Page 9 of Enticed by the Mountain Man
She hums while she works. I pull chicken from the oven and shred it with a fork. She lines tortillas in a baking dish, spoons filling down the middle, and asks for more cheese, like she’s testing how much I’ll let her use. The answer is a lot. The oven door opens, and heat rushes out, making the whole place smell like chili and garlic.
Two beers sit cold in the fridge. I take one for myself and pull out the white wine that’s been chilling. I pull out the cork and find a wine glass in the cabinet.
The enchiladas come out perfect. She moans on the first bite, then freezes and hides a smile behind her hand. I drink half mybeer to keep from reacting. She finishes her first glass of wine and pours another. My second beer goes down slower.
“Cards?” she asks when the dishes are stacked to dry.
“What game?”
“War.”
“That’s not a game.”
“It is if you play with me.” Her eyes spark. “High card wins. Loser answers a question.”
“Pass.”
“Scared?”
“Of you? Yes.”
She laughs and pulls a deck from the drawer like she’s been here for years. We sit across from each other at the table. She shuffles and deals. Her nails are short and neat. There is a small nick on her thumb from earlier, where the chisel slipped. She refused a bandage and kept going.
We flip cards.
She wins the first round. “Question. When did you know you wanted to make furniture?”
“Ten years ago. I was newly deployed and started using wood I found to make little things. I loved the feeling of working with my hands and something natural.”
Her mouth tips. She flips again and loses. “Your turn to ask me anything.”
“I know you have your business degree. What do you want to do?” I ask.
She considers. “I like helping people organize their work. I can see myself working as an office manager or a project manager. I was working at a marketing firm in the city.”
She drinks her third glass of wine. Her cheeks pink up. She laughs faster and leans back in her chair with a loose posture that looks good on her. I win the next hand.
“Question,” I say. “You going back to the city?”
“Maybe not.” She studies my face. “Is that a problem?”
“No.”
She loses and drums her fingers. “Ask me another.”
“What’s your favorite meal?”
“This one. Tonight. Yours?”
“Steak and potatoes. I’m easy,” I say with a laugh.
We keep going. She tells me she once cut her own bangs and cried for two days. I tell her I once fell through a rotten porch and swore so loud the neighbor called the sheriff. She wins again and asks three questions in a row.
“What were you like at eighteen?”
“Too sure of everything.”
“First car?”
