Page 112 of Famous for a Living

Lights shine from the two-story cabin, standing tall and secure, welcoming us in.

I follow him onto the wraparound porch.

He opens the door.

“So what exactly about this was the original part of the ‘precious historic’ build?” I say as I move onto the kitchen barstool twenty minutes later, still marveling after insisting upon a tour. “Was it the coat closet on the first floor? It was the coat closet on the first floor.”

His lips twitch mischievously as he opens a stainless-steel refrigerator. Returns with a bottle of wine. “Close. Chicken coop in the back. But don’t tell your uncle.”

I laugh and take a glass from him.

The cabin isn’t quite the level of the A-frame chalet I visited last Christmas, but compared to what I’ve been living in and what I’d expected, it may as well have been a retreat for the president. The cabin is clean and thoughtfully decorated. Deep-seated couches, simple but matching wooden tables, and cozy-looking blankets fill the living room, all facing a wood fire that is crackling away happily. A couple bedrooms upstairs, one for him, another for a guest. A small area with a small array of workout equipment and computer tucked into one corner. And, of course, the kitchen.

The cabin is warm, all wood and black, red, and yellow patterned blankets. Essentially the opposite in every way of my penthouse back in the city. But charming. Perfectly suited to its own setting.

And, best of all, warm.

Warm enough, I tug off my coat and move toward the thermostat to read it. “Seventy-three degrees,” I say in astonishment, turning to face him. “You keep the thermostat at seventy-three degrees.”

“No.” He slices a long loaf of bread. “But you said you wanted warm. I’m giving you warm.”

I laugh, touched by his thoughtfulness, but also well aware of how he pulled up his sleeves the second we stepped inside. “I’m actually quite warm. Want me to turn it down a few degrees?”

His words say, “Sure, if you want,” but there’s a tinge in his throat that also says a desperate, “Please!”

I drop the temperature down to sixty-eight (still at least a good ten degrees higher than our cabin) and turn my attention to the picture in the frame on the table by his keys.

Sure enough, there is a much younger version of Zaiah standing beside a much younger version of Peggy. She has a full head of permed brown hair, earrings adorning her in their large, dangling variety.

“Where’s your mom live? Surely you haven’t left her to fend for herself in one of those cabins while you’re up here living the high life.”

“No, she opted for her own place in town a while ago.” He scoops something into two bowls and brings them over. “She has a loft over one of the buildings in the city.”

“The city?” I raise a brow as he sets the bowl before me.

“Her words, not mine.”

We sit at the kitchen island as we eat. The dining table is set in the other room, but somehow we never make it there. It is cozier here, leaning over bowls of korma curry. I discover as we eat how similar our tastes are, barring the whole vegan situation, and realize I shouldn’t have been surprised. He grew up in the city, with the same access to the world of options and ethnic tastes that I have had the last decade. With Zaiah’s mom working a lot, takeout was easy, and of course in the city, the options endless. Evidently a kindly babysitter neighbor who took care of him in his earlier years was Indian, and as a consequence, he learned quite a few cooking skills.

By the time we finish up the sticky rice covered in peanut shavings and mango slices, quite literally my favorite dessert in the world, I’m feeling quite cozy, the jitters of a few hours earlier gone. My heels are discarded at the foot of the barstool. My bare foot bounces happily as I scoop another bit of rice into my mouth, taste buds in heaven.

He sits back, admiring me. “You are without question the best person to cook for.”

“I haven’t had someone cook for me in weeks. I would have been happy with box spaghetti. This,” I say, pointing my fork to the plate, “I would have given you my heels for this.”

“I have had my eye on them too.” He glances down at the toppled-over pair.

As I excuse myself and slip into the bathroom after dinner, I look into the mirror and take stock of how the date has gone. My bare toes rub against the soft bath rug, and I smile a little at myself in the mirror. My eyes are sparkling. Cheeks rosy hued, and not just from the blush I applied earlier in the day.

I pull out my travel-sized lipstick tube from my pocket. My reserve tube. Funnily enough, I realize I can go without my phone, but I draw the line at lipstick.

When I move back to my chair, there’s an amiable silence. Quiet but for the flickering of the fireplace across the room.

“So,” he says at last. “For the next part of the date.”

I lower my fork, all but raising a brow. “Yeah?”

“I have made a decision.”