Page 7 of Snow Much Trouble
Chocolate does fix everything. It’s a fact.
Or maybe I’m getting a little tipsy because after a couple of pieces of dark chocolate, the bourbon is smoothly rolling over my tongue.
I have zero intention of telling Dylan that.
"Still tastes like someone set a campfire in my mouth," I announce after my second attempt at proper bourbon appreciation. "But now it's a campfire with s'mores."
Dylan looks personally offended, like I've just insulted his mother and his dog in the same breath. "Then you're not doing it right."
"What the hell does that even mean?” I shake my head to indicate how ridiculous that sounds. “I know how to consume liquids. I’ve been doing that for twenty-six years.”
He's standing there in jeans looking all brooding and handsome. It's annoying how good he looks just leaning against the kitchen counter.
Since I ended my relationship with my ex-boyfriend a year ago, I haven’t really dated and I’m very aware of the fact that I packed my personal massager this weekend. Now not only am Inotgoing to be able to have some time for much needed self-care, I have Dylan to remind me just how long it’s been since I was under a man.
"If you can’t appreciate Pappy, then maybe you can appreciate Four Brothers," he says, setting his glass down. He starts digging in the cloth grocery bags he’s brought.
“Which brother do I get first?” I ask.
I mean it as a joke but he shoots me a look that I can’t decipher. I take another sip of my bourbon to distract myself from the fact that my cheeks feel oddly warm.
He ignores my question. "So you write country music, right? Maybe that explains your refined palate."
The way he says "refined" makes it clear he means the opposite.
Two can play this game.
"Yes, country. And if you don’t like songs that are basically a book in three minutes, then I question both your ears and your heart.” I march over to my guitar case and snap it open. “I loved country before it was cool.”
"Passionate. I love that." He's grinning. "Play something."
"No way. I don't perform for strangers. At least, not ones who can’t buy my songs." I run my fingers over the guitar strings, checking the tuning. "Besides, I'm here to write, not entertain house crashers."
"House crasher? Let’s not start that again. I prefer 'unexpected cabin mate.'"
I strum a quick chord progression, something I've been working on that sounds appropriately Christmas-y without being too sweet. Dylan's head tilts slightly, listening, and I immediately stop playing.
"Don't," I warn.
"Don't what?"
"Don't analyze my music. I can see you doing it." I’m not insecure about my skills but I prefer a finished product before I run it past someone who isn’t also a songwriter.
"I wasn't analyzing anything. I was just?—"
"Judging. Same thing." I close the guitar case with a snap. "What kind of music do you listen to?"
"Everything. Rock, country, blues..." He pauses. "Okay, maybe not everything. I draw the line at death metal."
"At least we can agree on that. No offense to death medal lovers, but it’s not my thing.”
"What about you? Let me guess—Taylor Swift and Dolly Parton?"
I give him my most withering stare. "First of all, don't you dare come for Taylor or Dolly. They're goddesses. Second, my taste is way more eclectic than that. I listen to everything from Patsy Cline to Post Malone."
"Post Malone? Really?"
"Don't sound so surprised. Just because I wear sequined snowflakes doesn't mean I can't appreciate good music when I hear it."
