Page 33 of The Mountain Man's Mail-Order Mafia Princess

“Good?”

“Very good.”

“That sounded painful.”

“I’m acknowledging new evidence.”

I pointed the spoon at him. “You’re using my material.”

“It works.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You came back.”

Jonah stayed beside me, one hand braced against the counter.

I put the spoon down.

“Yes,” I said. “I did.”

He didn’t move closer.

That made me want him to.

The sauce simmered while the pasta water heated. We opened the windows wider, and cooler air began moving through the cabin as the sun dropped behind the ridge.

I set the table. Jonah sliced bread and heated it in a skillet with butter and garlic.

“That’s almost cooking,” I said.

“You gave me instructions.”

“You followed them beautifully.”

“Is that praise?”

“Don’t become dependent on it.”

We ate across from each other at the same table where we’d shared sandwiches the night before.

My new boots rested beneath my chair. My red tank reflected faintly in the window. Jonah had rolled his sleeves to his elbows, exposing sun-browned forearms and the muscles built by work that required more than answering emails.

He took another bite of pasta.

“You studied psychology?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Because you wanted to be a therapist?”

“I considered it.”

“Past tense?”

“Complicated tense.”

He waited.