Page 6 of Cracking with the Mountain Man

Boone rides shotgun with his head out the window the whole way back, ears flapping, tongue sideways. He knows where we're going. When I pass the turnoff for our cabin, he doesn't even look. Just keeps his eyes on the trail that leads down to her place.

"We're fixing an oven," I tell him. "That's it."

He ignores me.

Priya opens the door before I knock. Flour on her collarbone. Hair twisted up with what looks like a chopstick holding it in place. Bare feet on the cold wood floor. She's wearing a sweater that's too big for her, hanging off one shoulder, and leggings that do things I'm going to pretend I don't notice.

"You actually came."

"Said I would."

"People say a lot of things." She steps back to let me in. "Coffee's on. The oven is still committing crimes against my chimney cake."

Boone goes straight for his spot near the counter where she fed him scraps last time. Already has a spot. After one visit. The dog has claimed territory in this woman's kitchen faster than I've claimed anything in three years.

The oven takes twenty minutes. Pull the door, strip the old gasket, clean the channel, press in the new one, check the seal with a dollar bill. Easy work. Mindless hands. Which is a problem because it leaves my brain free to notice things.

She hums while she works. Some Bollywood song, I think, based on the melody. Her hips move with it, subtle, probably unconscious. The recipe cards are spread across the counter in a system that makes sense to her and no one else. She's prepping dough while I work, kneading with the heels of her hands, folding it over, pressing again.

Her hands are small. Strong. She uses her whole body when she kneads, leaning her weight into the counter, shoulders rolling. Flour dusts her forearms. A smudge of it sits on her jaw where she pushed hair out of her face.

"You're staring," she says without looking up.

"Watching you try to murder that dough."

"It's brioche. It needs aggression." She folds it over, drives her palm down. "My grandmother used to say dough should be afraid of you. If it's comfortable, you're not working hard enough."

"Smart woman."

"The smartest." Quick smile. Gone fast but real. "She died two years ago. The cookbook is sort of for her. Every recipe connects back to something she taught me, even the ones from places she never visited. She'd find the thread. Hungarian chimney cake, Indian cardamom, Japanese milk bread. She'd taste them all and say the same thing."

"What?"

"Needs more ghee."

A laugh gets out before I can catch it. Actual sound. From my actual chest. Priya looks up from the dough, startled, and then her whole face opens. Dark eyes wide. That dimple appearing in her left cheek.

"Oh my God. You laughed."

"Don't make it a thing."

"It's absolutely a thing. Owen Tate laughed in my kitchen. I'm putting it in the cookbook acknowledgments."

"Please don't."

"Too late. 'Thank you to the grumpy mountain man next door for validating my grandmother's comedy with his single, reluctant laugh.'"

My mouth does something. I'm not sure what to call it because the muscles haven't been used for this purpose in a while. But it feels dangerously close to a smile.

The oven seal holds. She tests it by preheating to three fifty, and the thermometer reads three fifty two. Close enough. She looks at me from across the kitchen with so much warmth I have to drop my eyes to the toolbox.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Eleven dollars."

"For the part and the labor?"

"I don't charge labor."