Page 43 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

“Thank you,” I said softly. “For everything today.”

His eyes, impossibly blue even in the dim light, held mine. “Sleep well, Keltie.”

I watched him walk away before slipping into the bedroom, my heart hammering against my ribs like a teenager after her first kiss. Inside, Luna was curled around Bunny and her newunicorn, her dark curls fanned across the pillow. I touched her forehead—cool, thank goodness—and crawled beside her under the covers, my mind racing with thoughts of Holt, Remi, and everything we’d eventually have to talk about.

Morning arrivedwith a quiet that suggested the storm had passed. Sunlight spilled across the bed as I blinked awake, disoriented for a moment until I remembered where we were. Luna was already up, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed with her stuffed animals arranged in a semicircle.

“Good morning, Mommy,” she said when she noticed me watching. “Sparkles and Bunny are having breakfast. Pancakes with extra syrup.”

I pushed myself up, smiling at her imagination. “That sounds delicious. Will they share with me?”

“These are pretend pancakes,” she explained seriously. “But Flynn said she’s making real ones for everybody.”

“Is she, now? And how do you know that?”

“I went to find her, and she was in the kitchen. She said to tell you breakfast is whenever we want it.” Luna bounced on the mattress. “Can we have breakfast now? Please?”

I glanced at my phone—just after seven. “Let me get dressed first, okay? Then we can go find those pancakes.”

As I collected our scattered belongings, Luna watched with growing dismay.

“Are we leaving?” Her lower lip trembled.

I sat beside her on the bed. “We need to go home today, sweetie. We’ve imposed on the Wheatons enough, and the Goat needs to open tonight.”

“But…” Her voice quavered. “What about the twins? And Buckaroo? And Mr. Holt’s story about Sparkles?”

“Why did you start calling him Mr. Holt instead of Mr. Wheaton?”

Luna sighed and cocked her head. “Because every man here is Mr. Wheaton, Mommy. How would they know who I was talking to?”

While every man herewasn’tMr. Wheaton, her reasoning still made sense.

“You’re pretty smart, you know that?”

She grinned. “You tell me enough. But you didn’t answer my question. When can we see everyone again?”

“It won’t be long. I promise.” I smoothed a wayward curl from her forehead. “And I’m sure Mr. Holt will finish that story another time.”

Luna clutched Sparkles tighter. “Are the roads still bad?”

I moved to the window and opened the heavy curtains. Outside, the ranch was transformed into a winter wonderland—snow blanketing every surface, icicles hanging from the eaves, and the distant mountains crisp against the clear blue sky. But the driveway had been plowed, a dark ribbon cutting through the pristine white.

“Looks like someone’s been busy clearing the roads,” I told her. “We should be able to get home okay.”

Luna’s shoulders slumped in defeat, but she began gathering her toys. The resignation on her small face made my heart ache. This Christmas had been magical for her—for both of us—in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

I hesitated, then zipped our bag closed. “Let’s go have those pancakes, and then we’ll figure out the rest, okay?”

Her smile returned instantly. “Okay!”

When we reached the kitchen, the Wheaton family was already gathered for breakfast. Flynn was making pancakes shaped like snowmen, which delighted Luna and the twins. Irishhanded me a coffee—black, just as I liked it—and mentioned that Holt had told him my preference.

I kept glancing toward the doorway, trying to keep my curiosity about his whereabouts from being too obvious. When he finally appeared, his hair damp from a shower, my pulse jumped. His eyes found mine, and the slow smile spreading across his face sent warmth spiraling through me.

“Mornin’,” he said, sliding into the empty chair beside me. His knee brushed mine under the table, and I wondered if the contact was accidental or deliberate.

“Morning,” I replied, forgetting my coffee, my breakfast, and everyone else in the room.

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