Page 24 of The Aster Valley Collection, Vol. 1

MIKEY

I was still rubbing sleep out of my eyes when Tiller ushered me into the passenger seat of the big SUV I’d rented.

The leather was cold against the fabric of my jeans, and I shivered inside the big puffy coat I’d hastily pulled on the minute my suitcase had come spinning off the carousel.

Tiller chuckled and closed the door, trapping some of his exhalation vapor inside with me.

It was cold as balls.

I was a Texas boy born and raised, but I actually liked visiting places that had a true winter season.

Every time we’d visited Tiller’s parents in Denver, I’d parked myself in front of their real wood fireplace and toasted my socked feet on the stone hearth until I couldn’t stand the heat anymore.

I relished the chance to truly enjoy a hot chocolate without sweating my ass off.

“You got an address?” Tiller asked, hopping in the driver’s seat and slamming his door closed.

I pulled up the Waze app and clicked on the address I’d already preprogrammed. The smooth voice began navigating Tiller out of the area. We drove out of the airport I’d always thought looked like a giant white caterpillar and began making our way toward the city of Denver.

“You sure you don’t want to stop by your parents’ place?” I teased.

“Funny man. Remind me to get you a Comedy Central Standup Special for your birthday,” he grunted.

The heat finally kicked in enough for me to pull off my coat.

I noticed Tiller hadn’t even put his on yet which was either a testament to his killer metabolism or his Colorado blood.

Either way, he pretty much slayed the black sweater and faded blue jeans he had on.

The arms of the sweater were pushed up, revealing a corded forearm still tanned from all the time spent outside in the long Texas fall.

When my eyes traveled down his arm to his big hand on the wheel, I suddenly realized he was driving one-handed.

That jolted me wide-awake.

“You’re driving with a clipped wing!” I yelped. “Pull over and let me drive. Jesus, Tiller.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re in a sling, for god’s sake.” My heart hammered in my chest. “Why didn’t you let me drive?”

He glanced over at me with a smirk. “Uh, because you were still drooling in your sleep at the rental desk?”

I didn’t remember going to a rental desk, so maybe he had a point. “Fine, then pull over at a coffee shop and we’ll kill two birds.”

Tiller shook his head. “I’ve been driving these roads for a million years. This is my hometown, remember?”

I stopped arguing but only because I knew he’d want to stop soon enough for coffee himself.

Now that I’d made the suggestion, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it.

Sure enough, when we got to the far side of Denver, he pulled off the interstate and found a Starbucks.

I pretended not to hear him order himself a sugar- and cream-filled monstrosity before he rattled off my skinny chai latte order like he’d done it a million times.

When he added a slice of pumpkin bread and a blueberry scone, I decided to forgive him for almost killing us with the one-armed driving stunt.

We switched places and got back on the road.

It took us almost three hours to get to Aster Valley, Colorado, but the time passed quickly with talk of what Tiller still needed to get his friends and family for Christmas, what we wanted to get for Sam—who was next to impossible to buy for since he didn’t like owning more than would fit in the saddlebags on his motorcycle—and whether or not Tiller’s teammates had started planning their big end-of-season trip yet.

When we crested the final mountain pass, a small, snow-covered town appeared in the valley below.

Lights twinkled from shops and houses in the shadows between the peaks on either side while the top of the mountain to the east still shone with the last traces of the warm glow of sunset on snow.

I felt like we’d found a little hidden gem nestled in a secret spot deep in the Rockies.

“Have you ever been here before?” I asked.

Tiller shook his head. “Never even heard of it, I don’t think. Wait… Aster Valley… didn’t there used to be a ski resort here?”

I let out a soft snort. “You’re asking the wrong Texan.”

He pulled out his phone and did a search. I was surprised he still had enough cell signal to get any results.

“Here it is. Yeah, in the early 2000s, Olympian team member and two-time world champion in downhill and Super-G, suffered a career-ending injury due to a hazard on the slope. The resort was sued into bankruptcy by his insurance carrier, and the slopes were shut down.” He read silently for another minute.

