Page 91 of Beastly Mountain Man

Bear had stationed himself in the hallway with his braided rope between his paws. Each time Caprice crossed the bedroom doorway, his head came up.

I understood the feeling.

Caprice came into the kitchen wearing a dark sweater, practical trousers, and the boots she’d arrived in. Her camel coat waited over the back of a chair.

She looked at my phone. “Was that the road?”

“The crew finished the shaded stretch. We’re eating first, then I’ll make one final pass and check your car. If everything matches their report, you’ll be safe to head out.”

Her gaze stayed on mine for a moment.

“That’s good news.”

“It is.”

I meant it.

I wanted more time with her, but wanting it didn’t make her job less real or the road less safe.

Caprice came around the island and wrapped both arms around my waist.

“You’re making it very difficult to be upset with you.”

I held her against me. “I can live with that.”

She stayed tucked against me long enough that I had to reach past her and turn the burner down before breakfast suffered for it.

Caprice glanced toward the stove. “Please tell me I didn’t just destroy the eggs.”

“You distracted the cook. The eggs are fine.”

“That’s reassuring. I’ve already caused enough kitchen incidents for one vacation.”

“You made pasta from scratch.”

“With direct supervision. And I added pepper to the sauce.”

“You tasted it, knew what it needed, and fixed it.”

Caprice eased back far enough to look up at me. “Are you trying to send me home with an inflated opinion of my culinary abilities?”

“I’m trying to keep you from describing yourself like you survived a kitchen disaster when you actually cooked dinner.”

Her expression changed in the small way I’d learned to watch for. She didn’t look away, but some of the teasing eased.

“Fine. I cooked dinner.”

“You did.”

“And I’m still hiring professionals for plumbing.”

“That’s probably wise.”

She laughed and kissed me once before moving toward the coffee. The laugh helped. So did watching her reach automatically for a second mug because she knew I wanted one.

I finished breakfast while she carried the coffee to the table. Fruit sat between the plates, and the simple meal felt more like something we might have eaten on any ordinary morning than a last breakfast before a three-hour drive and a production crisis.

That made it better and worse at the same time.