Page 4 of Marked By the Mountain Man
A smirk plays on her lips. “Please. I’m here for the dead people. You’re the bonus grump who keeps the lights on.”
I grunt, but there’s a twitch at the corner of my mouth I don’t bother hiding. “I don’t want to be in your blog.”
A dismissive shake sends her dark hair toward her back. “You really do think you’re special, don’t you?”
“No, I’m just not interested in being your punchline.”
She snorts and pulls a pan from beneath the counter like she put it there herself last night. “Please. You’re not nearly weird enough to be a punchline. You’re more like… the broodingside character who slowly grows a heart and eventually becomes the love interest.”
I feel a condescending grin cross my face. “That supposed to be flattering?”
“Not really. I just have a lot of opinions on the world around me.”
“Clearly,” I say, noticing how heavy the rain has suddenly gotten. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a storm heavy enough to shake the windows.
“I’m assuming you don’t have garlic bread?”
“No, but if you need some protein with that, there’s venison down below. Bottom drawer of the fridge.”
“Oh,” she grins and glances back, “I don’t need protein. This’ll be plenty.”
“I’d like protein, though.”
“Cool, you should come make it. Oh wait, you can’t. It’s not six yet.” She stirs the pasta into the bubbling water and pulls a single plate down from the cabinet above the sink. “You want some anyway?”
I realize this is some kind of power trip we’re on, and I usually like winning those at all cost, but dinner does smell good, and I hate wasting food. “Fine, I’ll eat.”
She smirks, like she’s just accomplished something. “Wow. Will you look at that? Compromise. I’ll be sure to write this down in my blog.Day one, the grump eats before six PM.”
I grunt, but the truth is, the cabin smells better than it has in months. Garlic, steam, something vaguely herbal I can’t identify. It’s probably one of her hippie-dippy ghost hunting ingredients. With my luck, I’ll be passed out in twenty minutes, and she’ll strip the cabin of everything I own. Good thing I don’t have much.
“So… you never intended to come up here for romance? This is all a scam?”
“No, it’s not a scam. I have long brown hair, I’m cooking, and,” she slides the toaster back into the cupboard, “look… I cleaned. You want to ramble on about trucks while I pretend to give a damn, or are we good to start the ghost hunt?”
Why is this snarky little attitude amusing me? “So, you were never looking for marriage?” I poke at the fire again, adjusting the logs as they spark and roll.
“I mean, someday I’d like to get married,” her gaze widens, “to an emotional man who wants real love and kids.”
I roll my eyes. “Emotional man? Something tells me you’ll never find that.”
“What are you talking about?” she snaps. “There are plenty of men out there who want real, fulfilling relationships.”
“And I bet he’s a yoga instructor who cries during sunsets.”
She shakes her head as she plates dinner. “Better than a man who thinks emotional depth is knowing the difference between diesel and unleaded.”
I can’t help but smile at that one. “Hey, knowing your fuel types is a survival skill. Emotional depth won’t help when your truck’s coughing on the side of I-70.”
I sit at the small oak table overlooking the forest as she settles the plates into place. I nod, raising my glass as I say, “Let’s toast to Sunset Steve and his downward dog of vulnerability.”
Rolling her eyes, she digs her fork in without a word, humming as the first bite slides past her lips. “Ugh, I was so hungry.”
This close, I can’t help but notice the unique shade of hazel her eyes are. I think there’s a fleck of yellow in them too. A pop of color I shouldn’t be noticing. I glance back at my plate. “You cook a lot?”
“Hell no.” She shakes her head and twists her hair onto the opposite shoulder. “I’m a bit out of practice, though I cookedall the time for my dad. My mom died when I was younger, so for the most part, life was just about my dad and I. He worked these really long hours as a lineman. You know how it is up here, always something going on with the poles.”
The fork is halfway to my mouth, but I freeze. “Yeah. I, ugh, I used to work up there myself before I started up at the sawmill. What year was your dad up in the trees?”
