Page 1 of Mountain Daddy
Prologue – Kendra
“I think I went too heavy on the nuts.”
I stop chewing, still hunched over my bowl, and lift my eyes to my laptop screen. “I can’t with you,” I say with my mouth full of noodles.
“What?” Dad pauses, then rolls his eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Kenny.”
I shake my head as I finish chewing.
Dad and I have been doing this tradition for about two years now—cooking the same dish over a video call once a month and eating together. We did it on my thirtieth birthday, when he wasn’t able to make the trip from Colorado to Delaware, then decided it was a fun way to catch up.
“It’s good though. I’ll just do less chopped peanuts next time.” Dad nods to his plate.
“Yeah.” I swirl my noodles in the sauce. “Feels a little dangerous to be able to make my own pad thai. I’m gonna eat this all the time.”
Dad hums. “Maybe you can lure a date over with all these new cooking skills.”
“Lure?” I snort. “I’m not trying to trick a man into dating me.”
“You could leave a trail of those ravioli we made last month down your sidewalk.” He gestures, completely serious. “Then put a bowl of sauce in the middle of your living room.”
I blink at the man on my screen. “I’d have to put a giant box over the bowl and prop it up with a stick. So when my dream man crawls across my floor with ravioli falling out of his pockets, I can kick the stick away and trap him.”
Dad gives me a blank look. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”
I crack up. “Yeah, I’m the problem.”
He nods.
My fork is halfway to my mouth when someone knocks on the door.
“Hold on.” I set my noodles down and push back from my little dining table.
“You expecting anyone?” Dad’s voice switches to a parental tone.
“No,” I call back over my shoulder, unconcerned.
My apartment building has always felt really safe—with locked front doors and a security guard on duty—so I’m not worried about whoever’s at the door.
For all I know, it’s Lizzy, my roommate. She often knocks when her hands are full rather than getting her keys out.
We used to work together, and when she offered me her spare room last year, I snagged it. It was closer to the office and cheaper than living alone.
A few months ago, she quit our company for a different job, so now I see her even less. And as someone who likes privacy, it’s been pretty much ideal.
I flip the deadbolt and pull the door open.
“Hey—” My smile falters.
It’s not Lizzy.
It’s the guy from the rental office downstairs.
“Um, hi.” I lift a hand in an awkward wave, and he presses a folded piece of paper against my palm.
My fingers close around it automatically.
“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “We can’t give you any more warnings. You need to be out by the end of the month.”
