Page 15 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
“Nope,” she shakes her head, eyeing my Sweet Pines box. “He hasn’t arrived.”
Frowning, I check my phone. We said three o’clock. Well, I said but I assumed he heard me say it. “Any messages from him?”
Daniella shakes her head, inching closer to the box. Laughing softly, I open it.
“Two snowmen are for you,” I offer.
Daniella gives a giddy giggle, taking two cookies. “Thank you very much.”
“Perhaps he’s been held up. I’ll give the distillery a call,” I smile and head to my office, confused.
I find it odd that Owen wouldn’t at least have left a message. We have a busy day before tonight’s…hangout. That’s what I’ll call it. I should bake something as a thank you.
I dial Zoe’s office line.
“Zoe Diaz.”
“Merry afternoon, Zoe. It’s Lettie.”
“Lettie,” Zoe laughs. “A merry afternoon to you, too, Christmas Queen. What can I do for you?”
“Was just curious if you’ve heard from Owen this afternoon? We’re scheduled to meet, but he’s not here, and I haven’t received any messages. Want to make sure all is alright.”
A hundred scenarios race through my mind.
Is he okay? Did he forget his phone? What if he slipped in the shower and can’t get up or call for help? Should I pass by the cabin?
The line is too quiet. I check my phone. Yup, the call is still live.
“Zoe?”
“Yes. Actually, Owen is here,” she says. “He got caught up with some business at the distillery. I’m sure he meant to call. You know what? You should meet him here.”
Okay. Not helpless on his bathroom floor then.
“Absoutely. You know, he possibly did leave a message or emailed me. I haven’t checked my recent messages.” Lies. “I’ll head over there right now.”
“Perfect. Just head straight to his office,” Zoe says.
“Will do.”
We hang up, and I schedule a ride-share to make my way up the mountain.
Walking into Hunter Distillery, the warm scents are comforting. The large copper sills are impressive. This place would look fantastic with Edison bulbs strung along the catwalks above.
I follow the path I remember from day one of Owen’s tour and find his office door open.
Owen’s hunched over his computer in a long-sleeved white shirt, stretched tightly over firm muscles. You know he has them from naturally working with his hands and not from hours at a gym. I can’t picture Owen McKenna in a gym. Lifting stacks of logs, now, that? Absolutely.
Camel leather suspenders sit at his shoulders. His desk is surely hiding perfectly fitted, worn jeans. His dark blonde hair is messy at the top. My fingers itch to comb through those strands.
Blue-green eyes pierce through me when his head pops up and finds me creepily standing in his doorway.
Clearing my throat, I brighten up, smile, and walk in.
“Merry afternoon!”
I set the bag from Sweet Pines and the coffee tray on his desk. Grabbing his drink, I place it in front of him.
