Chapter 4
Kaylee
I nervously flit around the campsite, setting everything up like a teenager anticipating her first date. My dating history is riddled with poor choices and epic fails. A guy made the bad decision to take me to one of those axe-throwing venues a few months ago. I won’t go into the details, other than to say my date stepped out of the cage whenever it was my turn to throw after my first try.
Luke Anthony Fieldstone is a welcome surprise. Aside from being a hottie, he’s polite and patient with me—exhibit A being setting up this monster tent. He never said an unkind word during the frustrating process. In addition, he’s seen me at my klutzy worst when I waited on him at the Coffee Loft, yet he doesn’t seem put off by my awkwardness. It’s also nice not to tower over a man. I’m used to wearing my shortest heels whenever I go on a date, but with Luke, I could wear high heels .
What is his story? What does he do for a living? Where is he from?
Even if nothing romantic develops between us, I’m going to get to know him better.
An hour later, Elizabeth Taylor yaps excitedly when our visitor arrives, and my heart flips excitedly at the same time. The man is a hunk, and he leaves me a bit breathless as I notice how his T-shirt molds to his upper body and those khaki shorts show off long muscular legs. Wowza!
Luke’s carrying a metal tin, and he holds it up when he sees me. “Homemade chocolate chip cookies. Mom baked these for me and I brought them along.”
Squealing in delight, I run over, grab the tin from him, then peek inside. “Oh my goodness! These smell delicious.”
He smiles at me as if I’m the most entertaining woman he’s ever encountered. “Go ahead and try one.”
Snapping the lid closed, I say, “Nope. We can’t ruin our dinner.” I set the container on the campsite-provided picnic table, then pick up the matches. “I didn’t even consider using these,” I tease as I hand the packet over to him.
Throwing me an amused look, he squats in front of the firepit. These rustic campsites are all furnished the same way, with a gravel driveway for your vehicle, a flat grassy area to pitch a tent, a wooden picnic table, and a sand firepit surrounded by rocks. RVs aren’t allowed, so there’s no electricity or water hook ups. Luckily there’s a shower and bathroom building in the center of the campground, plus a couple vending machines for snacks and cold drinks. Twelve campsites, with generous spacing between them, are scattered around the facilities. At least we aren’t rubbing elbows with our neighbors like some of those RV sites. It helps that Luke picked the campsite furthest from the bathroom building. Though that may come back to bite me in the middle of the night...
The campground provided a bundle of wood for the fire. Luke starts positioning the pieces of wood in a stack in the center of the pit. He pulls a newspaper from his back pocket and crumples it between layers. “Before I start this, are the hot dogs ready to go? Best to get everything ready before the fire starts.”
His rumbly voice sounds so sexy, I could sit here and listen to him talk all day, but I pull myself from ogling him and say, “There’s the wieners.” I gesture towards a small cooler sitting on the picnic table.
“Where’s the skewers to cook them?” he asks.
My heart sinks and I clap my hand over my mouth. “Oh no! Darn it! I didn’t bring any.” Any experienced camper would have known to bring skewers. If he hasn’t already noticed, Luke’s going to realize what a rookie I am. Then how am I going to explain my presence?
I thought you were a Hottie Mountain Man, so I followed you to the campground. Cringe.
He chuckles. “Okay, we need to find some long sticks, and I’ll whittle the ends so we can attach the hot dogs to them. ”
His enthusiasm and lack of questions bolsters my spirits. “You whittle?” I say with a small smirk. “How mountain manly of you!”
“Let’s go find those sticks,” he says, shaking his head in amusement.
We scour the woods beside his campsite for a few minutes. Downed leaves cover the ground, so I tread carefully, hoping not to step on a snake.
“Will this stick work?” I ask, holding up my find.
He barely glances at the stick before shaking his head. “No. We want the sticks to be long enough that we don’t singe our hands from the fire.” He holds his hands about three feet apart, showing me the length we’re looking for.
I toss down my unapproved stick, and the hunt continues until we find several suitable ones. When we’re back at my camp, Luke plops down on the picnic table bench, pulls out a Swiss Army knife, then starts whittling to create a sharp point on the end of the stick. I sit beside him to watch.
“How did you learn to do this?” I ask .
“Boy Scouts,” he says, concentrating on the task at hand.
Of course! I should have guessed .
“Where did you grow up?”
He looks up. “I grew up not far from here. Have you heard of Lyons?”
“As in Lyons, Colorado?” I squeal.
“Yep, that’s the place.”
“Do you still live there?” Maybe I assumed incorrectly that he’s a tourist from out of state, although I don’t know what made me think that.
