I’ve been delivering the milk from my father’s dairy farm since I turned sixteen.
Now twenty-one, the route in our small mountain town of Linesworth, WA, is filled with regulars.
Including the rugged, bearded hottie who just moved into the cabin at the end of Cookie Lane, who orders six bottles of whole milk each week.
When I’m in his driveway and a snowstorm hits on Christmas Eve, all hell breaks loose.
I didn’t think this mountain man even knew who I was – turns out he has been ordering all that milk for one reason.
He isn’t just thirsty. He’s parched.
And the only thing he wants to drink is me.
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1
COOKIE
“Dear, you need to be careful out there.”
“Mom, I’ll be fine,” I reply, shaking my head as I put another rack of milk bottles into the truck and lay a slap on Big Gertie, our tank of a four-wheel drive pick-up. “This thing can take a few flurries.”
It’s the same old song and dance that she always gives me if I dare to try to do my job in any condition other than clear and sunny.
And even then, she’ll badger me about wearing sunscreen.
I hoist the last bottles into the back, and close the hatch. They are always so heavy, but I’m able to take it. I’ve always had pride in being a farm girl. Thick, with muscle under my curves. I’m never going to be a supermodel toothpick, and I’m okay with that. I’ll just find a man who appreciates that.
Hopping into the driver’s seat, I turn the engine on and I’m off to do my part in keeping the family business alive.
Crumble’s Dairy Farm is as old-fashioned as they come. For nearly one hundred years we’ve been providing milk to the Pacific Northwest and we’ve managed to resist the encroaching outside forces from gobbling up our business with their own growth. For our town specifically, we’ve earned their loyalty in providing an old-fashioned service that had long been out of style by the time the twenty-first century rolled around: daily delivery.
I drive to various homes throughout our little town, one with very strong Bavarian roots, and anyone who visits it can see it immediately. Linesworth was a focal point for German immigrants coming to Washington state back before it was even a state. Its quaintness is a point of local pride, and I like to think my being the milkmaid for my family’s farm adds to the town’s character.
I swing by my usual stops. Lots of residential stops, a few bakeries with big orders, and even a local hotel which offered fresh milk to their guests every morning. I drop off an order at the coffee shop, then go stand in line only to have Kensie, the barista on duty, wave me over. “You don’t need to wait in line, Cookie. I knew you were coming and I have your order ready right here.”
I smile as I come to get my dose of caffeine. Everyone seems a bit more cheery than usual, and I’m not surprised. It’s Christmas Eve, but people don’t stop wanting milk just because it’s a holiday, and that’s even more true on this particular holiday. I know that a lot of the milk I just delivered is going to be left out for Santa, children wishfully following the same ritual I did when I was young.
And yes, my name is Cookie Crumble, if you picked that up from Kensie calling me over. There was no particular reason for my parents to name me that way other than them thinking it’s cute. Terry and Chelsea, my parents, are pretty typical in every other way, but they chose Cookie for me, and my brothers Rainier and Hood are named for mountains around here.
My name was a bit of an embarrassment going through my school years. Plenty of teasing, but it soon just became a fact of life, and anyone who matters to me barely even thinks of it as a pun anymore. Long ago I may have wanted to just be another Jennifer, Emily, or Christina, but that time has passed. I’m Cookie Crumble, and I’ll be that until I get married – and even then I may just make Crumble my middle name as a point of pride. I never really liked Alice as a middle name anyway.
Tonight specifically, I want to get through my route to get back and get ready. Rainier, my older brother, is bringing his new girlfriend home with him for Christmas dinner. She’s been a bit of mystery to all of us, a source of playful teasing aimed at Rainier. I’m curious who she is, and what’s making Rainier so scared to share her.
“Be safe, Cookie! There’s a big snowstorm rolling in,” Mrs. Piper calls out as I drop off her milk.
“Don’t worry, the family truck has endured some pretty bad storms.”
“They’re calling this one the storm of the century!”
“They call every storm that, Mrs. Piper.”
She shakes her head. “Just be careful, dear. I wouldn’t want you to freeze that pretty face of yours off.”
I giggle. “Thanks.”
I’m almost done anyway. I got one more stop, my furthest destination and one that I’ve been growing to enjoy to finish off my day.
It’s Baker Burns, who can relate when it comes to having a slightly silly name, so I already have a bit of kinship with him. But my fascination with him has little to do with his name. He’s a newer customer, new to Linesworth in general, and boy, is he a hottie, and I don’t say that about anyone.