Page 46 of A Cowboy's Twinkling Lights Lasso
She leaps up and wraps her arms tightly around my neck. I catch her, slightly lifting her off the ground, and chuckle as her energy envelopes me.
“You deserve it.”
I catch Wilma and Faye’s disappointing scowls from the stage. And finally, Dani shows up to glower at me. Hell, it feels like the whole room is ticked at me. Is my brother glaring, too? Good Lord, folks.
She pulls back slightly. “I would love a celebratory outing.”
“I need a quick shower, so I’ll pick you up at your room in twenty?”
She nods, and a half hour later, we’re in my truck, and the headlights pierce the dark evening as we drive into Rocky Ridge Creek.
“What’s the surprise?” Flora fixes the material of the floral maxi dress over her lap and straightens her jean jacket.
She’s so pretty tonight.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
She grins at me and I want to lean across the seat and kiss her so bad it hurts. Spending a day watching her laugh, giggle,and flirt between shots made it a struggle not to touch her. Not to pull her in my arms, kiss her wildly, and drag her anywhere to strip her naked.
My jeans tighten at the front, and I shift. I gotta keep my thoughts clean.
I pull onto the Main Street, and it sparkles under the glow of twinkle lights. Every storefront is adorned with holiday decorations. Wreaths hang on doors, and bright red velvet bows stand out at night. Fake snow clings to rooftops and evergreen garlands adorn the lamp posts.
I roll down the window and hear lively Christmas music from outdoor speakers.
“I forgot how beautiful it is here.” She leans forward in her seat, her eyes wide.
I drink in the sight of her joy.
Our first stop is Cowboy Cafe, a beloved local joint, where the aroma of home-cooked meals fills the air, and regulars gather to swap stories and gossip.
I park out front. “I have a pickup. You comin’ in?”
“Do they still make milkshakes?”
I nod. “Sure do.”
“How can I say no to a milkshake?”
We climb out of the truck. Matching red Adirondack chairs flank the main door, which is painted the same jam red. A life-sized metal cowboy leans casually against the side of the café, his weathered hat tipped low, adding a rugged element to the scene.
I hold open the door. “After you.”
Inside, time seems to stand still, with decor that hasn’t been updated in years. The walls are a patchwork of paneling and exposed brick, cluttered with framed rodeo photos that tell stories of the past.
“Evening Thorn. Alma has your order ready at the counter.” A waitress in a denim skirt and plaid shirt buzzespast, navigating around curved wooden chairs while balancing steaming plates of hearty dinner in her arms.
“Thanks.”
The air is filled with the rich aroma of comfort food, making every visit feel like a warm embrace from yesteryears. I see the memories flood Flora as we weave our way.
“Flora Rowe.” Alma spots us before we reach the counter. “Come give me a hug.” The older woman rushes from behind to embrace Flora.
Alma plays the local Mrs. Claus without needing to put in much effort. Her white hair is neatly styled in a bun at the nape of her neck, and she wears petite round glasses that accentuate her kind features. She’s always smiling and has rosy cheeks.
“Your hugs are as warm as I remember,” Flora says.
“Where’s the reindeer?” Alma’s eyebrows knit together.
