Page 6 of Her Jolly Cowboy
I glare at the back of his head and decide to fight this battle after I warm up.
The shower is calling my name. My hair is half-frozen, and my clothes are soaked through. I grab things from my suitcase and lock myself in the bathroom.
The water pressure is shockingly good. I stand under the spray until my fingers prune and the mirror is a solid wall of steam. When I finally shut it off, I can hear music through the door.
It’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” and Luke is off-key, loud, and completely unashamed, belting every single note.
I wrap myself in a towel, crack the door, and peek out.
He’s at the stove, hips swaying, flipping grilled cheese with one hand and conducting an invisible orchestra with the other. He hits the high note, and the sound is so wonderfully terrible I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
He spins, catches me watching, and doesn’t miss a beat. Just points the spatula at me and sings the following line directly to me, eyebrows waggling.
I slam the door, cheeks on fire.
When I emerge ten minutes later in leggings and an oversized sweater, he’s plated two grilled cheeses and set two mugs of cocoa on the coffee table. The cocoa has a mountain of whipped cream and a candy cane stabbed through it like a garnish.
He’s on the couch, legs stretched out, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Sit,” he says. “Eat. Drink. Stop plotting my murder.”
I sit on the opposite end of the couch, as far as humanly possible. He hands me a mug. Our fingers brush. Electricity shoots through me. I pretend it doesn’t.
The cocoa is perfect and spiked with whiskey. We eat in silence for a minute, the storm raging outside, the fire popping, Mariah now on her third loop.
I break first. “You always sing Mariah in the kitchen?”
“Only when I’m trying to impress a girl.” He grins. “Did it work?”
“Jury’s still out.”
He laughs, low and warm, and stretches an arm along the back of the couch. Not quite touching me. Just… there.
The lights flicker once, twice, then die completely. The cabin plunges into firelight and shadow.
Luke doesn’t flinch. Just reaches behind the couch, pulls out a thick flannel blanket, and drapes it over my shoulders without asking.
“I’m not cold,” I lie.
“Uh-huh.” He tucks it around me anyway, fingers brushing my neck. “You’re shaking.”
I’m not sure if it’s the cold or him.
The silence stretches, thick and electric. I pull the blanket tighter.
“So,” he says eventually, voice softer. “Why the lists? The color-coding? The panic attacks over everything that goes wrong?”
I stiffen. “I like being prepared.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I glare at the fire. “You don’t know me well enough to ask that.”
“I know you climbed a ladder in four-inch heels to hang fairy lights in a blizzard. I know you scheduled your own nervous breakdown. I know you’re the only person I’ve ever met who makes Rhett look chill.” He pauses. “I know those things, and I want to know more.”
I swallow hard.
“My mom,” I say finally, voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “She was chaos—beautiful, brilliant chaos. One day, we’d have a Christmas tree and a turkey and presents, the next, we’d be eating cereal for dinner in a motel because she didn’t pay our rent. I never knew what was coming. Birthdays were either magical or forgotten. Holidays were roulette.”
