I’m not usually a wine girl. On top of that, I don’t usually have dinner guests. So, a half hour before Jabir is supposed to arrive, I have a mini panic attack.

I’m standing up on a step stool, searching the very back of the cabinet above my stove. I’ve almost emptied it out entirely; a little coffee pot, chipped gravy boat, and several travel mugs are strewn about the countertops. I’m sweeping my hand blindly across the shadowy back section, finding nothing. I could have sworn I had a pair of wine glasses! Where did they go?

I’m perspiring a little, despite the fact that the gas heater’s gone out. Again.

My hand thuds against the wall. That’s it. They’re not back there. I dejectedly step off of the stool and place my hands on my hips as I survey the dining area.

Because I couldn’t find a tablecloth, I’ve thrown a wall tapestry over the table. Does it look silly? It’s decorated with birds, which I think Jabir will like, but I’m worried that it looks like what it is—a tapestry, not a tablecloth. No cloth napkins, either. I’ve torn paper towels off the roll and folded them up nicely under the silverware, but still…they’re paper.

And Jabir…he’s a freaking sheikh! My hands move to my head and dig through my hair, and I crouch down, hyperventilating. What was I thinking? Inviting a member of a royal family here, to my little cabin?

My heart is pounding in my chest, and I feel perspiration gathering under my arms. I try to take a deep breath, and as I do, I catch a whiff of the venison stew.

It smells delicious.

Well, at least there’s that.

I slowly get up on wobbly knees and make my way to the stove, where a big pot of stew is simmering. Lifting the pot’s lid, I breathe in the scent.

Perfect.

The venison comes from this year’s hunting season. My father shot the deer, and the whole family agrees that the meat is sweet, tender, and flavorful. I’ve added in parsnips, carrots, Yukon Gold potatoes, fresh parsley, and a few spices.

After stirring it a few times, I’m able to contemplate my wine glass conundrum more calmly.

I stride over to the cabinet that holds my glasses, and take in my options. Juice glasses, or coffee mugs.

Determined not to collapse to my knees again—because now there’s only twenty minutes until he’ll be here, and I still have to change my shirt and fire up the heater—I whip out two juice glasses and carry them to the table.

Ten minutes later, I’ve managed to start the gas heater up again, and have just changed into a thin, heather-grey sweater when there’s a knock on my door.

When I open the door, I am greeted by the sight of Jabir, smiling, carrying flowers.

He holds them forward. “In appreciation,” he says, almost bowing a little, “for the kind invitation.”

I can barely breathe. They’re dahlias, my favorite kind of flower.

“How did you…?” I gasp, clutching the flowers and breathing in. “That’s my middle name! Dahlia. Did you know?”

He winks at me. “I stopped at Dawson’s, and Pete walked me through his greenhouse. He might have mentioned it.”

“Thank you.” The flowers smell sweet, and I realize they’ll make the perfect centerpiece for our table, which so far is painfully sparse. “Come in! This is the cottage I was telling you about.”

He walks into the room and comes to a stop, rotating slowly as he takes it all in.

The entire cottage consists of a small mud room area, which is basically a bench and coat hooks, and then an open concept dining area and living room. The small kitchen is sectioned off by a bar of countertop, and behind the kitchen, a narrow hallway leads to the back bedroom and a bathroom.

The wall between the bedroom and main area is only partial; the top eight inches is left open, so that heat from the main area can freely transfer to the sleeping area. Along the top edges of the partial wall, my family has collected paperback books. They line the wall, creating a colorful border. I love the way those old books smell. Second to the fragrant, rich stew I have on the stove, the books fill the space with a comforting, old-fashioned scent.

I enjoy watching Jabir look at my space. I feel oddly proud of it, and imagining his first impressions makes me realize just how quaint and cozy the place is.

“It’s perfect,” he says. “It’s so well suited to you. I love the picture’s you’ve put up.”

He walks up to one as I move behind the countertop into the small kitchen. I find a clear glass mason jar that will work as a vase, and begin filling it with water.

“They look antique,” he says.

“Oh, maybe! I found the frames at a tag sale, and the book was one Uncle Joe passed down to me. It was an old birdwatcher’s guide, and I tore out and framed the pictures.”

“Genius!”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

“Well, of course you wouldn’t. You’re one of the humblest people I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll take that as a…compliment?” I circle the countertops and place the vase full of dahlias on the table. “How were the roads? You can hang your coat there, by the door. And your boots too.”

“Your boots,” Jabir says, and I laugh. “Thank you, by the way, for these.” He hangs his coat and removes the tall snow boots I borrowed from my dad.

I grimace as I gesture to the juice glasses and a bottle of wine that I’ve placed on the table. “Would you like a drink?” I’m trying to sound like a good hostess, but my voice wobbles a bit as I look at the pitiful glasses.

He doesn’t seem to mind in the least. “I would love one!” he says enthusiastically. “It smells so good in here. Whatever you’re cooking…” he breathes in. “Just, wow!”

I feel my shoulders lower and for the first time all day, I feel myself relax. Maybe this isn’t going to be as difficult as I’ve been building it up to be.

