Chapter 9 - The City and the Country
By Thursday evening, Denver had turned on its winter charm, with crisp air, glittering streetlights reflecting off the damp pavement, and holiday decorations beginning to line Larimer Square.
Cassidy stood in front of her apartment mirror for the third time in ten minutes, second-guessing her outfit. She had opted for a dark wool coat over a fitted emerald-green sweater and tailored trousers—professional enough to look like she had her life together, but casual enough not to look like she was preparing for a gala.
Relax, she scolded her reflection. It’s just dinner. With a guy you met because of a blizzard and a pumpkin pie.
The buzzer at her apartment security panel rang precisely at 7:00 PM.
When she opened her apartment door, Ronan was standing in the hallway. He looked entirely different out of his flannel work shirts and heavy winter gear. He wore a dark, well-fitted charcoal coat over a crisp button-down shirt, his dark hair neatly brushed, though a stubborn wave still fell across his forehead. He looked less like a man guarding a fortress against the Nebraska wind and more like a man who belonged right here in the city—yet the rugged, unmistakable core of him remained unchanged.
He held a single, small paper bag tied with bakery string.
“You brought pie?” Cassidy asked, raising an eyebrow as she stepped back to let him into the entryway.
“Not pie,” Ronan said, stepping inside and handing her the bag. “Maggie insisted I bring something. She was convinced you’ve been starving yourself on organic salads since you got back.”
Cassidy opened the bag to find a small, foil-wrapped container of Maggie’s homemade cinnamon rolls, still faintly warm. She laughed, a genuine, delighted sound.
“Your family is determined to feed me into a coma, aren't they?”
“It’s a regional survival strategy,” Ronan replied, his gray eyes softening as he looked down at her. “You looked like you needed feeding last Wednesday. I figured the habit might be hard to break.”
They walked together down to a small, cozy Italian bistro tucked into a historic brick building just a few blocks away. The restaurant was warm, smelling of garlic, roasted tomatoes, and fresh basil, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clinking of wine glasses.
Over a shared plate of handmade pasta and a bottle of Chianti, the conversation flowed with an ease that surprised even Cassidy. There was no mention of the ghost chair, no heavy shadow of grief hanging over the table, and no howling wind outside to remind them of isolation.
They talked about Ronan’s civil engineering background—details he had previously kept locked away behind his stoic exterior. He explained how he had spent four years designing bridges in Lincoln before his uncle’s health and the weight of family expectation had pulled him back to the family farm after Daniel’s passing.
“Do you miss it?” Cassidy asked, swirling her wine glass gently as she watched him across the flickering candlelight. “The city? The engineering work?”
Ronan looked down at his hands, strong and calloused, resting on the edge of the table. For a moment, the old guard flickered behind his eyes.
“Sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “In the beginning, coming back felt like a life sentence. The farm demanded everything—every hour, every ounce of energy. It was easier to lock myself down, to keep the gates closed, because letting go felt like forgetting.” He looked up, meeting her eyes directly. “But sitting in that house for six years... you realize you aren't protecting anything. You're just hiding.”
Cassidy felt a deep, resonant wave of empathy. She reached across the small table, resting her fingers lightly over his knuckles.
“You didn't hide when you came out to help your grandmother,” she said softly. “And you didn't hide when you let a stranger into your Thanksgiving.”
May you like
Ronan turned his hand over, his fingers wrapping firmly around hers, calloused skin meeting smooth. A slow, steady warmth settled between them.
“No,” Ronan agreed, a faint smile touching his mouth. “I didn't.”
