Page 76 of Beastly Mountain Man

The pasta reheated without ceremony.

Lucky put it into a pan with a little extra cream and turned the heat low. I opened the refrigerator, located the cake, and stood admiring the crooked buttercream.

“It survived.”

Lucky glanced over. “I told you it would.”

“There are still visible ridges.”

“Also still cake.”

“I am beginning to understand your philosophy.”

“It’s very advanced.”

I reached around him for a spoon and stole a ribbon of pasta directly from the pan.

Lucky looked at me. “That was hot.”

“It was also excellent.”

“You could’ve waited thirty seconds.”

“I have already waited an unreasonable amount of time for the cake. I’m reallocating patience.”

He laughed and handed me another spoonful once it had cooled.

We ate at the kitchen island rather than setting the dining table.

No placemats. No formal plates.

I tucked one socked foot around the rung of the stool while Bear stretched across the floor behind us and periodically exhaled hard enough to remind us that he remained unfed by human standards despite having eaten actual dog food at Lucky’s house.

The pasta was still good.

Not quite the same as the first night, but warmer in a different way. Familiar now. Something we had made together and returned to.

Afterward, Lucky cut the cake because knives and I remained professionally separate.

I took the first bite standing beside him at the island.

Dense dark chocolate. Soft vanilla buttercream. The frosting had chilled into something firmer than it had been the night we made it.

My eyes closed.

“Oh.”

Lucky waited.

I took another bite before speaking.

“This is excellent.”

“I’m glad.”

“No, you don’t understand. This cake has been sitting in the refrigerator all day while we ate waffles and had sex.”

His eyebrows lifted.