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“This is incredible,” I admit into the headset.

When I turn, Eric is watching me instead of the city. Heat climbs into my cheeks before I can stop it.

“You’re missing the view,” I say.

“I have a better one.” His thumb brushes once across the back of my hand.

I look out the window again, as if that will make the words land any less.

By the time the helicopter settles into a grassy clearing surrounded by trees, I’ve completely failed at being unimpressed. From my side during the landing, I could see nothing but treetops and a narrow strip of fading sky, so I still have no idea where he’s brought me.

The pilot motions us out, and the moment I step onto the grass, the wind from the blades destroys every minute I spent on my hair.

My carefully brushed curls whip around my face. A chunk of strands stick to my lipstick while the rest separate and puff out around my shoulders, making my hair feel twice its usual size. I gather it with one hand, and Eric closes his around the other, leading me across the clearing until we’re a safe distance from the helicopter.

“I spent forty minutes making these curls look natural.”

I run both hands over them, but every attempt to smooth them down only makes them fluffier. There’s no saving them, so I give up.

Eric steps closer. “Hold still.”

He catches the strands stuck to my lipstick and carefully pulls them free. His fingers move through the rest, gently smoothing the curls back over my shoulders. He gathers the hair at my neck and draws it to one side. His warm palm settles against my nape, and his thumb strokes slowly from beneath my ear to the base of my neck.

When I look up at him, his thumb stills against my skin, and for one quiet beat, neither of us moves.

“How’s my hair?”

Eric considers it with a straight face. “Beyond help.”

I laugh. “Then you’re stuck with it all night.”

His attention settles on my face. “I get to look at you all night. I’m not seeing the downside.”

His hand slips from my nape, his fingertips brushing across my shoulder before falling away.

Still smiling, I turn toward the narrow gravel path leading into the trees.

“Are we walking through there?”

“It’s less than a minute.” Eric looks at my heels, then at the loose gravel. “I didn’t think about that.”

“I’ll manage.”

“I could carry you.”

“You’re not carrying me.”

I take one step, and the gravel shifts beneath my heel. I stop and hold out my hand instead. Eric takes it without a word, though his smile deepens.

We follow the path and soon a small building appears between the branches. Dusk has fallen faster beneath the trees. Old lamps shine beside the entrance, and warm light fills every window.

As we get closer, I see stone walls, cream trim, and a steep slate roof. A round clock sits beneath the front gable. Flower baskets hang near the door, with a wooden bench below them. It looks like an old country train station saved from another time. Maybe someone has turned it into a restaurant.

Eric walks us straight past the door.

“Aren’t we going inside?”

“Not that way.”