The food turned out great, and secretly I’m relieved. It would be pretty embarrassing to invite over a beautiful woman -- even though, of course, my mom invited her, not me -- and have her politely eat something charred or oversalted and force smiles all evening.

But this is fucking delicious if I might say so myself.

We all sit around the dining table and it could easily be awkward, but it isn’t. Mom and Daphne are giggling through mouths full of food over some silly story Mom told about reuniting with an old school friend in the grocery store and I’m chewing on a stalk of asparagus and staring at the wall hanging right in our line of sight as we eat.

‘Live, Laugh, Love!’

I’ve always hated that some of her furniture exists only to tell me what to do. So, my eyes wander again and then land on the woman across from me. The very place I have been trying not to look since we sat down.

Daphne is fucking gorgeous; there’s really no denying that. She seems sweet as hell, too, not to mention good-natured and quick-witted, but it’s the undeniable sexiness that I can’t seem to ignore. I wish I could join in their conversation more right now, but all I can concentrate on is not looking at the swell of her breasts under the much more flattering sweater she has changed into. It’s tight and her melons? Let’s just say they look fucking ripe.

As they talk and gossip, I watch her lips move. Pink and soft as flower petals.

I imagine how they’d look brushing over the head of my cock.

When I begin to stiffen -- even further, that is; I’ve been hard since I sat down opposite her -- I try to stop my active imagination. I’m not sure I’ve ever had such vivid daydreams that I couldn’t curtail. There’s something about her.

The way she moves. Or gestures while she talks. Or pouts a little when she listens.

When she uncrosses and re-crosses her legs, I can’t help but imagine my hands on her shapely thighs, parting her legs and lowering my head to tease her with flicks of my tongue.

I clear my throat and look away to contain myself. This time I really will, I angrily promise myself.

‘Live, Laugh, Love!’

I turn back during a pleasant lull in their conversation and decide to cut in.

“So, Daphne, what was it you said you do?” I ask. There’s some memory fighting for attention in the back of my brain, but other things are trying to push through to the forefront of my consciousness too and I can’t sift through it all.

Her eyebrows raise a little at my question; maybe she’s surprised I’m talking at all. I imagine my uncomfortable shifting in my seat and lack of contribution to the conversation so far probably looks like I’m pretty uninterested.

Of course, the opposite is true, but I’m not about to tell her that. Especially not with my mom right here.

“I’m a writer,” she says, a sweet little hue of pink coloring the tops of her cheeks as she says it. Maybe she doesn’t love talking about herself?

I lean forward a little, interested, and nod for her to continue.

“I, uh… well, I write romances,” she finishes, picking up on my wish for more information. She looks me right in the eyes when she says this.

“Apparently, they’re pretty steamy,” Mom laughs. I huff a sigh at her and she raises her palms in mock apology. “I’m going to go get seconds.”

I move to stand and reach for her plate. “Let me help. You’re on cructhes, Mom.”

I whisk away all the empty dishes on the table and duck through the low archway to get through the living room to the kitchen.

When I return, Daphne tells me that my mom went to the bathroom. Her absence means that we’re alone. I don’t mind one bit. I could look at this woman across from me all night.

I sit down, and pull in a deep breath, then glance at Daphne where I notice she is looking at me almost expectantly.

“Aren’t you gonna say something?” she asks, a smile on her face.

I give a shrug. “I just didn’t expect that.”

“You didn’t?” She takes a small bite and I watch her chew it without breaking eye contact with me. I can tell she wants me to explain myself, so I take a breath and shrug a second time.

“I pictured romance writers differently, I guess. Lonely women with a ton of cats. Writing about the men they can’t find in real life.”

I actually bite my tongue when that last part comes out of my mouth because it was pretty fucking rude, but she tilts her head back and laughs.

“I don’t know any romance writers like that at all.” She leans in conspiratorially and quirks an eyebrow, and I get a hit of her delicate scent. “The romance writers I know, who I meet at conferences and seminars, are smart and savvy people. Lots are married, all are sharp as fuck, and some are even men!” She fake gasps.

I chew my food and nod. “Fair enough, I didn’t mean anything by that. Sorry.”

“No, it’s alright. I get the stereotype. But the thing about it for me is that I just, I don’t know, I love love.”

The sentiment makes me smile.

“I like that I’m creating something every day that makes people happy. There’s nothing bad about a romance novel,” she continues, and I nod. “I really like the purity of it. Love makes people happy.” She takes another bite and I realize I’ve been staring and not saying a word.

