Page 8 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

“What are you waiting for?” he asked irritably. “A neon sign or smoke signals to make you sit?”

And just as I was beginning to give him some slack…

Rolling my eyes, I sat and looked around. “Who owns this history textbook?”

“Sam and Betty Thompson,” he replied. “They’re staples in this community. And this isn’t a history textbook; it’s a comforting slice of tradition. Something that keeps the older people in this town at ease.”

“The younger people around here could use a Starbucks, too,” I told him while reaching for a menu.

“An overpriced seven-dollar coffee with more syrup, frothed milk, and foam than is logically needed?” He snorted. “The moment you add syrup, it is no longer coffee. It’s dessert.”

“My venti caramel Frappuccino with nonfat coconut milk, two and a half cups of sugar with four chocolate drizzles, six and a half pumps of caramel drizzle, three espresso shots mixed in, and extra whipped cream will disagree with you.”

“I got heartburn hearing that,” Warrick grumbled.

“Are you always this optimistic, or am I judging you wrongly?” I asked, forcing a smile and batting my eyelashes.

“Never been accused of that before,” Warrick replied while a woman— African American, short and plump with a wide smile, curly gray hair, wearing a Kiss-the-Cook apron—came around with a pitcher of water.

She leaned in and kissed Warrick on the cheek before filling our water glasses. “Hi, darlin’. Goodness me, I feel blessed to lay eyes on you. I haven’t seen you in a dog's year. And you, pardon me for saying this, but aren’t you too good-looking to date this old sea dog?”

“What?” He jerked hard enough to nearly upset his water. “No, Betty, God no. Zara is my new assistant.”

Her brows lifted. “My apologies. But you must understand my shock. Warrick is like a hermit up there in those mountains. I've never seen him with a lady friend, but now that I have removed my foot from my mouth, what can I get you two?”

No wonder he first thought I was a hooker.

“The usual, with a cup of coffee.”

“Hey, Sam!” She called over to the kitchen. “Burn one, take it through the garden and pin a rose on it,” she called over, presumably to the fry cook. She then looked at me, “And what can I get you, sweetheart?”

“Could you tell me what you just said means?”

“It's a hamburger with lettuce, tomato, and onion,” Warrick replied instead.

“Um, do you have any chicken? Baked perhaps?” I asked.

“We got buttermilk fried with the best mash you’ll ever taste in your life,” Betty said. “Add some biscuits and gravy to it and you’ve got yourself a real southern plate. Is that what you want, dear?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Coming up,” she turned to the kitchen. “Sam, get me a buttered bird, mash, a side of cat's heads and easy diggings. I need a pitcher of Winnie Palmer, too.”

“Do you have any soup, too?” I asked before she went off.

“We’ve got tomato.”

“I’ll have a small bowl of that first,” I said, knowing my stomach needed something warm and soothing first.

While she went off, I sagged into my seat. “This is a serious shock to my senses. I wasn’t lying when I said that this place looked like a blast from the past.”

“If this surprised you, I wonder what your reaction will be when you get a look at the ranch,” he murmured.

What the hell did that mean?

“Um…what? How far in the past are you?”

“We have brick shithouses, our roof is made from thatch, we fear for our lives when it rains, and God help us when we get hail,” his tone was so cut-and-dry, I didn’t know if he was pulling my leg or not. His eyes flickered up, and that cutting blue still sent shivers down my spine. “We hunt our food, skin the game, make clothes of its fur, and hang up the carcasses to scare off predators.”

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