Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
It was especially hard to take when I couldn’t lean on Tiller for comfort and understanding.
So I was a sad sack as I checked my bag in the terminal and made my way through security, and I was extra pitiful at the gate when the agent called me up to give me an updated boarding pass reflecting the upgrade to first class Tiller had somehow managed from afar. I hated that I loved him. Worse than that, I hated that I was essentially lying to him. It wasn’t fair, but neither was my father prioritizing his fucking playoff chances over Tiller’s career.
When I boarded the plane, I stashed my carry-on bag under the seat in front of me, fastened my seat belt, and grabbed the blanket before curling up in a little ball and trying to close out the world around me. It didn’t work.
“Hey, aren’t you the guy who makes the couscous salad at Hilltop Cafe?”
I blinked up at the thirtysomething woman in yoga pants and a flowery tunic standing in the row in front of me facing backward. She had creamy brown skin and a shaved head that set off her big brown eyes and thick dark lashes. She was gorgeous, but after scrambling my memory, I couldn’t place her.
“Uh, yes?”
She slapped a palm over her heart and smiled. “Thought so. I saw you deliver it one time. I am in love with that salad. I’ve been begging Sid to finagle the recipe out of you for months. I was devastated when I found out you weren’t supplying it anymore.”
I returned her smile and held out my hand. “Thank you for saying that. I’m Michael Vining.”
She shook my hand over the top of her seat. “Konni Prater, nice to meet you. Hilltop Cafe is kind of my office,” she said with a light chuckle. “I’m a writer, and for some reason I can focus more with the buzz of hungry customers around me. Sid and Marti are awesome to let me loiter in a back booth most days.”
As other passengers continued to make their way down the aisle, Konni rifled through her bag before stowing it in the bin above her seat. When I saw her at an angle, I realized I did recognize her.
“Oh, I think I remember seeing you there. Do you wear glasses when you work?”
She grinned and nodded. “Yup. Kind of like yours. Love those, by the way. But not as much as your food.”
As she winked and took her seat, I realized I felt a little better than I had before. There was more to my life than Tiller Raine, and I needed to remember that. Even Tiller wouldn’t want me to spend my week in Aster Valley sniffling about him. I needed to embrace new opportunities and push all of this other shit to later, maybe after Christmas which was only a week and a half away now. I had my own talents and plans that had nothing to do with Tiller or football, and it was in my best interest to make sure whatever direction I took with my own future, I was actively choosing it instead of letting the tide of indecision take me.
When we landed in Denver, I said goodbye to Konni with a hope of running into each other sometime soon at the cafe. I headed to the car rental desk and got behind the wheel of a smaller SUV than before. I was on a Mikey budget this time, but I still had the Rockley Lodge to stay in since Tiller’s reservation had been booked for the entire month.
As I made the drive through Denver and out the other side, I imagined what it would be like if we could return to Aster Valley and build a life there, just the two of us. Maybe if the B&B didn’t work out, I could spin up my catering business again. Tiller could coach football or befriend Truman and help plant stuff. I wasn’t sure what his role would be, exactly, but I definitely got the sense he’d be happy there. Not right now, while he was still playing professionally, but later. One day down the road.
The drive was gorgeous in the afternoon sun. Driving into Aster Valley was just as stunning the second time as it had been the first. It embraced me like an old friend, and I knew already I didn’t want to leave. Friendly faces lined the streets outside the shops, and someone dressed like a reindeer waved from the street corner outside Truman’s Honeyed Lemon.
After pulling down the now-familiar driveway to the lodge, I pulled out my phone and texted Sam. He’d already messaged to tell me he was back in Houston.
Me: I’m going to stay in Aster Valley longer than a week.
Sam: Makes sense. You said you loved it there. You and Tiller can always go back after the Super Bowl.