Page 31 of Mountain Wood

“I’m not a baseball guy at all,” I say, thinking that’ll ease her concern.

She gawks at me like I’ve just confessed murder.

“God, I thought you were so perfect until this moment, Dean. That’s so depressing.”

“I’m not into sports.”

“None at all?”

“Nope.” For some reason, this feels like a challenge I’m rising to, and I have a terrible urge to press her buttons. “I have better things to do with my time than watch men throw balls around.”

“Really?” Grace leans back in her chair and sucks down more of her drink. “Like what, Mountain Wood?”

The use of my thirst trap handle has embarrassment heating my face, but I pretend it has no effect on me. “Hunt. Fish. Chop wood.”

“Sounds lonely and violent.”

Oscar manages to get the squeak mechanism out and she’s now flinging the limp lamb around.

I take another bite of my burger. “I guess it is.” Does she think I’m pathetic for what I like? “I enjoy being busy and productive. I also love being out in nature.”

Grace stares at me for longer than I’m comfortable with and now I’m second-guessing everything I’ve said. Shit, she’s probably turned off by me now. Not that I blame her. I love what I love, but lots of women aren’t into hunting and fishing. They don’t like hard labor or getting dirty. And that’s okay. I don’t mind doing all the hard stuff for my wife… if I ever get one, which isn’t likely.

“I went fishing a few times,” she says, breaking the awkward silence. “I didn’t catch anything other than a great tan though.”

The image of her in a bikini soaking up the sun makes my mouth water. I take another bite of my burger.

“Anyway… did you know that there was a guy called the Christmas Tree killer who owned a Christmas Tree Farm? He’d take couples out to find their perfect holiday tree in the woods and let them think they were going to chop it down themselves, but really, he’d hack them up and hang their body parts like ornaments in the forest instead.”

Her change in subjects makes me choke on my burger. I cough so hard, Nick smacks me on the back.

Grace chomps on her quesadilla and does a happy dance wiggle in her seat.

Nick and I are slack-jawed.

Unfazed that she just traumatized us with that gory serial killer summary, she tosses a hunk of chicken up in the air, and Oscar catches it. “Who’s a good girl?”

Nick and I are still speechless.

Her cell rings and she looks down at it, her perfectly shaped eyebrows pinching together as she taps the screen and flips her phone over, ignoring the caller.

I want to know who it is, even though I have no right to pry. But her demeanor changes in a blink, which alarms me. She’s gone from happy to stiff. I don’t like it.

“Well, I’ll leave you guys to it,” she says, closing the lid on her box. “I hope the workday’s almost done for you.”

We thank her again for the food and wait for her to leave. Then Nick and I sit in silence for a few minutes.

“That woman…” he whispers, slowly turning to me, “is psycho.”

My grin nearly cracks my face in half. “She’s incredible.”

“What the fuck was that about a Christmas Tree Killer?”

I shrug.

“Why would she be into that?” Nick shivers. “Bro, she did ahappy dancein her chair while talking about it.”

True. And it was adorable. But I think she was dancing over her food, not murder. “Lots of girls are into serial killers,” I say, defensively.

---