He held her there for a moment, their smiles fading in unison. She could see her breath. It was mingling with his. It felt like they were looking not just at each other but inside each other. It wasn’t uncomfortable—he already knew everything anyway—but it felt . . . weighty somehow.

As quickly as it had arrived, the moment of seriousness evaporated, like the steam rising from the surface of the water. He winked and set her down.

And when he hopped out of the spring and produced a towel from his bag, came to the edge, and held it out for her, she let herself be wrapped in it. Let both the silly exhilaration from the top of the lift and sudden intimacy that had come afterward wrap around her, too. It was a good feeling, to be cocooned in protection and warmth and rightness.

She told herself not to get used to it.

After they got back to the cottage, Dani took a shower and didn’t even bother getting dressed again. Max had ordered a late dinner from the kitchen at the main house, which seemed to function as his personal room service, and she joined him in her pajamas. He’d laid their dinner out in the library, on a coffee table next to a crackling fire.

“Well, don’t you look cozy?” he said.

“Was I supposed to dress for dinner?” He clearly had, having swapped his hiking attire for jeans and a button-down shirt.

“No,” he said, flashing a grin. “Not at all. Hang on.” A minute later, he reappeared in his own pajamas.

After dinner, she read him the opening pages of her novel. Her novel. Such a strange thing to think. It wasn’t that unusual for professors of English to detour into fiction-writing, but she had honestly never thought she would join their ranks.

“I love it,” he pronounced when she was done, and relief overtook her.

“I don’t know what happens beyond this. Maybe I should stare at that Matisse painting for a while.” The painting in question played a central role in her first chapter. “I’ve googled it, of course, but maybe I’ll go see it in person. It’s in the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco.”

“Oh, hang on.” He popped up and started scanning bookshelves that lined two walls. Not finding what he was looking for, he gestured her to follow him.

She trailed him to his bedroom, which like the rest of the cottage, managed to be both posh and modest at the same time, the walls covered with oil paintings, but unlike the stuffy portraits of ancient von Hansburgs she’d seen in the main house when they had dinner there last night, these were exuberant landscapes and colorful still lifes, a few of them in need of straightening.