Page 42 of Against All Odds

“You know, I thought you wanted to be a GM here for the free lift passes since you’re such a big skier and allthat,” she changed the topic, bringing levity. I liked that about her. She let things go. Didn’t keep bringing up the stuff that didn’t work—but moved past it after saying her piece.

I chuckled. “How did you guess?”

“I have skills,” she teased.

The hike back to my Jeep went faster, and by the time we got to Sable’s place, a small cottage tucked into a quiet corner of Snowmass close enough to the town square so she could walk and get a cup of coffee but far enough to feel like a hidden retreat, I was famished, and so was she.

“Let’s go to a restaurant,” I suggested. “You must be too tired to cook.”

She winked at me. “I’m not, and trust me, most of the food is already ready.”

“We can do takeout,” I offered.

She didn’t want to eat out in public with me. I’d figured that out. She didn’t mind us meeting and eating at the Wildflower, but I’d not been able to convince her to dine with me at the many restaurants on Main Street. I understood. She wanted to maintain some modicum of privacy.

I liked Sable’s place. I’d been here a couple of times now, even spent a night on her big bed where we’d made some dirty love that even thinking about made my dick stand up.

Her place was cozy without being cramped. The living room had mismatched furniture—an overstuffed armchair that looked like it belonged tosomeone’s grandmother, and a modern coffee table, that probably didn’t—but somehow, it all worked. It was what I’d come to think of as Bambi’s Magic Touch. She’d done the same thing at the Wildflower, which even Ben Greyfeather, the previous owner who was now Sable’s mentor and unpaid employee, admitted.

I sat at her kitchen island, watching as she moved effortlessly around the stove. The smell of garlic, herbs, and spices coming from the pan made my mouth water.

The table was already set, and all the pieces of the dinner were ready to go as soon as we came back. She opened a bottle of Chardonnay that paired well with the food. She had candles on her small dining table and white cloth napkins. This gave me insight into the kind of person she was. She cared that things were done well. She didn’t want tojustthrow a meal together after a long hike; she wanted it to be special.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you could cook.” I set my fork down.

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m impressed,” I corrected. “This pasta is some of the best I’ve ever had.” She had served pappardelle with wild mushrooms and a sage cream sauce.

“Homemade pasta is the best,” she agreed.

I stared at my food and then back at her. “You made the pasta yourself?”

“Yes, Heath.” She twirled some pasta around her fork. “You sound like I just built a house with my bare hands.”

“It’s not that far off,” I remarked, spearing a mushroom.

“This is better than most restaurants.” And I’d know. I spent my time staying in hotels and eating at some of the finest restaurants in the world. “Rich and earthy, perfectly balanced.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she offered a small, dismissive shrug as if it didn’t matter—but I knew it did. Not many people in her life had ever told Sable she was remarkable.

“I had to learn.”

“There’s cooking, and then there’s this, Sable.” I stroked her cheek with a finger.

She hesitated, her fork hovering over her plate. “You know how I grew up...so when I met Jack, I didn’t want him to think I didn’t know what good food was. This” —she gestured to the meal with a small smile— “is the result of years of subscribing to Bon Appétit magazine.”

“Well, Bambi, take it from me, you definitely know what good food is and how to cook it.”

She didn’t smile or look comforted at the compliment. “The sad thing is that I did all this as a way ofpolishingmyself, removing the trailer trash taint.”

“I hate when you refer to yourself as…trash or?—”

“I know,” she quickly cut me off. “So, do you want to know what’s for dessert?”

“I was hoping for pussy,” I joked, going along with her desire not to dwell. As much as I wanted to knoweverythingabout her, I knew it would take time. Sable wasn’topenin general; she was guarded, and I knew thatit was a huge honor that she’d let me get so close to her truth so quickly.

She laughed and then somberly said, “I mostly cooked and set the house and all of that to hide what I thought was therealme—which was?—”

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