Page 1 of Her Grumpy Cowboy
Chapter1
Angel
Silver Bell Hollow looks like a snow globe someone shook too hard.Frost halos the streetlamps, garlands swag across Main Street like fluffy green smiles, and the sign over my coffee shop,Mistletoe Mug, wears a crown of red velvet ribbon that keeps slipping because I tied it while half-asleep at four a.m.It’s the last Saturday before Christmas, which means I’ve already burned my tongue twice, the peppermint bark is down to dangerous crumbs, and the line at the counter is a cheerful, soon-to-be-caffeinated snake.
“Angel, tell me you have the strawberry shortcake latte with extra whip,” Mrs.Crowley begs, eyes round as ornaments.
“For you?I have two.”I slide the cup over and wink when she drops her knitted mitten over my hand and squeezes.Silver Bell Hollow is a town of squeezers—hands, shoulders, cheeks—like touch is a language and everyone is fluent.
Behind the espresso machine, Jamie, my barista-in-training, handles the milk wand like it’s a high-stakes science experiment.She’s a pretty, shy seventeen-year-old, but getting steadier every day.
“Deep breath,” I remind her as she steams milk for Mrs.Crowley’s shortcake latte.“The foam doesn’t bite.”
Jamie grins, all braces and concentration.“If it explodes again, I’m blaming physics.”
“Fair.Just not on my Yelp page.”
We make it through the rush with minimal caffeine casualties.I wipe down the counter, glance at the clock, and wince.Ten a.m.sharp.I promised Mary Maas I’d swing the refurbished star topper out to Naughty List Ranch, as it’s known locally, and freshen the big gate wreath she asked me to “work my Angel magic on.”Callie—the ranch baker and my good friend—has treats covered, so I’m on décor duty and a quick logistics chat with Christopher about maybe setting up a coffee cart for the Christmas Eve bonfire.
It’s been a year since I inheritedMistletoe Mugfrom an aunt I’d never met—twelve months of early mornings, burnt tongues, and coffee grounds in every shoe I own.A year of cinnamon in the air, cranky equipment, and locals who treat the shop like their living room.
Mrs.Crowley, our retired librarian, corrects my chalkboard spelling.Carl, who runs the hardware store, insists whipped cream is a fundamental human right.Tourists take photos of the year-round Christmas-themed front window, and I pretend not to love it.
I told myself I was only here for a season.Long enough to get the coffee shop stable after it was left empty for months, then sell and move on.But somewhere between fixing the roaster, training Jamie to steam milk without burning it, and memorizing the sound of that bell over the door, I stopped planning to leave.
Most days, I catch my reflection in the pastry case—flour on my cheek, hair frizzy from steam—and think,Is this really home now?It’s the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place.
I shrug into my coat and loop a scarf twice around my neck.“You good here for a couple of hours, Jamie?”
Jamie gives me a mock salute.“Yes, boss.Mrs.Crowley already tipped me in gingerbread men for life.”
“Keep her sugared, and nobody dies.”
“I’ll even restock the cocoa bombs,” she says proudly.
“That’s my girl.”
I carry the rewired vintage star (rescued from the attic) in one hand and the giant wreath in the other, breathing in pine until my eyes water.I shoulder the coffee shop door with my hip and step onto the sidewalk?—
—and slam the wreath directly into a solid wall of man.
The star wobbles.The wreath tilts.The man doesn’t budge.But I do.I bounce backward, but not before my entire front presses against a wall of warm, flannel-covered muscle.A zing of heat shoots through me, low and sharp, like my body recognizes him before my brain catches up.My boot heel skids on a slick patch of snow, and before I can recover, my butt hits the sidewalk with a softthud.The wreath and star fly from my hands, and I get my first proper look at what I ran into.
My breath frosts in my throat.
Tall.Broad shoulders under a worn flannel.Dark hair that hasn’t seen a stylist in years.Silver-gray eyes that look both exhausted and sharp, like they’ve seen too much.A scar near his temple, a jaw that could cut glass, and a don’t-mess-with-me silence humming off his skin.
“Oh, my god,” I groan, already blushing.“Sorry.I didn’t see you behind my wreath.”
He doesn’t laugh.He crouches beside me and offers me his hand.“It’s a big wreath,” he says, that quiet rasp of a voice sliding over me like heat in the cold.
I slide my hand into his palm, andwow.His hand is warm, huge, and calloused.When he pulls me up, it’s like being hauled upright by a man whocouldtoss me over his shoulder if he wanted to.My entire body jolts against his chest for one brief, devastating second.
“And you’re a big man,” I blurt before my mouth catches up with my brain.“I mean, tall.You’re just—very—tall.Sorry.I’m saying words now.”
His eyebrows lift, but there’s something amused flickering in his storm-colored eyes.“Seems like it.”
He plucks the wreath and the star from the snow-covered ground in one hand as if they weigh nothing.“You delivering these?”
