~HUNTER~

"A little to the left," I direct, watching Vincent struggle with the string of lights. "No—my left, not yours."

Vincent grunts, stretching to hang the lights along the cabin's wooden beams. "Since when did you become such a perfectionist about decorations?"

"I've always been a perfectionist," I reply, adjusting a vase of wildflowers on the dining table.

The cabin smells of pine and the lasagna baking in the oven. Outside, the lake sparkles in the late afternoon sun, visible ...