Page 7 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
“He’s a bit gruff, but I don’t see why we won’t accomplish what’s needed.”
Silence. “Lettie?”
I unwrap a classic peppermint candy cane and pop it in my mouth, sucking. “Hmm?”
Nora’s eyes narrow.
I sigh, popping the crisp minty candy out of my mouth. “Okay. Fine. He’s a total Grinch. He has no interest in managing the sponsorship, and sneered at my reindeer.”
At Nora’s confusion, I gesture to my red sweater, which I thrifted, and was pleasantly surprised to discover it was designer.
Nora scoffs a laugh before covering her mouth. “Well, just be yourself. While I haven’t met him, I did hear that he’s Ezra’s long-lost best friend. Shocking to hear, really. I hadn’t pictured Ghost having a bestie before Zoe. But West speaks highly of their history. So, I trust Ezra’s judgment. He wouldn’t havegiven him such a big responsibility unless he was capable and trustworthy.”
My stomach knots with embarrassment for venting to my boss about a man she’s at least six degrees connected to.
I smile, meeting her at the door. “You’re right. First impressions and all. Probably caught him on a bad day. You have nothing to worry about. Have a fantastic Christmas holiday in the desert.”
Nora leaves. I take in my new home. The heater is already going, and I eye the boxes they delivered this morning.
“It’s showtime,” I whisper, giddy energy reviving my bones.
I spend the next two hours unpacking the essentials before propping my speaker and hitting play on my Christmas playlist. The joyful melodies fill the space as I take out various garlands for the kitchen, the doorway inside, and outside. I shove the large, heavy box packed to the brim with outdoor decorations for later.
Nora gave me the rest of the day off to get settled since she won’t be coming in starting tomorrow until two days before the New Year. My iPad is propped on the bar counter separating the living space from the kitchen, playing a continuous loop of a crackling fireplace when it starts ringing with a video call.
A quiet squeal bursts from my vocals. I jump over the ornaments box, lower the music, and answer.
“Have you been eaten by a mountain lion yet?” is Tomlin’s greeting.
“I can’t wait for you to see this place in person.” I pick the iPad up and bring him to the large window panes that face the backyard. “First, snow-capped mountains,” I point the camera for him to see, then whip him around. “This entire town is like a Christmas snowglobe come to life. Tomlin,” I set him back down. “I’m going to make this Festival rival recent history. Eden Ridge will be viral news when I’m done.”
“Slow down, Cupcake,” he laughs. “How many candy canes have you sucked on today?” His snarky grin tells me he’s making a dirty joke.
I roll my eyes. “Is your husband not giving you enough to please you in that department? Must you fish for mine?”
He gasps. “Bitch. I know you didn’t question Densel’s sucking abilities. He’ll never forgive you for that.”
I love my best friend. We’re both from Portland’s upper-middle-class circle, and both our parents’ disappointments. It’s how we bonded one insufferable evening at a gala eight years ago.
“Don’t you dare tell him that lie. I love that man. You traded up for sure.”
Tomlin grins, leaning back in his home office chair. “Don’t I know it.”
For the next hour, we engage in our tradition, whether we’re in the same city or not. As soon as Thanksgiving is over, we get together—in person or virtually—and begin decorating our homes.
The music is back on, full blast. Both Tomlin and I sing at the top of our lungs, approving each other’s theme for this year. I went with gold and red while he and his husband fought over modern or traditional this year. Tomlin won—usually does—and got a modern silver bells theme.
I precariously balance on my tiptoes, hooking lights along the kitchen trim over the cabinets to Tomlin’s rendition of Mariah Carey when the cabin shakes.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
“The fuck? You get earthquakes in bum-fuck Oregon?” Tomlin yells over the music.
I run to turn the volume down, my heart racing.
Was that a person? Is it a bear smelling my Santa sugar cookies in the oven? Can I get buried alive by an avalanche this far from the mountains?
“No one en casa!” Tomlin yells.