“No, I live in California now. I joined the Marines right out of high school and met my current boss there.”
Looking at Luke, now that I know he was in the Marines, I see the military influence. Short cropped hair, well-developed muscles, and an aura of confidence in everything he does—well, other than constructing a vintage tent.
“Do your parents still live here?” I ask, remembering the homemade cookies .
“No, they retired to Florida, but Mom still sends me care packages,” he says with an embarrassed laugh.
Personally, I think it’s sweet that his mom still bakes for him. “What do you do for work?”
“I work for a security company,” he says crisply. Somehow, I get the sense this is all he’s going to tell me about his job. “Obviously I know what you do. Did you grow up here as well?”
“No, I grew up in Thornton, a suburb of Denver.” He nods at the mention of my hometown; being a former Coloradoan, he probably knows where it is. “After I graduated from high school, Mom got the itch to do something new. She bought into the Coffee Loft franchise and opened the Estes Park location. I attended college for a few years, decided I didn’t know what to major in, and have worked at the coffee shop ever since.” As usual, I overshare and embarrassment floods my cheeks. Why did I admit my failure to find a career where I don’t work for a parent?
“There’s other Coffee Loft locations? ”
“Yes, they’re all over! There are five just in Colorado.”
He looks thoughtful. “Can’t say I’ve ever encountered one before.”
Even though it’s a growing franchise, I know the brand isn’t in all states. “Obviously, you’ve missed out until now!” I joke.
“True. I’ll watch for them on my future travels.”
His comment makes me wonder how much he travels with his security job. Is his California residence just a stopping off location? He certainly didn’t refer to it as home.
“One skewer down, three to go!” he says, placing the handmade skewer on the table.
“Is it clean enough?” I ask, staring dubiously at the pointy wooden stick.
He barks out a laugh. “We’re going to be putting them in a fire. That should kill any bad stuff.”
I turn the stick over with my index finger. My hesitation must be obvious, as Luke picks up the stick and removes another couple inches of bark. “There! Your hot dog won’t touch anything other than new wood. How’s that?”
“Approved,” I say as we exchange goofy grins. No doubt about it, I’m falling for this guy. Where have you bean all my life, Luke Fieldstone? The silly pun almost rolls off my tongue, but I manage to keep the words to myself. Maybe I’ve been working at the coffee shop too long.
He prepares the rest of the skewers, and his forearm muscles bunch as he wields the Swiss Army knife, giving even more credence to Violet’s moniker “Hottie Mountain Man.”
Time flies when you’re ogling a handsome guy, and I jump when he says, “I’ll start the fire.” He strikes a match, lights the newspaper layers, and within minutes, the fire crackles and pops as the flame burns steadily through the dry wood.
“I’m ready! Where’s those sticks?”
Luke quirks an eyebrow. “You generally want to wait until the flames die down to glowing embers before you roast. ”
He’s probably one of those people who carefully follows cooking directions to a T. Where I’m the person who turns the burner on high and hopes for the best.
“I’m willing to risk it.” I grab a hot dog from the package, skewer it through the center, and approach the flame. Luke shrugs and follows suit, coming to stand beside me with his skewer.
“Why did you attach your hot dog to the stick like that?” I ask. Just as the words leave my mouth, my stick catches on fire. “Gah!” I shriek, dropping both stick and hot dog into the fire.
“So that wouldn’t happen,” he says between laughs. “Luckily we have reserve skewers,” he jokes.
Frowning over my lost wiener, I skewer the next one to be like his, from the end so the hot dog is all you put into the flame. Losing my hot dog has given me some second thoughts about the “winging it” method, so I mimic his every move, slowly turning my stick around in order to cook all sides of the dog, holding the dog end low and close to the embers rather than up in the flames. Boy, using Luke’s roasting process is as laborious as making cold drip coffee. What a snooze ! But the slow process is worth it when, several minutes later, the hot dog has a nice char and the aroma of cooked meat fills the air.
Luke takes a bun out of the package and uses it to neatly slide his hot dog off the stick. “Got any ketchup?” he asks.
“Yes, and mustard, too,” I say, sliding my hot dog into a bun like he did, then pulling the condiments from the cooler. We sit side by side on the picnic table bench, happily eating the delicious hot dogs. “These are tasty!”
He nods as he swallows. “Everything tastes better when you cook and eat it in the great outdoors.”
I nudge him with my shoulder. “I agree! Ready for another hot dog?”
This is the first time I’ve cooked outside in years and I’d forgotten how fun it is. Plus, without Luke I’d be eating ketchup on a bun, so I’m grateful he’s here. Lucky for me he’s a seasoned mountain man.