Page 27 of The Aster Valley Collection, Vol. 1

MIKEY

The drive into the little town of Aster Valley was completely different in daylight.

The atmosphere was still charming, but this time we could clearly make out the abandoned ski slopes leading straight down to the main part of town.

It turned out that our Rockley Lodge had originally been a ski-in/ski-out location perched right on the edge of one of the main runs.

The abandoned lift stood silent and still in the clear mountain air, and the sun cast shortening shadows through the fir trees at the edges of the open trails.

“Hell, we could have taken a sled into town,” Tiller muttered as he pulled into a parking space in front of the Mustache Diner. “Who knew how close we were as the crow flies?”

I hauled myself out of the large SUV. “But then we would have had to climb back up with a stomach full of waffles,” I added. “Which basically means you would have had to pull me on the sled.”

When we entered the old-fashioned diner, there wasn’t a hint of recognition on anyone’s faces. Maybe it was the fleece beanie Tiller had on or the scarf wrapped around his neck, but it was surprisingly refreshing.

“Sit anywhere, hon,” a man around fifty with salt-and-pepper hair and scruff said from a nearby booth he was busy wiping down.

We hustled away from the drafty doors and found a red vinyl booth in the back.

The old Formica table was in tip-top shape, and it was clear whoever ran the place took good care of it.

Laminated menus sat tucked behind the caddy of condiments against the wall at one end of the table.

I grabbed two and handed one to Tiller. “You can have a cheat meal if you want. I’ll make up for it at lunch and dinner. ”

“Yes, mother,” he murmured under his breath. His lips were curved up in an indulgent smile as he perused the menu, so I didn’t worry too much about it.

“What do you want to do today?” I asked.

Tiller set the menu down and looked up. “You always ask me that when there’s something you want to do.”

He was right. “I want to walk up and down Main Street and check out the shops. One of the reasons this place made my short list is because there’s an actual spice merchant here, if you can believe it. They do a ton of online business, but they have a storefront in Aster Valley, too. It’s called?—”

The older man with a giant salt-and-pepper mustache appeared with his little order notepad at the ready.

“The Honeyed Lemon. Four doors down and across the street,” he said, pointing his pencil eraser in the direction of the Valley Eater we’d seen the night before.

“Best damned smoked paprika you’ll ever taste.

Truman makes it himself. People come for miles around for the stuff, and I think I heard it’s the secret ingredient in the BBQ sauce used by the Partridge Pit chain.

Definitely swing by and get a sample to take home. Now, where y’all from?”

I blinked at him. “Um, Houston? And you?”

He grinned. “Mobile, Alabama, but I’ve been in Aster Valley for a hundred years now. Name’s Pim. What can I get ya?”

Tiller opened his mouth to order coffee, but I got there first. “He’ll have an ice water and small orange juice. I’ll have a coffee, please.”

Tiller’s mouth snapped closed, and his eyebrows furrowed. I was impervious to his glare by now, so I didn’t mind.

“Y’all sound like Bill and me. He’s always ordering for me. As if he knows what I want all the time.”

A man’s voice came from behind the half wall to the kitchen. “Because I do.”

The look of affection on Pim’s face as he swatted his hand in the direction of the kitchen made my heart clench. I wanted that one day.

“Hang tight and I’ll be right back with those drinks,” he said before bustling away.

I met Tiller’s eyes. “Family,” I said, referring to the diner being managed by a gay couple. Tiller nodded.

“That’s a nice surprise. Wonder how long they’ve run the place.”

The bell over the door jangled and a cute teenage boy came rushing in with cheeks pink from the cold and shaggy dirty-blond hair every which way from the wind.

“Sorry I’m late! Tutoring ran over.” He tossed his backpack behind the counter and grabbed a half apron and an order pad before leaning in to kiss Pim on the cheek. “Did you remember to take your pills?”

He brushed the kid off. “Stop nagging me, son. Of course I remembered. The drill sergeant in there wouldn’t let me forget,” he said, nodding at the kitchen.

“Dad,” the teen called toward the kitchen. “Mrs. Winnovich said to tell you guys happy anniversary tomorrow. Then she made me listen to the story of the wedding again. You owe me half an hour of my life back.”

Tiller and I watched the little family scene play out as we realized this was most likely Pim and Bill’s son. He was either in late high school or early college. He wore a letterman’s jacket with the name Solomon embroidered on it.

