Page 7 of Cracking with the Mountain Man

"Owen."

"Priya."

She crosses her arms. The sweater slips further off her shoulder. Brown skin. Smooth. My eyes stay on the toolbox. Mostly.

"Fine. Then I'm feeding you. Sit down."

I should leave. The oven's fixed, the job's done, and every extra minute in this kitchen is another thread pulling loose from the neat, sealed life I built on that mountain. But she's already pulling containers from the fridge, and something bubbles on the stove that fills the cabin with garlic and ginger, and Boone has stretched out on the floor with the kind of sigh that means he's settled for the afternoon.

She makes aloo paratha. From scratch. Rolling the stuffed flatbread thin, pressing it onto the hot griddle, brushing it with ghee until it puffs golden. A bowl of yogurt with fresh mint. Mango pickle from a jar with a handwritten label. She plates it and puts it in front of me at the small table by the window where the afternoon light comes through the aspens.

The first bite does what the pie did. Shuts everything off. The potato filling is spiced with cumin and green chili. The bread is crisp on the outside, soft and layered inside, rich with ghee. The pickle burns in the back of my throat, and the yogurt cools it. Every flavor is precise.

"My Nani made this every Sunday," she says, sitting across from me. "Vikram used to say it was too heavy for brunch."

The name comes out casual. Practiced. But something tightens around her mouth.

"Vikram?"

"My ex husband." She tears off a piece of paratha. "We were married for four years. He liked being married to someone interesting. He didn't like being married to me."

Direct. No self pity. Just stating what happened the way you'd state that a gasket was shot.

"His loss," I say.

The words come out before I've thought about them. She looks up. Those dark eyes again, and this time they're searching for something in my face. Whether I mean it. Whether I'm just being polite.

I mean it.

"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Probably the nicest thing I've said to anyone."

She smiles. Slow. The dimple. The flour still on her jaw. And something in my chest turns over, warm, unfamiliar, uncomfortable in the way circulation hurts when blood returns to frozen fingers.

After lunch she walks me to the door. The cabin is small enough that this means four steps from the table. She's close. Close enough that when she turns to say goodbye, her back nearly touches the doorframe and my chest is a foot from hers.

"Thank you for the oven," she says. Quiet now. The teasing gone from her voice.

"Thank you for lunch."

"Eleven dollar gasket and a meal. I think I owe you at least a chimney cake when I get the recipe right."

"I'll be here."

The words land between us. I'll be here. As if I've made a promise I didn't intend. Her eyes widen slightly. The air in this doorway is thin and charged, and her mouth is right there, full and soft, and her body is warm so close to mine I can feel it through my flannel.

She reaches up and brushes something off my jaw. Flour, probably. Her fingertips drag against my beard, and every nerve in my body fires at once.

My hand comes up before I've decided anything. Fingers closing around her wrist. Gentle. Holding her hand against my face. Her breath catches. Those dark eyes drop to my mouth. Her pulse drums fast under my thumb.

"Owen."

"Yeah."

"If you're going to kiss me, you should probably do it before one of us starts overthinking."

My mouth is on hers before she finishes the sentence.