Page 27 of Tinsel in Telluride

Always.

Losing the battle against my tears, a single drop rolls down my cheek.

Damn it.

I want to use last night as a reason to head back to New York this morning, but now that I’ve laid on the dead-parental-guilt thick, there’s no way I’m leaving without at least trying to make amends with the asshole who may or may not be my son's father.

Tryingbeing the operative word.

And I’m definitely not going to enjoy it, that’s for damn sure.

But first—before anything—coffee.

Twenty minutes of searching later, it’s apparent that Luca was wholly prepared for the arrival of my son. However, it’s also clear my best friends didn’t warn him of what an absolute terror I’ll become if I don’t get my morning cup of coffee—or three.

Pulling out my phone, I swipe to the baby monitor app, so I can keep an eye on Zach while in search of the second love of my life.

The sun warms my face despite the frigid morning temps as I exit the guesthouse and cross the small deck to the main house—if it can even be called that. Mansion is more like it.

On the outskirts of the main town of Telluride, the three-story house backs up against the mountain and allows for easy access to the slopes. Which answers how the guys showed up last night without Luca or me hearing them.

I test the side door and exhale a sigh of relief when I find it’s unlocked. It swings open into a mudroom equipped with lockers for ski equipment, along with a sink and wash bay, but that’s not what snags my attention the most.

It’s the heady aroma of my favorite breakfast beverage, making my mouth water. My nose knows a French dark roast when I smell it, and I’m helpless to do anything but follow the direction it’s coming from.

Exiting the mudroom, I find myself in a kitchen bigger than my entire New York apartment. Cupboards line one wall, separated by a full range and industrial-size refrigerator. Along the opposite wall, floor-to-ceiling windows offer breathtaking views of the mountainside. That view—coupled with the light color scheme of the kitchen—gives an airy feel to the space. It’s everything I would want in a kitchen. Including the ginormous island that splits the room, housing six barstools and, most importantly, a small wine fridge.

And every inch of it is covered in some type of garland or holiday decor.

“Wow,” I whisper. These guys don’t fuck around when it comes to Christmas.

“This is nothing. You should see the house we stayed at in Belize. Now that was luxury.”

Startled, I spin toward the disembodied voice that I’m pretty sure came from behind the cabinets.

“Um, hello?” I ask, taking a few more steps into the kitchen.

Just as I do, a head pops out of what I can now see is a galley style pantry behind the wall of cupboards. It’s the guy who came storming onto the deck last night, demanding to know who the hell I was. His medium brown skin has a bronze glow to it that makes me wonder if he’s also from California. God knows we aren’t getting that much sun in New York this time of year. Wet, curly black hair is plastered to his forehead from a shower or a workout, and the smile he’s got on his face is far too big for the sun only just coming up.

Then again, at least he’s in a better mood than he was last night.

“I’m guessing you’re here for coffee?” he asks, and I try to place his accent. It’s a mix between British and Australian—not too proper, but not quite laid back.

“Is there any other way to start the morning?” I counter as he disappears back into the pantry.

Navigating around the island, I follow him inside and my jaw drops at the sheer size. It’s practically a second kitchen with every appliance imaginable and fully stocked shelves.

Clearly unaffected by the pantry of my dreams, Luca’s friend continues as he pours each of us a mug.

“No, coffee is the nectar of the gods, but I’m the only one of the four of us that drinks the stuff. Enzo is snooty with his tea, and Luca becomes a damn energizer bunny if you give him even a drop of caffeine.”He kneels and pulls a carafe out of a hidden fridge in the cabinet below. “Cream?”

“Yes, please.” He steps back and allows me to pour a splash into the dark roast. “So Enzo likes tea and we need to avoid giving Luca coffee—that accounts for three of you.”

“Holt prefers some mushroom blend that he swears is the same as coffee, but really, he’s full of shit and it tastes like dirt.”

I scrunch my nose. “Who would disrespect coffee that way?”

“Exactly.”

---