Page 14 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
That’s enough.
“Mother, I have an important meeting to attend, and tardiness is frowned upon. Send my love to Father. I’ll message him my congratulations. Merry Christmas!”
I hang up, which will cost me later, but one more minute of that and I will lose my ish. I face the quaint brick building, festively decorated with red garland, and the window displays a variety of cakes and pastries, with faux frost.
I pull open the black framed door when an energetic pint-sized wave runs past me inside.
“Emma,” a voice calls out before she thanks me for holding the door.
Inside, an elderly woman with dark gray, shoulder-length microlocs comes around the counter and sweeps up the adorable little girl.
“Gamma!” The precious girlie has soft, tight curls in pigtails, her hair like two pom-poms at each end.
“My baby girl,” Miss Dorothy, whom I met last week, greets her.
The stunning dark-skinned woman I let in, who I presume is the little girl’s mother, rushes over to the counter. Her head is a mane of gorgeous, loose black curls I’m jealous of. I’d kill for that much volume in my hair.
“Emma, what have I said about waiting for Mommy?” She brushes an errant curl from over little Emma’s eyes.
“I was so excited, Mommy. I miss Gamma.”
“I know you did, baby, but never run from the car. Wait to take my hand.”
“Your mother is right. The streets are very dangerous. Always wait for your mother, cupcake.”
“Yes, Gamma,” Emma gives one sharp nod.
“She’s too precious,” I say.
The mother faces me and smiles. “Thank you. An independent handful, but yes, she’s everything.”
“Lettie. Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand but…” I raise both drinks I’m holding.
She smiles. “I’m Ava.”
“How are you doing, Lettie? What can I get you today?”
“Hello, Miss Dorothy. I’d love a box of your Christmas snowmen cookies, and your spinach, Gouda croissant.”
“Coming right up, dear.” She bends to place Emma down, but winces.
“Gran,” Ava calls out softly. “Please, go sit down. I’ll handle this.”
Miss Dorothy smiles tightly at me. “My granddaughter will have your order ready in no time.” She looks down at Emma and offers her hand. “Come help me sprinkle sugar on the glory breads?”
Emma and her bountiful pigtails bounce. “Yes, please.”
Ava offers me a drink tray, which I gladly accept. I hook the paper bag with my box of treats for Owen and my late lunch around my wrist, grab the drinks, and walk to the office. He should be there for our meeting by now. We need to discuss the non-alcoholic blends the Distillery plans to launch at the festival, and approve the tree for the lighting ceremony ASAP.
Typically, these farms secure the trees and delivery the year before. We have three weeks. Unheard of. But I’m good at what I do. And determined.
With Main Street behind me, beautifully decorated, my mind perks with content opportunities. I set the tray and bag from Sweet Pines on the bench and take out my phone to film b-roll clips of my sandwich and coffee cup. I’ll add text and music to the post later.
“I’m back,” I call out.
Daniella steps out of her office.
“Is Mr. McKenna in my office?” I ask.
