Page 16 of Rose's Ripped Van Winkle

“What should we have for lunch?” she asks. “I’m hungry.”

“I was thinking of catching some fish in the stream and grilling them for us. Uh, do you even have fishing gear?”

Her face lights up. “The house came with a lot of odds and ends, including an avocado green blender and those kitschy 1980s kitchen towels.” She pauses and laughs, the sound is happier, gayer than I’ve heard her make before as she adds, “And you.”

“What?”

“The house came with odds and ends, Rip. You are the oddest of odds and ends.”

I mock-scowl at her, but what can I say? “Yes. The oddest.”

“I saw a few poles in the back of the coat closet. Fresh fish sounds amazing. Can I come with you?” Her eyes are sparkling with excitement.

“Of course. We’ll have fun even if we don’t catch a thing.”

We grab our fishing gear and make our way to the river. It must not have rained recently; the stream is moving lazily. We fish for a while as Rose gives me an overview of events I’ve missed over the last century.

I was quiet for long minutes after she told me about not one but two world wars. I never would have expected anything so horrible. Perhaps it was best I slept through all of that.

When we’ve caught enough fish for two meals, we make our way back to the cottage.

Chapter Sixteen

Rose

It’s late afternoon and I have an idea of something I want to do later. My face heats and I feel myself blushing to the roots of my hair. If Rip notices, perhaps he’ll think it’s because I got too much sun today rather than that I’m thinking filthy, dirty things that I want to do with him.

I remind myself that’s a crazy part of my upbringing. Sex isn’t dirty. Not with someone you like. And how could I not have affection for Rip? He’s the best man I’ve ever met—bar none. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s so sexy, and handsome, and has the most amazing muscles rippling on his stomach.

Which is why I need to find a fun way to pass the time while I work up my nerve to do the most brazen thing I’ve ever considered.

“As soon as we clean up, I thought we could get things dirty again by baking something. Anything you’re hankering for after a century of sleep?”

I said that lightly, but it still boggles my mind that he’s slept since 1911.

“Oh, a black and white.”

He said that with yearning, as though a black and white—whatever that is—was an old lover. If he likes it that much, I’m definitely down to make it.

I grab my phone, happy to see it’s a great day for cell service, and research how to make the cookie. The recipe is one of those irritatingly long ones that tells you the entire history of every ingredient before you get to the recipe itself. The whole time I’m scrolling to the bottom of the irritating recipe, I’m hoping I’ll get to the directions before the cell service gives out.

“It looks like the black and white is still the quintessential New York baked good, aside from cheesecake, although I've never heard of it. Let's give it a try.”

After I measure the dry ingredients into the bowl, Rip grabs a container of sour cream out of the fridge.

“Sour cream? Really?”

Rip just grins and adds half the carton to the bowl.

“You'll see,” he says with a wink.

He begins beating the mixture by hand, but I shake my head, waggle my finger, and say, “You're never going to believe what somebody invented for this.”

After grabbing the avocado green mixer from the back of a shelf, I can't believe my luck when I find the beaters in a drawer. I make an exaggerated fist pump when the thing whirs to life.

“Knock yourself out.” I hand it to him with a smile.

“Wonders never cease,” he says as he mixes the ingredients with his newfangled toy.

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