Page 55 of The Spice Is Nice

“Yes, together,” I agreed. And then I kissed him back.

He lifted me and carried me to bed, and the world outside did what it was going to do. While in here, there was only us. Everything else could wait.

Chapter 22

Holly Creek Christmas

Colt

Holly Creekat Christmas looked exactly the way I’d left it. Main Street glittered with columns of white lights, and more twinkle lights overhead draped over the road. Every storefront was adorned with themed wreaths, the air thick with pine needles and sugar cookies. The town looked like someone had staged it for a card.

“Colt, your town is a snow globe.” Ivy gawked at it all, standing beside me, turning in a circle on the sidewalk. She’d bought a new red wool coat and ankle booties with small heels for this trip because Montana cold fashion and upstate New York cold fashion were, apparently, completely different animals.

“Wait until you see the Christmas in July celebration. They do this twice a year.”

“Twice.”

“Holly Creek takes its holiday spirit very seriously.”

Flora’s Diner glowed in front of us, its windows frosted against the December sky. Through the glass, I could see the pie case, the chalkboard menu in Mom’s handwriting, thephotos on the wall behind the register. It hadn’t changed much.

A hand-painted banner in the window readFlora’s Diner: 847 cookies soldwith a running tally. While I could just make out Vivian’s Bakery with its own sign down the way:862 cookies. Great to see the annual cookie war between them alive and well, and from the looks of it, Mom was losing.

But I was home now, for a visit, and could eat at least two dozen cookies today. Pretty sure Mom will win this year.

“Ready? Fair warning: my mother is going to cry when she sees us. She’s going to use my full name, which is Colt Jacob Calhoun, and you are not allowed to laugh.”

“I’ve survived a corrupt Congressman and a psychotic ex-boyfriend. I think I can handle your mother.” Ivy grinned and winked.

I grabbed our bags and led her inside Flora’s diner. The warmth hit me like a wall, with heat from the kitchen and fragrant roasted turkey, along with fresh bread and apples and cinnamon. My chest ached at it all, with the memories of holidays past.

“Colt Jacob Calhoun!”

Mom sprinted around the counter like a woman half her age, even with a slight limp. Her apron had a dusting of flour. Her eyes, the color of mine, filled wet and glassy when she hit me at full speed and I caught her. Picked her up even, and breathed her in—vanilla, sugar, and spice. And a little dish soap. That was just Mom, and I almost regretted the years I had spent away.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Don’t you ‘Hi, Mom’ me.” She pulled back and held my face in both hands, studying me the way she always had—checking for damage, reading the terrain. Whatever she found this time made her expression loosen. “You look different.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“Older and wiser.” She caught sight of Ivy, snow melting in her blonde hair.

“Mom, this is Ivy.” I laced our fingers together as I brought her front and center with Flora.

She burst into fresh tears and wrapped Ivy in a hug that she hadn’t seen coming, but received with grace.

“Oh, honey.” Mom pulled back and cupped Ivy’s face. I watched Ivy’s composure wobble for just a second—because a woman hadn’t held her face like that since her own mother died. “You’re gorgeous. Colt, she’s gorgeous. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I said she was beautiful.”

“Sit. I’ll bring you cookies and hot cocoa. You must be starving from that flight out.”

“Yeah, I’ll take two dozen. There’s no way you’re losing this year.”

Chelsea and Maisyarrived with their husbands, and we filled the big corner booth in the back—the one that had held every birthday dinner and important Calhoun conversation in living memory. Mom put out turkey and stuffingand three kinds of pie, and the evening moved the way it always did in this family: loud, voices overlapping, full of stories and laughter.

But I could feel the questions building. The ones nobody had asked yet because Mom had declared a moratorium on serious topics until after pie, and in this family, Mom’s pie rules were law.