Page 4 of Special Delivery Cowboy
"Love you too. And Tins? Don't forget to buy wine. Lots of wine."
The digital clock on my dashboard read 2:47 PM. Three and a half hours since I'd left the convention center. Three and a half hours since my entire life had imploded.
By eight PM, I'd rage-cleaned the apartment twice, called Melody back for another vent session, and finalized my plan.
I headed to the grocery store at midnight, riding a wave of righteous fury.
By two AM, my cart looked like I was preparing for the apocalypse. Cookie ingredients—three kinds of chocolate chips, fancy vanilla, real butter, and colorful candy sprinkles. Brownie mix. All the pasta. Every interesting cheese. Fresh bread from the bakery. Wine—six bottles. My favorite candy bars in bulk. Three flavors of ice cream. The ingredients for my mom's beef stew that Grayson always said was "too heavy." I hadn't made it in over a year.
The checkout clerk raised her eyebrows at my haul. "Bad breakup or good celebration?"
"Both." I grinned, and it felt almost real. "Holiday plans changed last-minute."
"Looks like they changed for the better." She scanned another bottle of wine. "Have a merry Christmas."
"Oh, I will."
By three AM, everything was loaded in my car. I couldn't bring myself to sleep in the bedroom, so I grabbed blankets and crashed on the couch for a few hours of restless sleep.
I woke up around ten—showered, threw on comfortable clothes, and started loading the car. Granny panties with snowflakes? Packed. Fuzzy socks? Packed. My rattiest Montana State sweatshirt that Grayson hated? Definitely packed.
No sexy lingerie. No uncomfortable heels. No makeup that took an hour to apply.
Me. Comfortable, real, unapologetic me.
I was on the road by noon, Christmas music playing, watching mountains rise up around me. The forecast showed snow arriving later—I'd beat it easy. I stopped for terrible gas station coffee and a chemical-tasting muffin that somehow tasted like freedom.
My phone buzzed at a red light. Melody.
Mel: Proud of you. Go do you, boo.
Me: Planning on it.
Mel: Also... I may have sent you a little something to help celebrate your independence. A special delivery. Should arrive this evening. Don't ask what it is—it's a surprise. ????
Me: Mel. Please tell me you didn't hire a stripper.
Mel: ...
Mel: Just trust me. You're going to love it. Merry early Christmas! ??
I stared at the text, equal parts curious and terrified. Knowing Melody, it could be anything from a care package to something completely ridiculous.
Me: If a stripper shows up at my door, I'm going to kill you.
Mel: ??????
Great.
The drive took about two and a half hours through increasingly stunning country. Rolling hills gave way to mountains. Bozeman's trendy sprawl faded into authentic Montana wilderness. By the time I reached Paradise Valley, snow was starting to fall—light, pretty flakes that made everything look like a postcard.
The resort appeared through the trees like something from a magazine. Individual log cabins dotted the property, each one secluded and beautiful. String lights glowed even in the afternoon light. Everything was decorated for Christmas—wreaths, garlands, that particular Christmas magic.
I followed signs to Cabin #7 and pulled up to a structure that was somehow even better than the pictures. Two stories of gorgeous log construction. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A wraparound deck. String lights everywhere. It was beyond perfect.
Inside was even better.
Heat poured over me the moment I opened the door. Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams stretched overhead. A huge stone fireplace dominated one wall, wood already stacked and ready. Leather furniture that looked expensive and comfortable faced massive windows with mountain views that made me stop and stare.
