Page 13 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
I glance at the whipped cream, mocha shavings, and red sprinkles the barista fixes on my drink.
Maybe I should start getting no-whip and non-fat milk.
Fiddlesticks.Don’t start that again, Lettie.
My brow crinkles, reciting my therapist’s words, reminding me to love and speak kindness to the little girl inside who was constantly put down because of her weight. Would I tell someone I love the things my mind is telling me? No.
I push back my shoulders at the sound of my name and smile.
“Two large Reindeer lattes,” Parker smiles. “Have a great day.”
“Thank you. And a merry day to you.”
One for me, and one for my date—no, not my date. My decorating teammate and co-worker. Well, technically, boss, but teammates, nonetheless. Together, we’re going to light up Eden Ridge and make everyone's Christmas season memorable.
I head down Main Street toward the most quaint bakery I’ve seen, Sweet Pines, when my phone buzzes.
Sigh. Bernadette Donovan. My mother.
Her silent treatment since I declared I was moving from Portland must be over.Fabulous.
Carefully, I balance the drink and tap my earbud to answer her call. “Merry afternoon, Mother. How are you and Dad doing today?” I cheerfully greet while sipping the mocha toffee espresso goodness as a silent rebellion.
“Collette.” My name. Her tone, refined and full of subtext.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Your post from this morning confirmed you did, indeed, move to a small town in the mountains. Were you not able to find appropriate living arrangements?”
I lock my jaw, taking in two deep breaths.
She’s referencing my video at the cabin with the stunning view of the snowcapped mountains in my backyard. The small porch featured two stunningly carved wooden chairs, a round coffee table with winter flowers in abundance. Hardly what anyone would call inappropriate living arrangements.
Ignoring her attempts to lure me into an argument, I pivot.
“Did Dad receive the arrangement I?—,”
“They delivered your dress for the Christmas gala,” my mother says, steamrolling my question.
I pause mid-step. “Mother, I have moved to Eden Ridge. I am the Christmas Festival coordinator and am taking over for the Event Planner, who will be out of town. I will not be going home for Christmas.”
Silence.
I continue my trek to the bakery, tripping over a jutted cobblestone in my heel boots.
“Frack.”
“Colette Rose Donovan, language,” my mother reprimands.
“I said, Frack, mother. That’s not an actual swear word.”
“Do not have your co-workers and professional personnel hear you speak in such crass terms. You’re not an ignorant woman.”
I stop before entering Sweet Pines and tightly smile at passersby, sipping my rich coffee. She lives in denial of what I have chosen to do with my life. I didn’t marry the viral travel influencer, I chose a ‘frivolous’ career, I don’t apply myself and lose weight, and I only have myself to blame for Trent cheating on me.
I close my eyes and count in my head as she carries the conversation all by herself.
“I’m disappointed, Colette. How did you not think to consider what it would look like not having our daughter at the annual event of the season? How will your father explain yourabsence? I mentioned countless times that he’s being awarded the Burton Award, Colette. Have you even called Arthur Cunningham? He’s awaiting your call.”
