Ask if she would like lunch

You lift your gaze briefly toward the wide timber staircase leading up to the second-floor loft, where the faint, rhythmic sound of Jean’s charcoal scraping against paper occasionally echoes over the storm.

“Would you like me to make some lunch for you and Jean?” you ask, keeping your voice low as you hold the stem of her empty glass.

Lily tilts her head back against the leather cushion, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips as her eyes slowly travel up from your trousers to meet yours.

“Oh, Jean doesn’t eat when he’s like that,” she says softly, her voice light and unbothered. “If I take food up to him right now, he won’t even look at it. He absolutely hates being interrupted when he’s painting.”

She shifts slightly on the sofa, her bare knee trailing off your pant leg as she sits up, the loose, barely buttoned pink-and-white striped silk shirt falling further open across her chest.

“But I’m starving,” she adds, her dark eyes locking onto yours with a playful, lingering look in the warm firelight.

“What do you feel like eating?” you ask, leaning back against the edge of the front desk. “I can pull something together, but you have full say on the menu.”

Lily sits up, a bright, playful smile spreading across her face. “Oh, I am terrible at deciding when I’m hungry. Take me back to the kitchen and show me what you’ve got. I’ll choose on the fly.”

“Come on back,” you say, swinging open the low wooden counter door.

She pads across the hardwood floor in her bare feet, trailing right behind you as you lead her into the lodge’s commercial kitchen. The quiet space is bathed in the warm, low glow of the under-cabinet lighting, the steady rhythm of the mountain downpour drumming against the high windows above.

As you pull open the stainless steel refrigerator to show her the stock, Lily wanders over to the heavy timber prep table in the center of the room. With a light, fluid motion, she hops straight up onto the edge, settling her hips onto the clean wooden surface. Her small pink silk shorts ride up slightly on her thighs, and her open, unbuttoned striped shirt drapes loosely around her waist as her bare feet swing casually above the floor.

You turn around with a container of cured meats and pause, looking over at her.

“You know, that’s technically a health code violation,” you say, keeping your voice even as you nod toward the table. “We prepare food on that surface.”

Lily lets out a soft, throaty laugh, leaning her hands back on the block. “Oh, please,” she teases, wiggling her hips slightly on the timber top with a mischievous smirk. “Are you implying my butt is dirty, Mark?”

Without breaking eye contact, you set the container down, step up to the prep table, and reach out. You place your hands firmly around her narrow waist, her warm skin and thin silk yielding beneath your grip, and easily lift her straight off the counter.

She lets out a tiny, breathless gasp of surprise as her feet leave the ground. You set her down smoothly on the floor right in front of you, surprised by how light she is in your hands, her frame petite and almost weightless against your chest.

For a long second, neither of you move. Lily stands grounded on the tile, her head tilted up, her dark eyes wide with a sudden, breathless surprise at how effortlessly you moved her. Your hands remain rested lightly on the curves of her waist, the unbuttoned pink silk shirt parted between you, revealing the pale, full rise of her chest as her breathing catches in her throat.

Your hands remain resting firmly on the warm curves of her narrow waist, keeping her grounded in front of you while the space between you crackles with tension. You don’t step back immediately, and neither does she.

Lily tilts her head back, her dark eyes flashing with amusement as her breath catches slightly in her chest. The loose, unbuttoned pink-and-white striped shirt remains parted down her torso, the soft rise and fall of her pale skin pressing near your chest.

“Well,” she murmurs, a breathless, throaty chuckle slipping from her lips as her hands rest casually on your forearms. “I don’t think I’ve been lifted like that since I used to cheer back in high school.”

She holds your gaze in the warm, low lighting of the kitchen, her lips curling into a lingering, playful smirk. Her dark eyes glance down at your broad shoulders before drifting slowly back up to meet your eyes.

“Maybe I should start dating rugged mountain men like you,” she adds softly, her voice dropping into a teasing, intimate register that barely carries over the drumming rain against the high windows.

Her bare feet stay planted on the floor, but she doesn’t pull away from your grip, leaving the choice of what to do next entirely in your hands.