Dylan’s phone rang, and she looked down to see Aidan’s name pop up. “It’s Aidan.”
“Lordy, probably everyone in town knows you had coffee with that woman. Better answer quick.”
“Hey,” Dylan said.
“Hey yourself,” he said. “How’s the shop looking?”
“Like it’s becoming real,” she said. “I got another client this morning.”
“Which reminds me, now is a good time to start taking applications for help. You’ll need a receptionist and a couple of apprentices to help with the restorations. Might be a good idea to call Mr. Otto and see if he had anyone promising who graduated from his shop class last year.”
Employees. “Right,” she said, wishing she could just go bury herself under a hood somewhere so she didn’t have to think about this stuff.
As if Aidan was reading her mind he said, “You’ll need help. Especially on the administrative side. You don’t want to be stuck doing paperwork when you need to be working on cars.”
“Right,” she said again. “I’ll find someone.”
“Good, want to have dinner tonight? My place? I promise to cook something that won’t poison you.”
“Your place?” She’d never been to his house, only driven past the turnoff on her way to his parent’s house.
“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice to have dinner without being under the microscope.”
“What time?”
“Seven. I’ll text you directions to my house. It’s about five miles past the main house, by the lake.”
That evening, Dylan drove through the O’Hara ranch as twilight painted the valley in shades of lavender and gold. The private road wound like a ribbon through their kingdom, past the main farmhouse where windows bloomed with amber light—each pane a promise of gathered family, of voices raised in laughter and argument, of the kind of belonging that had roots centuries deep.
She continued deeper into the property, where the land opened its arms to embrace the separate homes the brothers had carved from their inheritance. Up here, the road climbed toward Aidan’s house, perched on a rise like a hawk’s nest overlooking the lake. Built of honey-colored logs and weathered stone, it seemed less constructed than conjured—as if the mountain itself had dreamed of shelter and made it manifest in wood and glass. Windows faced west to catch the last light, turning the peaks into a cathedral of shadow and flame.
He was waiting on the porch for her.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said, awe and wonder coloring her voice. “Why would you ever want to leave?”
“Some days it’s harder to come into work than others,” he said, handing her a glass of wine as she climbed the steps.
The inside revealed itself like a confession—all Aidan, every surface and corner speaking his language. Leather furniture in shades of cognac and chocolate invited rather than impressed, worn soft in the places where he habitually settled. Bookshelves climbed the walls like ivy, heavy with the democratic chaos of a real reader—repair manuals keeping company with dog-eared mysteries, technical diagrams pressed against poetry he’d probably never admit to owning.
The massive stone fireplace commanded the room like an ancient altar, flames painting shadows that danced across pine beams aged to honey. But it was the windows that stole her breath—floor-to-ceiling expanses that transformed the mountains into living art, each peak and valley framed like a masterpiece that changed its mood with the light. This wasn’t the careless space of a man marking time until something better came along. This was a home built on the bedrock of intention, every beam and stone a declaration of permanence.
“Kitchen’s through here,” he said, and she followed him into a space that married rustic bones with modern comfort—copper pots hanging like bells from wrought iron, granite counters that gleamed like dark water, appliances that whispered efficiency beneath their farmhouse façades.
“Fair warning—I’m making venison stew. Duncan got a deer last week. And my mother gave me the recipe. I figure if I can take an engine apart I can follow a recipe.”
“It smells amazing.” The words came out steadier than she felt.
She perched on a stool at the island, an uninvited ache blooming in her chest as she watched him move through his kitchen with easy competence She didn’t believe for a second that he didn’t know his way around a kitchen well. The sleeves of his henley were pushed up to reveal forearms that had earned their strength, the firelight from the next room painting gold across his shoulders as he stirred something that smelled like comfort and home and all the things she’d taught herself not to want.
This domestic tableau—Aidan cooking dinner while November pressed its face against the windows, the house settling into evening like a sigh—it was everything she’d never allowed herself to imagine. And that was precisely what made it dangerous.
“Victoria came to see me today,” she said, needing it out in the open.
His stirring paused. “I might have heard that somewhere. I was wondering if you’d bring it up.”
“She told me she’s not giving you up without a fight.”
Aidan turned to face her fully. “I don’t think she’s got anything to hold on to, so I’m not sure who she plans to fight. Maybe I’ll sic Raven on her. Raven never liked her. And I bet she’s got a mean right hook.”
