All wrong for you, whispered a niggling voice in the back of her head.
“Why?” she whispered, fingering her lips as she imagined what it would feel like to have his mouth on hers.
Three words, Jazz. Baggage, baggage, baggage.Clearly the man was still struggling with the loss of his wife. All those pictures of Claire on his walls.
So what if Roan was hotter than a west Texas summer? He was a decade older than her. Butwhy was that a deal breaker? His age gave him a comforting maturity the guys her own age lacked. Whenever she was around Roan, which, granted, hadn’t been more than a handful of times, she felt safe in a way she hadn’t felt with any man other than her father.
In fact, his steadfastness reminded her of Dad. Was that weird? Or a good thing? After a childhood filled with unexpected challenges, she craved peace and stability. Just because Roan was peaceful and stable—and hot, don’t forget hot—didn’t mean he was boyfriend material.
She liked him, but she wasn’t so sure he liked her. A relationship with a single dad had challenges. Was it really smart to entertain thoughts of hooking up with him?
No, no, it was not smart. Trinity would always come first, as he’d made abundantly clear, and Trinity’s well-being should come first. She admired him so much for that attitude, but it meant she’d never be first place in his world.
Getting way ahead of yourself, Lambchop. Cool your jets.It was Charlie’s voice in her head now.You know your tendency to turn people into projects. Leave Mr. Rancher Man alone.
Right. The Charlie in her head was one hundred percent correct.
She was here for one reason. To learn how to bake cookies over a campfire. That was it. Her sole goal. And that’s what she would focus on. Anything else, she’d leave in her imagination. She did not have to act on a fantasy just because it popped into her head.
Boy, was Roan Sullivan ever a fantasy. Tall, dark, handsome, kind. And in her mind, extremely good in bed.
Okay, yes, she’d been dreaming about what it’d be like if he took her to bed. No harm in daydreaming. None at all.
But she would not act on it. Decision made.
Roan came out of the house with a carton of eggs in one hand and two long-necked beers caught between the fingers of his other hand. “Would you like a beer?”
“Sure.”
He set down the eggs, twisted the tops off the beers, and handed her one.
The moon had started its climb up the sky amid a twinkling of stars. It was quiet out here far from town. Somewhere, a horse neighed. The fire in the pit crackled as flames licked at the aged wood. Far off in the distance she heard a coyote howl, but even that sound was strangely comforting.
Using kitchen scales, he helped her carefully measure out the ingredients for basic chocolate chip cookies, telling her the scientific reasons for the precise measurements, which she appreciated. Under his tutelage, she mixed the softened butter, sugars, and egg together, then Roan slowly poured in the dry ingredients as she continued stirring.
Once the dough was ready to go, he showed her how to carefully move coals from the fire to the side of the pit to create a cooking bed of embers. He demonstrated how to use the tools and gave her a thermal glove to wear during the process.
Following his guidance, she spooned doughinto the cast-iron Dutch oven, then used the lid-lifting tool to place it over the embers. After he positioned the cookware, Roan showed her how to distribute more hot coals over the lid. When everything was set, Roan stoked the main fire for warmth and they sat in front of it, sipping their beers.
“How do you keep coals from falling into the cookies when you lift the lid?” she asked.
“Very carefully. That’s part of the challenge in campfire cooking competitions. Get ashes or soot in the food and you’re disqualified.”
“Yikes. Not only do I have to be a good baker, I also can’t be klutzy and expect to win.”
“You’ll do fine. We’ll practice this process enough times you’ll get it down pat.”
“How long will it take?”
“To be a pro at campfire baking? Months of dedicated effort. To be good enough to beat amateur campfire bakers like the ones you’ll be up against?” Grinning, he shook his head. “I’d say forty hours give or take and you’ll stand a great chance of beating your rival.”
“Double yikes! There’s just over two weeks until the baking challenge. Do we have forty hours?”
“Well, today will count for two hours. That leaves thirty-eight to master campfire baking.”
“Good thing I’m on vacation. I could never do this otherwise. So, when can we do this again?”
“Tomorrow night? You could come earlier, and I’ll make Dutch oven stew and we could try a snickerdoodle recipe for dessert.”