“Really good,” he said sincerely. “A gay couple owns the local diner, and they latched onto us right away. Introduced us to a ton of other guys. We have a pretty good group now. I’m sure you’ll meet most of them this week while you’re here. A few of them promised to help us decorate the lodge for Christmas. Our friend Truman has been making homemade garlands for the mantels and bannisters, and his partner, Sam, has a crew of guys coming to put lights on the lodge. He’s in charge of all the facilities and physical operations of our ski resort. And Tiller’s friend Julian will be in town through the holidays, too.” A worried expression flickered over his face before his sweet smile reappeared.
“And that’s… a problem?” I guessed.
“What? Oh, no. Not at all. I love Julian. He’s a wonderful guy and a brilliant attorney. He’s just been a little…” Mikey hesitated. “Unlucky in the love department. Hey, are you sure you’re anti-matchmaking? Because I wonder if—”
“I’m positive,” I assured him quickly. I had enough to handle keeping up with my work, getting my debts paid off, and navigating my way through my new family. Romance, even with a brilliant attorney, was not on my to-do list.
We talked a little more about the ski resort they were opening in another month, and I learned they were deliberately keeping it low-key for the first season in hopes of ramping up slowly and preparing for a larger launch the following winter. Mikey was easy to talk to, and before I headed off toward my room in the south wing of the lodge, he made sure I knew he was available to talk to anytime.
“I know what it’s like to feel like the odd man out,” he said softly. “Even though I can tell from the looks on everyone’s faces downstairs they adore you.”
“Did someone tell you my story?” I asked. I didn’t mind—it wasn’t like my mom’s adoption and my recent inclusion in this large, extended family was a secret. But I was surprised since we hadn’t been here a full day yet.
Mikey turned off the sink and turned to me, reaching for the towel in my hands so he could dry his own. “Your grandmother told me a little bit about it. She was worried about you. Said she wanted to make sure you felt welcome and had some space to yourself to get away from the noise.”
I smiled. “Tilly’s not afraid to share her opinions, but she can also be very kind and thoughtful,” I said. It was one of the things that made my feelings toward her so complex. “But… yeah. It’s a little overwhelming. I mean… I’m really glad to be here, but it’s very different from what I’m used to.”
“I think it’s cool that you found your mom’s biological parents like that. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to realize you came from a giant family of…” He stopped and blushed.
“Influential politicians? Talented musicians? Actual royalty? Mostly gorgeous gay men?” I suggested with a smirk.
“Yes, that one.” He blew out a breath and clapped a hand over his heart. “Holy cow. I think Tiller is going to freak out when he realizes I’ve been hosting the cast of Magic Mike while he was away.”
I laughed. “To be fair, he gets to be in the locker room with dozens of pro football players.”
Mikey swatted my leg with the towel. “Hush. I don’t want to think about it.”
“Don’t you, though?” I teased.
Mikey stepped over to the large double fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. When he handed it to me, he thanked me for the help with the dishes.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he said. “If you need any help settling in, please let me know.”
“If you need any help while your assistant is sick and Tiller’s away, please let me know. I’d love a chance to be helpful, especially if it gives me a break from the crowd.”
He nodded and thanked me before sending me off to my room. After spending several hours trying and failing to fall asleep, I finally fell into a fitful slumber for a little while. I awoke before six in the morning and stumbled out to the kitchen in search of coffee.
Mikey was already up and looking as bleary-eyed as I was.
“Is your offer to help still valid?” he asked.
“After I get this cup of coffee down, it sure is.”
With the address to the local bakery programmed into my phone and the keys to Mikey’s SUV in my hands, I made my way out into the frigid December morning to pick up the special order of breads and pastries Mikey had ordered for breakfast. I loved driving down to the valley as the earliest bands of warm pink sunlight washed across the tips of the mountains on the other side of Aster Valley.
This part of the Colorado Rocky Mountains was beautiful, and the town itself was quaint and quirky, with unique shops and restaurants making up the small downtown area. I found a parking spot on a side street and walked up the shoveled sidewalk to the bakery. A large plate-glass window revealed the baker himself kneading a giant blob of dough on a well-worn wooden table in the back of the shop.
Something about the sight stopped me in my tracks and caused me to watch him a little longer than I should have. A little longer than was probably polite. Maybe it was the rhythm of his movements or the fact he seemed to be talking to himself. Maybe it was the way he fit the landscape—solid as the mountains, warm as sunlight, simple and magnificent at the same time. Maybe it was the way his big hands kneaded the dough with such total competence that shivers danced up my spine. Whatever it was, I couldn’t look away.
After standing still a few moments, I realized he was singing. He had headphones on and nodded his head to a silent beat. The man’s face broke into a wide, white grin as his hips began to sway, and his whole body moved with the music as he went about his work.
The baker had a messy brown bun on top of his head and a short beard with dark brown eyebrows over an expressive face. I wondered idly if he had dimples I couldn’t see from this far away. His smile was breathtaking.
He looked to be around my age, mid-to-late thirties, but it was hard to tell through the window. He wore a denim button-down shirt under a beige apron sprinkled with flour. The rest of him was hidden by the table.
I couldn’t stop watching him. I felt like a kid outside of a candy store with sticky hands pressed to the glass and big eyes filled with want.
I liked to think I was a fairly practical sort of person, a person who made the best of what he could have and didn’t spend his time yearning for things he couldn’t, but the baker had me captivated.
This one, a voice in my head whispered as I watched the baker’s biceps bunch and flex under his shirt. Yes, please.
“You have to try the melomakarona,” a woman said from behind me, startling me out of my weird, lusty fantasy. “I can’t believe this place hasn’t been overrun with people clamoring for it. It’s only a matter of time. Or… it would be if they’d do a little advertising or start a mail-order business for them. The only other place I know of that had Greek treats as good as these was a bakery I went to once in Chicago when I was in college. That place had people lined up around the corner this time of year, just to get the melomakarona.”
I turned to face the stranger, finding it harder to look away from my baker—the baker, I silently corrected myself. The baker, who was in no way mine—than I could have imagined. The woman was bundled in a puffy purple jacket with a gray wool hat over blonde hair and had a baby strapped to her chest. She smiled at me way too brightly for this hour of the morning.