Page 32 of The Lodge

There’s a story there, and I want to ask about it—but is it too soon for questions like that? Blake never had boundaries when it came to the details of his personal life; his favorite subject was himself. Tyler seems more guarded, though. Less self-obsessed, too.

“Sounds complicated,” I say, an invitation for him to go deeper if he wants.

“It is.”

For a second, it looks like he’s about to say more—an expression passes over his face that I can’t quite read—but then he holds up the drink menu instead.

“They’re known for this one,” he says, pointing to one called the Honeybee that involves gin, lavender honey, a squeeze of lemon, and sliced serrano peppers. “If you’re not into spice, you can order it ‘without the sting.’?”

He makes air quotes around “without the sting,” and it’s maybe the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

“Oh, I’m into spice,” I say, rolling with the subject change—I can keep it light, keep it fun. “But I’m totally tempted to order it plain for thesolepurpose of saying ‘without the sting.’?”

He laughs. “I’m sure you wouldn’t be the first!”

A few minutes later, our server comes over to take our drink order.

“Still need some time, or do you know what you’d like?”

We order a pair of stingless Honeybees with lavender sugar on the rim, and she promises to be right back with them.

“We’re not in any hurry,” Tyler says smoothly. When she’s gone, he says, “So, for dinner, we have options. The restaurant specializes in steak and sushi, and I’m not exaggerating when I say they’ve perfected the art of making every sort of potato.”

“Everysort of potato? Even lefse?”

His thick brows furrow, somehow making him even hotter. “What’s that?”

“It’s Norwegian,” I explain. “One of our family traditions at the holidays—it’s like a tortilla, but the dough is mostly made of mashed potatoes. It can be really, really sticky if you don’t know how to do it right.”

“Okay, so maybe noteverysort of potato. But that sounds amazing.”

“You eat it with butter and sugar and—ohmygahhhhhhhh—sorry, now that’s all I’ll be able to think about until I get one at Thanksgiving.”

“For eight months?”

“It’s going to be a problem for me,” I deadpan. “But please, tell me more about the potatoes theydomake.”

He laughs. “Since you like spice, I’d say go with the horseradish mashed potatoes. Those and a filet mignon—medium—might even make you forget about your holiday potato tortillas.”

“Lefse,” I say, laughing. “For real, though, literally everything you just mentioned sounds amazing.”

“So I can confirm you don’t need to see a menu?” Tyler asks. “Jules kept saying I shouldn’t assume, so she texted it to me just in case.”

“Yeah, no. I’m good. It sounds—really good.”

His eyes hold mine for longer than is strictly necessary, making me temporarily forget everything else. It’s just Tyler and me and the sound of the flickering fire, embers and ashes and sparks flying.

The moment hangs between us until Hannah brings over our drinks. We give her our dinner order, and she slips away.

“How’s the writing going?” Tyler asks, sipping his stingless Honeybee; a bit of lavender sugar catches on his lower lip and I have the sudden urge to lick it off.

“The writing?” I say, forcing my eyes away from the sugar. “It’s good. Slower than it should be—but good.”

I put in so many hours today, but my word count still came up short. I’ll just have to trust that I’ll writemorethan my goal one of these days. It can be tricky to figure out the exact right way to putsomeone else’s story down on paper—especially when the subject of said story still hasn’t called you back.

“I know you can’t talk about the project itself,” Tyler says, “but I’ve always wondered about how it works when someone else writes a memoir about a person they’ve never met.”

“How do you know I’ve never met hi—the person—I’m writing about?”

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