Closing the door behind them, she turns back to find Kurt shrugging out of his coat. "Well, this is where I live," she announces inanely, nerves suddenly jangling, despite several glasses of wine at dinner.
He raises an amused eyebrow, but doesn't offer any comment as he steps further into the entryway. She lingers behind, back against the door and hand still resting on the knob as she looks around her home, trying to see it through his eyes. His farmhouse, warm, sturdy, and masculine, is a reflection of him. Will he see something of her in these rooms, in her art and her books? Will he see the care she put into choosing each piece of furniture, each colour, each texture? Or will he see only the surface and think her frivolous or vain: a Highland Park liberal, as she was recently accused.
"Nice," he says simply, nodding as he glances around.
Sometimes, she overthinks things.
"Thank you," she says lightly, stepping away from the door and pulling his coat from his arm. Briefly, she contemplates hanging it in the coat closet, then lays it across the arm of a chair in the entry. Closets are for coats that are staying awhile and she doesn't want to presume, or maybe she doesn't want to invite. This is her sanctuary and him, here, is unexpected.
Fishing had been pleasant but when weeks passed without a word, she'd shrugged and once again filed him away under maybe someday. Until today, a chance meeting on a busy day, almost literally running into each other in the courthouse hallway. He'd lobbed a tentative dinner invitation and she accepted because, really, why wouldn't she? Is someday today? Probably not, but here he is, and she's glad for it even as she wonders what the hell she's doing.
"Can I get you a drink?"
At his nod, she directs him to her study and retreats to the kitchen for glasses, a bottle of Glenlivet single malt, and a moment to breathe. Not bothering to turn on a light, she stands in front of the kitchen sink, staring out the window at the lights of the city. She has a lovely view from here on the top of the hill, or so she's always thought. Now she thinks maybe the stars she can see from his kitchen window have her pretty city lights beat all to hell.
It doesn't startle her when his hands land on her hips, then slide around her waist as he presses up against her. She could see his reflection approaching in the window. His breath stirs her hair as he speaks. "Nice view."
"You don't really think so," she says indifferently.
"I wasn't talking about the window."
Their matching grins reflect back at her from the window.
When she turns in his arms, his hands slide easily along her hips as she moves. "Is that so?" she asks, her own arms rising to wrap around his shoulders.
He doesn't answer, not with words, but his kiss tells her all she needs to know.
