Page 37 of Christmas with Three Cowboys

“Yeah, pretty much. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do,” I reply, savoring the pie filling’s ensemble of tastes and spices. That nutmeg kicks in right when it’s supposed to, and the cloves are subtle enough to give it its own personality. “I’ve always dreamed of having my own restaurant.”

That gets everyone’s attention. All eyes are on me, and I can feel my cheeks warming under the amber-tinted ceiling light. Outside, it’s frosted and quiet. All around us, sparkling shades of red, green, and gold decorate almost every surface—Darla decided to buy more Christmas-themed decorations, putting them up herself last night while everyone else was asleep. She’s either restless about her medical tests or she’s really getting into the holiday spirit.

“Your own restaurant,” Mitch says. “That’s ambitious.”

“It’s not impossible,” I reply with a slight shudder.

“Oh, no, not at all. It’s impressive,” Mitch replies. “If you aim high, you have better chances of getting there or at least as close to that goal as possible.”

“As opposed to settling for scraps,” Ethan adds.

Colton gives me a curious smile. “What kind of cuisine would your dream restaurant have, Melissa? Italian? American?”

“Actually, a fusion between French and Italian,” I reply with a smile. “It’s like the best of both worlds for me. The buttery French sophistication mingled with the Mediterranean simplicity of the Italians. And I’d have a separate menu just for the desserts.”

“Let me guess. Butter everywhere,” Darla shoots back. “I know a guy for that.”

“I’ll definitely want to meet Marty at some point,” I say. “I really am curious about how he makes that incredible butter happen.” I pause to finish my pie, my mouth experiencing a culinary orgasm in the span of a few moments.

“I think it has something to do with the churning process,” Colton says. “The last time I went over to Marty’s a few years back, he was thrilled about some new churning machinery he’d gotten straight from an up-and-coming manufacturer. The guy was from California, but he was trying to break into the Midwestern market.”

“Now that you mention it, I’m pretty sure that’s when Marty’s butter really started picking up,” Mitch nods in agreement. “We should pay him another visit and take Melissa with us.”

“Wouldn’t that qualify as industrial espionage?” I ask.

“Do you plan on making a better butter than Marty’s?” Colton raises a skeptical brow.

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Then it’s not industrial espionage.”

“I’m glad that’s settled,” Darla grumbles and gets up to clear the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I need a couple of hours to sit down and let this dinner work its way through me before I hit the sack.”

“Oh, don’t worry about this, I’ll do it,” I try to intervene, but she gently nudges me back into my seat.

“You will not. For all the goodness you’ve filled our stomachs with, the least I can do is throw some dishes in the dishwasher. Relax and pour yourself a glass of scotch, honey. Rest.”

“Thank you.”

The guys rise and help Darla as she stacks the plates on top of one another, then they carry them over to the dishwasher. Darla methodically slides everything into the bottom rack before she adds the cutlery and a detergent capsule.

“All clear. I’ll see y’all tomorrow,” she says, one foot already out of the kitchen.

“Darla, hold on,” Colton says, stopping her in her tracks. “You didn’t tell us how your doctor visits went this week? Any closer to a diagnosis?”

Darla lets a heavy sigh roll from her chest. “Not really. They suspect a combination of causes now. Hormonal, a viral infection. I got a new treatment to try for the next couple of weeks. Let’s hope this one doesn’t make me break out in hives. Last month was hell.”

“You’ll tell us if you need anything, right?” Mitch asks.

“I sure will, kiddo,” she smiles and walks out.

A minute pours by in a thick, pressing kind of silence. We’re alone, now. The four of us, burning for one another, desire secretly sizzling between us. It’s been such a busy and tiring day that this is literally the first moment I’ve actually gotten to simply sit down and enjoy the dessert I made.

“Darla’s right,” I mutter and pour myself a shot of scotch. I down it in one gulp, neat and fiery as it burns my throat, instantly spreading the sweetest, most comforting heat through my whole body. “Actually, let me get a second one.”

I manage to even pour a third before Colton chuckles and takes the bottle away.

“That’s enough for you, young lady,” he says.

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