Now that Jabir is here, in my home, I remember all of the things I’ve grown to like about him over the past few days. He’s warm and friendly, and fun to be around. And of course there’s the fact that he’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen in person—a fact that I don’t miss as I take in his outfit: a maroon Henley shirt and faded jeans that fit him just right.

I pour out two glasses of red wine, and by the time I bring one over to Jabir, he’s examining the record player that sits near my small couch.

“You know what that is, right?” I hand him a glass, and he accepts it graciously.

“I do. But I can’t believe it.”

I laugh. “You said, on the first night that I met you, that you’d traveled back in time through a wormhole. Still sticking to that theory?” I ask.

“I am!” he says, laughing. “And this is just more evidence to back me up. Can we play something?”

I bend down and begin pulling piles of records from a low shelf. I can feel Jabir’s eyes on me, and when I straighten I catch him look away quickly. I feel myself blush. “There’s lots to choose from. Take your pick!”

Self-conscious nervousness has me reaching for my glass and taking a healthy swallow of merlot.

“This one,” he says finally. “We have to listen to this one.” He picks out a Motown classic, and I giggle when it starts up and he sings along.

“What do you think?” he asks, as he finishes the chorus with a flourish. “Could I make it in the talent show next year?”

The thought of Jabir in the town talent show is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it is fun to imagine him sitting next to me in the town hall. On the other, I realize suddenly what a fantasy that is.

He’s only joking. Next year, he’ll be back in Dalai.

I force a grin. “You’d be the starring act,” I say. “Watch out, Sue Jackson!”

“You could be my backup singer.”

“Just me?” I ask. “Won’t we need a whole row of girls, all dressed in sequin gowns?”

“Of course! I just wasn’t sure we could put all of that together given the limited resources.”

“Leave it to me.” I say, with mock seriousness.

He settles back in the couch. “Well, now that we’ve got that figured out, I can really relax.”

“Make yourself at home.”

I walk to the kitchen and grab a plate of appetizers that I’ve put together: little toasted strips of French bread topped with fresh mozzarella, tomato, and basil, and drizzled with olive oil.

I bring them back and set them on the coffee table in front of the couch. Since my living room is small, I perch on the couch along with Jabir. I turn my body so that I’m facing him.

“What’s your brother doing tonight? I almost feel that I should have invited him along, too.”

Almost. That’s the key word, there. Because I’m really, really enjoying having Jabir all to myself.

“He’s at the inn, working, most likely. He’s been calling contracting companies to get quotes on road work.”

“Road work?” I pick up a piece of toast, and Jabir does the same.

“We’re running the numbers on a few scenarios that have to do with the transmission factory.”

He this offhandedly, as if he thinks I’ll barely be interested. I think I surprise him with my reply.

“And? What do you think? Could it be economically beneficial, both to your company and to our town, if you repair the roads? Kind of a win-win?”

“Maybe,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “It’s hard to say, just yet.”

“When do you think you’ll know? I mean, when will you make your decision?”

He’s quiet, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. I bite into my toast and chew, just to ensure that I keep my lips zipped for a moment. Tread lightly, Johnson, I remind myself.

“We’re…collecting lots of data,” he offers. “Hassan’s a whiz with numbers. Ultimately, it will take quite a bit of research and analysis to make the final decision.”

I’m not satisfied by this canned response.

“But what do you feel?” I ask. “I know your brother’s into the facts, but what about you, Jabir? There must be a reason your father sent both of you, and not just Hassan. You seem to follow your instincts, your intuition. What is your heart telling you?”

He meets my eye. I see the corner of his mouth draw upwards, creating a small dimple in one of his caramel-colored cheeks. Some of his formality, which crept in when we started talking about the factory, falls away.

“I think it’s a really promising site. Lots of potential there, I really see it. And I like the town. New Hampstead’s been a…very, very…”—his eyes wander around the room, and then land on me—“…pleasant surprise.”

My heart bursts with pride. “I knew you’d like it here, if you got to know it!”

“I do! I really do. Every day has been better than the last.”

“It’s lucky that the weather rolled in. When do you…” I swallow roughly. It’s hard to say these last words. “When do you head home to Dalai?”

His grin fades, and he turns his glass in his hand, staring into it like the answer might be drowning in the wine. “Tomorrow,” he says finally, with a sigh. “For some reason—I don’t know why, really—I didn’t want to tell you that.”

I try to sound bright, though his news has created a tightness in my chest. “Don’t be silly! I knew you were going to leave eventually. I knew it was a quick visit.”

I busy myself by arranging a little stack of paper towel halves that I’ve placed down by the appetizers. I hope that he can’t see the disappointment in my face. It’s true, I did know he was leaving. But the heavy reality of tomorrow hits me like a ten-ton plow truck.

The conversation turns to the weather, and his flight plans, and slowly, my disappointment is soothed by his deep voice and caring comments. Again and again, he makes me smile and laugh. By the time we’ve each finished a glass of wine and polished off the plate of appetizers, my spirits are high again.

I stand up, off of the couch, and slap my knees. “What do you say? Is it time for some venison stew?”

He stands as well. “Yes, ma’am! I have just one, small question for you first. What’s venison?”