the peaks, bathing everything in golden light.
"Oh my god," she breathes, taking in the vista. "This is incredible."
"It's why I built here." I set our drinks on the table and pull out a chair for her. "No matter what kind of day I've had, this view puts it in perspective."
She sits, still staring at the mountains with genuine wonder in her expression. It's probably the most authentic reaction I've seen from her yet.
"I could wake up to this view every day for the rest of my life and never get tired of it," she says.
"That's the plan."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the distant call of birds and the soft clinking of forks against plates. Nova eats with appreciation, but not the delicate picking I expected from a Hollywood star obsessed with her figure. Another stereotype she defies.
"This is delicious," she says between bites. "You're full of surprises, Finn McKenna."
"It's just pasta."
"Made from scratch in a kitchen that belongs in Architectural Digest, by an ex-CIA operative who lives alone on a mountain." She smirks. "Not exactly fitting the stereotypical bachelor profile."
"I'm not a typical anything."
"Clearly." She sips her wine, studying me over the rim of her glass. "So what happens now?"
"Now we wait. I stay in contact with Frank. He works with the FBI. When they have something, we'll know."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, you stay here. Safe. Off the grid. We’ll establish routines, and security protocols. You learn the property, the emergency procedures."
"Sounds exciting," she says dryly.
"Exciting is the last thing we want."
She sets down her fork, meeting my eyes directly. "How long, Finn? Realistically. How long am I going to be here?"
I consider lying, giving her some optimistic timeline that will make her feel better. But she deserves the truth.
I shrug. "Could be weeks. Could be months. The FBI will do their job, but this kind of investigation takes time."
"Months," she repeats, her expression unreadable. "Living here. With you."
"That's the situation."
"And what happens when you get tired of having a pop star invading your sanctuary?"
