Page 8 of Rugged Mountain Man

“Shit. No.”

I hadn’t meant to say those words aloud. They just fell out. I had to quit cussing like a sailor around this classy woman.

“It’s okay,” she called back. “I just don’t want to bend up one of your spoons, and this ice cream’s a little hard.”

Whatever she was making involved ice cream. It wasn’t homemade ice cream, though. I didn’t have cream or vanilla extract, as far as I knew.

A few minutes later, Willow showed up, mug in each hand, spoon sticking out of the top of each. She even held a couple of napkins. Well, they were squares of paper towels. I didn’t actually buy napkins.

“It’s not gourmet, but my roommate and I used to make these. There are all kinds you can make. They’re called mug cakes.”

“Mug cakes.”

That sounded good to me. I liked to keep things simple. I set my coffee mug on the table so I could devote both hands to the dessert I now held. Looking into the mug, I saw a scoop of ice cream and something dark beneath it.

“Chocolate?” I asked.

“I should have asked. You’re not allergic to anything?”

I shook my head. “I love chocolate and I’m not allergic to it…or anything else that I know of.”

She had settled onto the cushion at the other end of the long sofa instead of next to me, but having her plop down in the middle was too much to expect when we’d just met.

I sliced my spoon through the dessert, working hard to get an equal ratio of cake to ice cream on my spoon. Holy fuck, that was good.

“Mmm,” I moaned.

Rude? Maybe, considering I had my mouth full, but I had to let her know as soon as possible what I thought of her baking.

She stopped working a spoonful out of her own mug to look at me. “You like it?”

I nodded, chewed, then swallowed. “That’s fucking awesome. You did that with stuff I had?”

“Cocoa powder, sugar, flour…”

I blinked. “I had all that?”

I wasn’t surprised about the sugar and flour, but cocoa powder? I never would have imagined that was in my kitchen.

“Stick with me,” she said. “I’ll show you how to put together a delicious dessert using all kinds of different ingredients.”

Stick with her. Those three words ran through my mind. That was exactly what I wanted to do.

“That’s kind of what the baking competition is about,” she said, apparently unaware of how hard her words had hit. “It’s like those cooking shows on TV.”

She looked at me expectantly, but I had no clue what the heck that meant. I’d never watched a cooking show in my life.

“I assume those are competitions too?” I asked.

She nodded. “You should watch one sometime. Even if you don’t bake, they’re interesting. They give contestants a list of items, and they have to make something out of them.”

“Like cocoa powder, sugar, and flour?” I asked.

Her mouth was full, so she shook her head until she could swallow and speak. Then she said. “Much more challenging than that.”

I smiled. “I definitely don’t see myself watching baking shows.” I paused. “Not on my own, anyway. If I had a girlfriend, that might be a different story.”

Suddenly, as I enjoyed my dessert, I let myself imagine sitting on this very sofa with her, watching TV. Like a normal couple. Like a normalhuman.

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