Page 9 of The Mountain Man's Untamed Bride
"Hungry?" I asked, already turning toward the kitchen.
"Starving." Her tone softened slightly, the first genuine reaction I'd seen from her. "I haven't eaten since some questionable gas station burrito six hours ago."
"Hope you're not picky."
I considered the casserole dish Josie had sent over yesterday—the one with detailed reheating instructions taped to the lid—but decided against it. Too much effort. The mac and cheese would have to do.
While the pasta cooked, I grabbed two mason jars from the cabinet and filled them with the home-brewed beer I kept in my fridge. The cold drink would be welcome in this heat. After yesterday's cleaning session and now this unexpected guest, I'd earned it.
I set a jar in front of her. "No wine."
She eyed the cloudy amber liquid suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Local beer. My friend makes it—guy who got me into this mess in the first place."
She took a cautious sip, then a longer one. "Not bad. Stronger than I expected."
"Everything about Promise Ridge is."
I dished up the neon pasta onto two mismatched plates—one with a faded Christmas pattern I'd found at Mabel's General Store, the other plain white ceramic. Not exactly the fine dining she was probably used to, but it was calories.
"My specialty," I said dryly, sliding her plate across the table. "Mac and cheese à la box."
She poked at it with her fork. "Is this... organic at least?"
I barked out a laugh. "It cost a dollar and glows in the dark. So no, definitely not organic unless you count the chemicals as living organisms."
She took a tentative bite, then seemed surprised. "This isn't awful."
"Ringing endorsement." I shoveled a forkful into my own mouth. "Should put that on my dating profile. 'Bodhi Wilder: His cooking isn't awful.'"
That got a smile from her—a real one that made something in my chest shift uncomfortably.
We ate in silence punctuated by Colonel's occasional outraged squawks from outside. I'd banished him after he'd spent five solid minutes following Scarlett around the kitchen, puffing his feathers, and strutting in circles whenever she moved, like a feathered security guard convinced she was planning a heist.
"So," she said finally, pushing her empty plate away. "I'm not exactly what you expected."
"You're exactly what I didn't expect," I corrected. "Your profile was bullshit."
She didn't even pretend to look ashamed. "So was yours. Skilled craftsman? Quiet evenings by the fire? You neglected to mention the spider sanctuary and raccoon timeshare program."
I leaned back in my chair, studying her. The way she held herself—confident but with something underneath, like a soldier hiding an injury. I needed to understand what was really going on here.
"Why make a fake profile to end up in the middle of nowhere with a stranger?"
Something flashed across her face—something real and raw before the confidence slipped back into place. "Maybe I needed to disappear for a while."
"Running from something?"
"Aren't we all?" She twirled a strand of red hair around her finger, the movement drawing my attention momentarily. "Atlanta to nowhere just seemed like a good escape route."
"That's not an escape. It's a breakdown."
To my surprise, she laughed—a genuine sound that didn't match her carefully constructed image. "You might be right about that."
I stood to clear the plates, needing distance from her perfume and the way her laugh made me less annoyed than I wanted to be. "Got popsicles for dessert. They were on sale."
"My hero," she said, but the sarcasm had softened.
