The hike had been challenging, and she’d worked up a bit of a sweat under her parka, and the sudden addition of the cold air was making her shiver violently.
“Big step down, then there’s a ledge under the surface,” he said, holding her hand like he was an old-fashioned gentleman helping her down from a carriage.
Stepping into the hot water was nothing short of glorious. The heat after such an extreme blast of cold made her tingle all over, and as he led her to the far side to sit on a deeper ledge, she heaved a deep, slow sigh. It felt like the cold, piney air was cleaning her lungs from the inside as her muscles surrendered to the blissful warmth.
“Wooow,” she breathed, and he smiled. “What’s with all these stones? It’s like a fancy outdoor spa.”
“This is a natural spring, but my father’s mother had it reinforced with these stones to make it a more comfortable—and less mucky—experience. To hear it told, she was quite the devotee.”
“This grandmother of yours just gets better and better.”
“I wish I’d known her.”
“But you do now, a little bit, don’t you? From the letters?”
They talked for a while about the magnitude of Max’s find, and when their conversation came to a natural lull, he asked, “Are you all toasty now?”
“Yep.” She held up a wrinkly finger. “Turning into a prune. I’m actually getting a bit overheated.”
He pushed off the ledge he’d been sitting on, moved to the middle of the spring—it was the size of two or three hot tubs—and said, “Dirty Dancing lift.”
“You were serious about that?”
“Would I joke about Dirty Dancing lifts?” When she didn’t answer, merely cracked up, he said, “Come on. It will cool you off.”
“All right, you weirdo.” She moved toward him, lifted her arms over her head as she got close. He came in smooth as anything. As his hands splayed her hips, they were totally in sync. He lifted, and she jumped like this was a choreographed routine they’d done a thousand times.
“Eee!” she said as she reached the top of the lift. The cold mountain air was making steam rise off her hot skin. It was exhilarating. It was silly.
It was perfect.
“Don’t dive,” he said from below her. “There’s probably enough clearance, but let’s not test it. I don’t want you to hit your head on the rock.”
“Okay.”
She expected him to sink down in the water, to lower her like an elevator, but instead he executed a move Patrick Swayze would envy, rolling her down into his arms. As they grinned at each other, both of them panting, she could almost believe they’d completed a triumphant, end-of-the-movie dance that had turned all their critics into applauding fans.
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.
There was a bookshelf next to the bed. He bent next to it and scanned the titles on the tall lower shelf. “Aha!” He produced a book of paintings by Matisse and flipped to the index. “Maybe it’s in this. What’s the name of the painting?”
“Woman with a Hat,” she said.
He squinted at the index. “Yes! Here it is.” He shuffled through the pages until he found it and turned the book toward her. “Not as good as the real thing, but better than on a screen.”
He plopped onto his bed, which was unmade but piled with the same posh-looking linens and duvets as upstairs, extended his legs, and patted the mattress next to them. She snorted—slumber party with the baron—but stretched out next to him. Max Minimus jumped on the bed, too, and Max shifted to accommodate him as if this was a thing the two Maxes did.
Wait. Had Max been patting the bed to signal her or her dog?
Well, whatever. She wasn’t letting her dog get ahead of her in the pecking order.
They looked at the painting together and talked a bit more about the book. Then, as promised, he translated his grandmother’s letters for her, and they talked some more about what their discovery meant—for the mine project but also for the historical record. Eventually, she started getting sleepy. Ugh. She had to heave herself out of bed and up the stairs to the attic. “I should go.” She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to go anywhere—upstairs or to the wedding or back to New York and the job she was lucky to have. But life wasn’t a fairy tale. “Come on, Max.”
Max Minimus lifted his head, looked at her, and tunneled back into Max Maximus’s armpit. Max Maximus smirked.
“Max. Come. Time for bed.”
She spoke sharply enough that he did, but she could tell he wasn’t happy about it.
She wasn’t, either.
Chapter Fourteen