After washing his hands in the sink behind the counter, the young man came over to our table. “Hi, I’m Solo. Have you ordered breakfast yet?”

We gave him our orders and then watched as he teased his dads while he helped Pim serve the rest of the customers in the diner. Most of them appeared to be regulars, but it was clear some were tourists like us.

When he came by with a pot of coffee to offer me a refill, he asked if we were staying in town long enough to visit the winter festival.

“We didn’t know about it,” Tiller said. “What’s it like?”

Solo’s face lit up. “So fun. There’s a parade, a craft market, and probably my favorite is the ice-carving competition.” He went on to tell us more about the festival and how people from all over Colorado came for the weekend. “It’s kind of our thing. You should definitely stay for it.”

Tiller assured him we were here through Christmas. Pim overheard and came over to let us know if we had any questions about spending the holidays in Aster Valley to swing on by and ask away.

We left the diner with full bellies and a plan to come back later in the week to try the Thursday lunch special since the diner was only open for breakfast and lunch. I had such warm fuzzy feelings about the sweet diner family, I had an odd desire to bake something for them for their anniversary.

“You should make your holiday spice muffins,” Tiller said before moving to the outside of the sidewalk. I noticed he did that often as if there was ever going to be some kind of traffic danger in little Aster Valley, Colorado.

“You have a sweet tooth? After a meal like that?”

He glanced at me from the corner of his eye and grinned. “Not for me. For the couple in the diner. I know you. You want to cook for everyone you meet, especially the nice ones.”

His knowledge of how my mind worked made me feel warm inside, but I tried to fight the feeling. It wouldn’t be a good idea to get all schmoopy for a man like Tiller Raine.

The spice shop was down the street to the left, so we made our way through the crisp, clear morning until we found it.

It was a quaint corner shop with large windows surrounded by wintergreen garland sprigged with twigs and clusters of berries.

A brightly lit Christmas tree filled one picture window, and as we got closer, I noticed the ornaments were little sample bottles of spices.

“When was the last time you went to a small-town holiday festival?” Tiller asked. “I mean… I think Boulder does a fall festival, but I was always too busy with football to pay much attention. And I know Aurora does a Punkin Chunkin. I went one time in high school.”

“We have rodeos in Texas. Does that count?” I teased.

Tiller held the door to the shop for me, and I entered into a warm and cozy space filled with the savory scents of exotic spices.

Glass jars lined glossy-painted shelves along each wall, and large wooden casks formed tables here and there with special displays on them.

A nerdy little twink in an honest-to-god bow tie stood behind the counter running long, slender fingers down a handwritten notepad while he typed something into an iPad with his other hand.

“I want him,” I whispered to Tiller without thinking. “He’s the cutest thing ever.”

“Mpfh. He could be your twin. That’s creepy.”

His words took me aback. “What? No. What?”

Tiller’s low chuckle warmed me even more than the cozy atmosphere of the shop. “You’re oblivious. And is everyone in this town gay?”

Please let everyone in this town be gay.

The young man looked up from his work and startled as if he hadn’t heard us come in. “Oh. Sorry. Can I help you find something, or are you happy to browse? I’m Truman Sweet, by the way. The, ah… shop owner?”

He blinked rapidly as he took in Tiller’s height.

“You’re really tall,” he blurted. “Oh god. Sorry. That’s…”

Rude? I thought. Adorable? Endearing?

“It’s fine,” Tiller said with a smile. “And true.”

Tiller was six foot four which wasn’t all that tall compared to some of the other guys on his team, but with his broad shoulders, he looked even taller than he was.

“I’ll bet everyone asks you if you play basketball,” the shopkeeper said with a blush.

I nudged Tiller and pointed to a bottle of the smoked paprika Pim had mentioned. It was just out of my reach on a higher shelf.

Tiller chuckled again and reached for it before handing it to me. “Not usually. But it comes in handy when I have to grab things for this guy.” He thumbed over his shoulder at me. “He’s five seven on a good day.”

I punched him on the shoulder before turning to grab a basket by the door. Even though we’d only been in the store for ten seconds, I could tell I was going to want to try tons of things in there.

Tiller wandered over to the counter to continue chatting with Truman while I browsed. The left side of the store was mostly spices. Some were being sold under the Honeyed Lemon brand, and some were obviously imported.

“Oh, shit,” I breathed, reaching for a packet in front of me. “You have amchur powder.”