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 jacked 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.