Page 25 of Beastly Mountain Man

Lucky used a clean spoon to sample it himself.

“You’re right.”

I set my wineglass down. “I need that in writing.”

“I’ll sign something after dinner.”

The pasta dough was ready to roll.

Lucky demonstrated the first pass and then gave me the rolling pin. He coached without hovering, showing me how to rotate the dough and keep the pressure even. When it was time to cut the sheets into long ribbons, he used the knife while I separated the strands and dusted them lightly with flour.

He knew knives; I did not particularly like knives.

Civilization had evolved to permit specialization.

“You really are good at this,” I said.

Lucky glanced toward me while he moved the finished ribbons onto a floured tray. “I cook a lot.”

“No. I cook almost never, and even I can tell this is beyond a man who learned five dinners because takeout got expensive.”

He smiled. “I thought about culinary school.”

I stopped separating pasta.

“Seriously?”

“Pretty seriously.”

“What happened?”

Lucky leaned one hip against the counter and took a sip of wine before answering. “Nothing happened. That’s probably the least dramatic version of the story.”

“I’m capable of handling low drama. The last forty-eight hours have been enough.”

“I liked cooking, and I was good at it. People kept telling me I should make something of that. Culinary school, restaurant work, maybe eventually my own place.”

“That sounds logical.”

“It was. But when I started looking at what the actual life would be, I realized I liked the idea of cooking more than I liked the idea of making it my job.” He gestured toward the kitchen, the pasta, the sauce. “My dad was a general contractor. I grew up around job sites and the hardware store. I liked building things, fixing things, being outside, staying around here. Property work gave me the day-to-day life I wanted.”

“And you never felt like you were wasting the other skill?”

Lucky shook his head. “No. I still cook. I just get to do it because I want to. Usually for people I care about.”

His gaze met mine on the last part.

I did not need to interrogate it.

I took a sip of wine.

“That might be the first time I’ve heard someone describe being good at something without immediately attaching an obligation to maximize it.”

“Being able to do something doesn’t mean you owe it your whole life.”

The words settled more deeply than I expected.

Lucky gave me a moment before asking, “What about television? What made that the thing for you?”