“Damn. Looks like it must have done a number on this town. Can you imagine losing that income and those jobs? A town this small? I mean… it couldn’t have been that big of a ski destination if I’d barely heard of it, but still. ”

“The nearest decent airport is Yampa Valley. It’s still like an hour away,” I added. I’d looked into flying closer to Aster Valley, but ultimately decided it didn’t make sense since the flight times would put us at the cabin later than if we flew into Denver and drove.

Tiller shrugged. “Maybe it struggled competing with Steamboat. Which is weird because usually a smaller ski resort only thirty minutes away from a bigger one does well with the overflow. I wonder why no one bought it and reopened it.”

We made up a few stories about what had happened to Aster Valley in the twenty years since the accident, including haunted slopes and ornery old town leadership, so by the time we reached the quaint little main drag, we were suspiciously surprised by how benign it seemed.

“This is goddamned adorable,” Tiller said. “Look at that yarn shop. And an honest-to-goodness diner. They’re all decorated for Christmas.”

He was right. While Aster Valley definitely looked half-asleep, it was charming as hell.

Several storefronts were empty, but the ones that weren’t seemed to be well-kept with pride.

Holiday lights and holly sprigs circled the streetlight poles, and there was a big banner across the street announcing the Aster Valley Holiday Fest the following weekend.

A few pedestrians bundled up in coats and hats made their way along the wide sidewalk with paper shopping bags dangling from mittened hands.

“We’ve arrived on a Hallmark movie set,” I said a little breathlessly.

“Well, maybe the low-budget version,” Tiller said, pointing to a darkened old theater with an empty marquee. Several key letters were missing from the sign, so it read “Valley eater” instead of what I presumed to have been The Aster Valley Theater at one time.

I flapped my hand in the air. “Imagine how cute that would be if someone bought it and fixed it up! It could be one of those bougie dinner-and-wine theaters.”

Tiller reached over and yanked my collar up. I shot him a confused look.

“You’re just cute when you get passionate about things,” he teased.

I slapped his hand away and kept rolling slowly through the town, trying to take in all of the quaint shops and loads of potential. “Robert Redford needs to come here and inject some money into this place.”

We quickly left the main area of town and wound our way up the mountainside until pulling through a wooden archway with faded letters carved into it.

“The Rockley Lodge?” Tiller asked, his voice laced with curiosity. “Sounds bigger than a little rental cabin in the woods.”

I navigated the narrow snow-edged lane between the trees to a clearing. “It’s a little more than a cabin,” I admitted before catching sight of it.

It was a giant, log-hewn structure that looked like something out of an architectural magazine. The lodge was crafted with an artistic mix of wood and stone and boasted a huge, welcoming front porch lit up with actual gas lanterns hanging from iron pegs.

“Holy fuck,” Tiller said. “We made a wrong turn.”

“No. We definitely rented from the Rockleys. Or, rather, the company that manages the Rockley Estate. I think the rental guy on the phone told me the owners passed away, so maybe it’s being managed by a company now. I didn’t pay much attention after he offered me a big discount for the month.”

I pulled around the circular drive, noticing it had been neatly snow blown or shoveled or something. Whatever it was snow-dwellers did to remove the snow from their driveway. The place was well-kept despite being about ten times bigger than the two of us needed.

“Too bad everyone else is stuck in Houston or we could have a kick-ass house party,” Tiller said, opening the door and letting in the arctic air.

I reached back for my puffy coat and scrambled into it, zipping it up to my chin before hopping out of the rapidly cooling SUV.

“It has a ton of bedrooms. I think it used to be a big family lodge,” I said, coming around to the other side of the vehicle and standing next to him as we stared up and out at the many-leveled wings of the lodge.

“Don’t worry. They said the bedroom wings are all closed off for people who don’t need them.

The master and housekeeper’s rooms should be open for us. ”

He turned to face me with a frown. “Housekeeper?”

“Me.”

“No. I know. I just… you’re not the housekeeper. You’re a guest.”

I moved toward the front door and pulled my phone out to find the security code for the keypad. “I’m their guest, but I’m your housekeeper. It’s fine. I’m sure the housekeeper’s room in this place is nicer than most people’s regular bedroom.”

“You’re not my housekeeper!” His voice carried through the frigid night. “You’re my… my…”

I waited him out so I could hear the way he always seemed to finish this sentence when it came up.

“My Mikey,” he finished weakly.