Jack moved to the stove and leaned down to turn it on. As I handed him the pot he turned sharp, nearly colliding with me.

“Here’s the—” I said. “Oh.”

He wasn’t wearing his biker-guy getup from earlier. Not surprising, given the hour, but it was only now, standing a few inches away under the harsh kitchen lights that I realized he wasn’t wearing a disguise at all. The dark brown eyes, the short, wavy black hair, it was what I’d seen all those nights at the lodge. Even his face was pretty much as I remembered…except for one thing.

When I’d first gotten off the plane and seen Jack’s biker disguise, I’d been impressed by the first-rate job he’d done with aging—the crow’s feet around the eyes, the lines around the mouth, the sun-weathered skin that changed him from a man in his thirties to one closing in on the half-century mark. Well…it hadn’t been makeup.

“You’re not wearing a disguise,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

“Neither are you.” He gave a half-shrug. “Seemed only fair.”

There was something expected here, some response—any response—to an action that couldn’t have been made lightly. I opened my mouth, hoping something intelligent would come out. When nothing did, I snapped it shut.

As I handed him the pot, I cursed myself. Was it too late to crawl back to bed?

Jack turned to stir the cocoa in and I found myself looking at the back of his head, noticing the silver mingled with the black. Why was I so shocked? If I’d been thinking logically, I’d have realized long ago that Jack couldn’t be anywhere near my age, not with his reputation.

“I need pants,” I said.

Jack turned and gave me the same “what?” look as when I’d asked about hot milk. Then he glanced down at my bare legs sticking out from under the oversized T-shirt I wore to bed.

“Sit,” he said. “I won’t look.”

I slithered to the table and busied myself refolding the newspaper. When Jack shoved the cocoa and sugar back into the pantry, I got up and returned them to the cupboard, in the same places they’d been, labels forward.

As I sat down again, the dogs padded into the kitchen. They glanced at Jack, then slipped around the table, Scotch stretching out at my feet, Ginger pushing her nose under my hand for a petting.

“Snuck out of Evelyn’s room.” Jack laid a mug at my elbow, then pulled out the chair beside mine. “You should get one. A dog. For the lodge.”

I shook my head. “I’d love to, but I have to consider my guests. I could get someone who’s allergic and they wouldn’t appreciate a house filled with dog dander.”

“You have dogs? Growing up?”