Page 15 of A Cowboy Home for Christmas
“Drunken Rudolph.” I lick my lips.
“You get the vanilla ice cream out of the freezer, and keep ithush hush. This is only for the mamas.”
I smile and creep over to the fridge, like a bandit in the night. I also dig out a can of whipped cream. We meet at the counter. I scoop the ice cream into two mugs. Marilyn adds the whiskey, Irish cream liqueur, and cocoa. We finish them off with a tower of whipped cream, a cherry for the nose and two cinnamon sticks for the antlers.
“Cheers.” We clang our mugs together, and sip our spiked hot cocoa. The delicious combination of sweet and milky is the greatest way to wind down the intense day. Every sip feels like a chocolaty hug served in a mug.
“I’m sorry Savannah didn’t consult us before inviting her.” Marilyn breaks our peaceful moment.
My gaze travels through the door and lands on Alison. She’s sitting alone on the couch. Alone and pregnant. I remember that feeling. I also remember every year she’s celebrated the holidays with my family because she had no one after her grandmother died. Alone, like I’d once been. The only difference between us, is I didn’t betray my best friend. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive her.
“It’s not your fault.” I sip the drunken Rudolph, already feeling its warm and cozy effects.
“Barker said a few words after he came downstairs.”
My head whips up to her. “About what?”
She leans her backside against the counter. “Among other things, he’s under the impression you plan on leaving town.”
I press my lips together and look at my drink. I stir a cinnamon stick into what’s left of the ice cream piled at the bottom of the mug. “How do I explain the baby to the girls? How do I keep facing the town with all the rumors escalating every single day? I’m tired. I’m so tired of pretending everything is okay. Pretending I don’t hear the rumors. Or that Savi’s words don’t hurt. Pretending my feelings don’t matter.”
“Stop pretending.”
I scoff. “It’s not that easy.”
“Is running away easier?”
I bite the inside of my cheeks. “No. It’s not easier. Because the girls love all of you. I love all of you. Even Savi, who seems to have it in for me.” A tear slips down my cheek. I swipe it away and take a deep breath.
Marilyn crosses the room and pulls me into her embrace. “We all love you, Lauren.” She rubs my back. “Even Savannah.” She leans away and grasps my shoulders. “The girls might not understand right away, but they are strong and fierce, like their —”
“Daddy.”
Marilyn smiles softly at me. “Like their mommy. You got this, Lauren. You always have. I support whatever decision you feel is best for your family.” She kisses my cheek. “It’s real nice what you’re doing for Lark and Clara.”
“By staying with our unexpected guest?”
“Letting them keep the idealistic version of their father. We all knew he showed up for the last five minutes of decorating, drunk as a skunk, and the smell of a dozen perfumes on him.”
I blink at her. I’ve never heard her so outspoken. “Thank you, for letting the legacy of their father be a happy one. And not the real version we both know is not peaches and cream.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And Savannah will come around. She saw him the way the girls did. Perfect. Sweet. A star.” She pats my cheeks. “Now finish your drink so we can put the star on the tree.” Marilyn downs the rest of her drink before she busies herself filling a platter of warm cookies.
Would she support me marrying another one of her sons? Did Barker come down here and announce his plans to wed me? I want to ask, but at the same time, I’m not ready to face her with this truth. I’m barely ready to face it myself. I might be angry as all getup with Barker for being an egotistical jerk thinking I’m just going to run off and marry him. But, deep down, I want to sleep with him and love him. Marriage scares the heck out of me, but I don’t want to lose Barker either. I especially don’t want to leave him.
Like he senses I’m thinking about him, Barker struts into the kitchen. “Smells good in here.” He kisses the top of his mother’s head.
My heart skips a beat when he stops in front of me. I want to apologize. Or hug him. Or kiss him. Or all of the above, but I can’t do any of it. Why does it have to be so complicated between us?
His hands cover mine around the mug. “What’s this?” He brings the drink to his nose and inhales. The edges of his lips quirk upward. “Drunken Rudolph without me, I’m hurt.”
“Help yourself. There’s cocoa, ice cream and —”
He removes the cinnamon sticks and brings the mug to his mouth. With my hands still trapped under his. He swallows a mouthful. A cloud of whipped cream sticks to his moustache.
I giggle.
