Chapter 13
By quarter to seven that evening, Philip is back home. In the drive, I hear the faint grate of snow and gravel catching in his back tires.
I sit at the dining room table set for two, waiting for him. The wafting scent of prime rib—his favorite—and red-skinned potatoes saturated in garlic butter sauce fills our home.
He fills the archway separating the kitchen and dining room as he peels off his wet winter coat. “From the looks of it, you’ve been busy.”
“I made your favorite foods,” I say, working my way through my second glass of Pinot Noir.
“I’m impressed.” He takes off his Stetson hat and tosses it on the back of his chair. “And hungry!”
He sits across from me and I lose myself in his chiseled features, a handsome man I’d like to devour for dessert. Cover him in a warm c