“Right,” I say, not sure what else to add. I’m still a little embarrassed that I could have really offended her, but she doesn’t seem bothered by my comment.

“I’m lucky enough to have a job I completely adore, and one that allows me to afford a nice house in a safe neighborhood,” she continues. “Your mom lives on her own. Did you immediately feel the need to buy her a dozen cats?”

I smirk at this point and I drop my cutlery and raise my palms. “That’s fair.” I’m about to tell her something about how cool I really think it is, that she can just make up stories and live off that, but before I can quite figure out how I’m going to word it, she speaks again.

“I have no intention of settling down, anyway. I’m not looking for love. I’ll leave the happily ever afters for my characters.” She eats her last bite and grins up as my mom reenters the dining room. “Right now, I’m just looking for more of this amazing food!” she says with a twinkle in her eye, and my mom laughs.

The sweetness that surrounds Daphne clouds my thought process. I’ve never cared much about what a woman wanted before now. Whether she wanted to settle down or not.

Why is it bothering me that she doesn’t want that? I barely know her. And I wasn’t even aware it was something I might want.

I chalk it up to being overwhelmed by lust. I don’t have bad luck with the ladies, exactly, but it’s pretty rare I find someone so very much my type. I’m sure if I go to bed and take care of myself, my emotions will defog, and I’ll know exactly what it is that I want. Just like I always do.

Right?

But deep down I’m not so sure it is just lust. Talking to her about her career, seeing the way her eyes lit up with what was obviously passion, and hearing about how she loves to make people happy? That confidence and competence were almost more of a turn-on than the way she trails her fingertips down her neck to the jut of her collarbone.

Fuck.

“So, Dane. It’s your turn. And I won’t promise I’m not gonna make any assumptions once you tell me. What do you do?”

It takes me a second to even figure out she’s asked me a question. When I do, I chuckle. “I understand,” I say. “I’m a ranger. I work up in the mountains, live in a cabin.” I run my hand over my beard and look up, trying to think of something interesting to say. “That’s pretty much it.”

She points her fork at me, having loaded her plate up with seconds. At least I know she really does like my cooking. “That’s not fair,” she says.

“Oh?”

“You’re obviously already the total stereotypical mountain man. The beard. The gruff, candid way of speaking. You don’t spend much time around people, I bet. There are no assumptions I can make about you because everything is written right there on your face.”

Instinctively my hands go to rub at my beard. She laughs.

“Exactly!” she says. “They don’t have razors up there or what?”

I laugh again and shake my head, digging into my own second helping. “It’s not a place for someone who depends on amenities.”

“You mean, civilized everyday items?” she presses. I catch a glance at her clean, neat fingernails. The haircut that so perfectly frames her face. The fashionable belt around her waist, giving her the perfect hourglass figure. She isn’t a woman who’d do so great in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

“I’m not a fan of extraneous, pointless things, things just for show.”

She narrows her eyes at me. Not in an irritated way, but a thoughtful one. I like that she thinks before she speaks. Heaven knows I could do with learning that skill. It must be the writer in her.

My mom looks at me for a long time, but I don’t meet her gaze, and she then turns to stare at Daphne, a small smile on her lips. When she looks back at me I brace for whatever horribly awkward thing she is about to say.

“I’m going to get some sleep, hun,” she says, standing up and patting my shoulder as she reaches for her crutches. “I’ll just get the dishes when I get them.”

“Don’t be silly, Helen. First of all, you are on crutches, and secondly, you both made such a beautiful meal. I’ll clean up,” Daphne says, glancing at her plate. “Once I’m done eating everything in the house.”

Mom laughs and shakes her head. “I’m too tired to fight. It’s been so lovely having you over, dear. You come by anytime, alright?”

They exchange more politeness and I take my opportunity to take in our guest a little more while she isn’t looking at me.

I can’t find a flaw.

Physically, of course. She is bright and full of life and it shines from her, accentuating her natural beauty. Apart from that, she isn’t quite perfect. Not for me, anyway.

Our lives are too different; our priorities are too different.

I try to convince myself that it’s ridiculous to care when I don’t know her, but I do. Just a little, and just secretly.

“You guys go ahead and have the brownies,” my mom says and moves to leave us alone together. “Goodnight.”

I help her to her bedroom, and as I walk her there the only thing she says is, “Be nice.”

Minutes later I’m back in the dining room with Daphne. Standing, I rest my hands on the back of my chair, unable to tear my eyes away from the woman in front of me.

“Do you think wine goes with brownies?” I ask Daphne.

She smiles. “Absolutely, I do.”