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Dewberry and wood sorrel.
Elderflower and goosetongue.
Oregon grape and peppercress and spring beauty.
With each new bowl, Artair’s face lit up further, explaining his adventures over the last few days, turning over rocks or recognizing leaf shapes. Hunting fruitlessly for hours only to stumble across exactly what he was looking for.
And each time he started a new story, each time those eyes glowed, Luca couldn’t help think how handsome the man was. In the little noises of joy he made when reaching for another bowl. In the way he almost vibrated with innocent excitement. In his eagerness to include Luca in this process.
“What,” said Artair, blushing slightly from Luca’s gaze.
“Nothing,” he said, not even attempting to hide his admiration. “It’s just incredible that you could figure all this stuff out.”
“It’s nothing really. Just knowing the names of a few weeds.”
The blush grew redder on Artair’s cheeks as they gathered skillets and pots to boil, changing the subject and asking Luca about his own experiences cooking.
Luca played along with that, telling stories about helping his dad in the kitchen growing up. At the big family feasts where laughter and friendly arguments played loudly over the meal.
And yet, he couldn’t help dwelling on how keen Artair was to avoid praise. How embarrassed he seemed to be at acknowledging his skills.
Coming from four long years in college, and in as competitive a field as journalism, Luca had met his share of blowhards. People who shoved others out of the way to get the first chance on camera or microphone. People who made sure that everyone knew the talents they possessed—and quite a few they didn’t.
But he’d never met someone like Artair. Someone who could play beautiful music and survive in the wilderness and figure out how to make a fish-smoking hut in the middle of nowhere, all while acting like none of that was special.
It was an incredibly sexy trait.
But it was also slightly sad.
Because Luca wondered whether Artair actually believed his own dismissals.
Does he really not know how incredible he is?
“So you’ve been living like some kind of detective novel?” laughed Artair, grabbing a forkful of the tart jam—berries and flowers—the perfect complement to the fatty richness of the smoked trout. When he next spoke, it was in some terrible 1950s noir accent, like a radio play about whiskey and dames. “Luca Torres, private investigator. Don’t worry, Toots, we’ll catch the rascal!”
“Hey, I don’t always use a typewriter,” said Luca, swallowing a shockingly delicious fern spiral—flavored with lemon verbena and steamed to perfection, crisp but with a wild, juicy texture. “But maybe I’ll start. It’s shockingly fun to use.”
“I bet. Every single letter probably sounds like it’s being yelled across the room.”
“Honestly, yeah. It’s kinda amazing.”
“And so what’s this big article about then? Must be important if you’re taking a whole summer to write it?”
Luca faked a smile.
The sun had long since set, making the dancing glow of the fire seem even warmer against his face. Around, frogs croaked by the water and leaves rustled in the tree tops.
The evening was going well. Despite only meeting each other a few times, their chatter was easy, with never a moment of awkward silence.
And the last thing Luca wanted to do was ruin that mood by telling the truth. Not with how most men reacted to finding out he was a sex columnist.
Soon . . . but not yet.
Still, he didn’t want to tell an outright lie. That wasn’t in his nature. He didn’t lie to his readers, and he tried not to lie in real life either.
“It’s about me,” he said, settling for a half truth. “And the experience of isolation out here. How I’m coping with being away from other people and having to make it on my own.”
Artair set his face in a posh expression. “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately?”
