Page 9 of Scolded By the Mountain Man

Somebody smack me with the world’s biggest carnival hammer, because that’s how stupid I feel right now.

I shake my head in shame and lower my eyes. “No, I…I get what you’re saying. I apologize.”

“So do you think you can make some breakfast?” he asks. “Or is that too much for you?”

I nod quickly. “I can. And I’ll do my best to make it the best breakfast I’ve ever made.” I say it and I mean it. For sure.

“Good,” he replies. He turns to go, and I feel as though it’s okay to raise my eyes again. “Oh, how would you like your eggs?”

“Edible,” he grunts on his way up the stairs. “Make enough for yourself as well.”

As soon as Tyson reaches the second floor, I’m off. I race to the fridge and find a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon. I start to pan fry the bacon first, then scramble the eggs while I toast the bread that I find in one of the larger drawers.

I can’t remember the last time I made a man a meal, but Ireallywant to make this good for him. Not just “edible,” but incredible.

I focus hard on not burning the bacon, on not drying out the eggs while I cook them, and making sure I don’t burn the toast. And by the end of it all, when I’m plating everything and fetching the orange marmalade from the fridge, I hear Tyson coming downstairs and realize I actually just had a really great time doing it all.

“Have a seat,” I tell him, walking both plates over to the table. He gives me an inquisitive look but pulls out a chair and plants himself in it. He’s wearing a worn pair of jeans and a red and black flannel shirt that can barely handle the size of his chest and arms. “And enjoy.”

I set his plate down in front of him, put mine down where I’ll be sitting, and go back to the kitchen for drinks.

“What would you like?” I ask.

“Just water is fine,” he replies.

“Don’t gettoofancy on me,” I tease, pouring him a water and myself an orange juice. He’s already halfway through his meal once I take my seat, which must be a good sign. “So, you like it?”

He nods, and a warm buzz shoots through me. “You did well. You sure you’re not a cook?”

“Analyst at Goldman Sachs,” I reply. He simply nods. I can’t tell if he’s uninterested or doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

I want to say more, but I’m nervous even just sitting here in front of him. I don’t know what to say to a man like this. So tall, so strong, so commanding. So I choose to just eat instead. After the few minutes it takes for him to finish his meal, he stands and goes to the kitchen.

“I have a few more things I need you to do around the house today for me,” he says simply, as though my compliance is not even in question. As though I’ve suddenly become his housekeeper. “Sweep up, clean the kitchen, clean up the bedroom, and tidy up the living room.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply, teasing again as I dip my head down and flutter my eyelids at him. “But of course, sir.”

I think I see a hint of a smile come across his face before he steps past me and gets into his boots and poncho. It’s still raining quite heavily yet he’s apparently headed back out into the pour to chop more wood.

“Once this storm passes, we’ll work on getting you back to your car,” he says. “Until then…”

He opens the door and steps out into the weather like it’s nothing.

What a man…

That’s the only thought that I can process as I watch him go. I stand there like an idiot for what must be almost an entire minute. And then I remember my duties.

First, I clean up the dishes. Then I get to work on the kitchen. I don’t stop until everything is spotless. I find the broom in the cupboard and sweep up the entire first floor, then tidy up the living room like he said. Then it’s upstairs to straighten up the bedroom.

And it’s at some point during all this, I think while I’m tucking the blankets in at the foot of the mattress, that I realizeI’m actually enjoying what I’m doing. There’s no boss shouting at me to hurry up, no jerk brokers around to haze me, no stock prices to stress out over.

I’m spending the day like one of those “trad-wife” girls I’ve seen popping up on the Internet lately, and I’m actually having a good time.

And what’s more, I can’t wait for Tyson to get back so I can see him react to what I’ve done. Hopefully, so he can praise me for it. My heart is actually fluttering inside my chest at the thought.

The day goes by quite quickly, and I realize it’s the middle of the afternoon before I know it and Tyson still hasn’t come in. I check the fridge and find some turkey cold cuts and make us both sandwiches. I plate them with some chips from the cupboards, pour a couple of glasses of water, open the front door and call to him.

“Hey, you! Lunch is ready!”

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