And while she didn’t doubt the truth to his claim, she squirmed at the idea. She wouldn’t come within a foot of that death trap, let alone ride it across the country. Another item to add to the list of Colt Davis’s Catastrophic Decisions.
“Anyway,” Cassie said gently, steering the conversation back on track. “That’s a lovely offer, Colt. Thank you. Is tomorrow too soon?”
“Nope. Mom’ll be disappointed to lose my charming company, but she’ll understand.”
“Great!” Cassie beamed. “Then I’ll count on you to be there.”
Penny nearly chortled at Cassie’s remark. Count on Colt? The notion was laughable.
You could only count on Colt Davis for one thing….
Complete and utter chaos.
* * *
The next morning Colt woke to the mouthwatering scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls—an aroma synonymous with his childhood.
His father used to joke that he fell in love with his mother because of her sweet disposition and married her because of her cinnamon rolls.
At the thought of his father, Colt’s chest tightened.
Flinging back the covers, he swung his bare feet over the side of the bed, blinking in the bright morning sunlight filtering through the handmade curtains.
When the small upstairs bedroom had belonged to him, the curtains were green fabric dotted with footballs and goal posts. Now they featured black and white stripes and mini Eiffel Towers. In fact, the entire sewing/craft/guest room boasted an extravagant Parisian theme, from the window coverings to the artwork on the pale-pink walls to the ruffled lace bed skirt.
While it was strange to see how much his childhood bedroom had changed, he appreciated his mother making the space her own. For years after his father passed away, she wouldn’t touch a single detail, even leaving his toothbrush in the holder next to hers.
After dressing, Colt padded down the creaking staircase into the kitchen, just in time to catch a big whiff of sugar and spice as Maggie slid the tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven.
“I’ll sure miss waking up to this smell in the morning.” Colt drew in an exaggerated breath.
Maggie beamed at him. “And I’m going to miss seeing that handsome face.”
Colt planted a kiss on her forehead before stealing a toasted pecan from one of the cinnamon rolls, flinching as the steam scorched his fingertip. “Are you sure you don’t mind me staying with Frank?”
“Of course not, sweetheart. You’re doing a very kind thing, taking care of a man you barely know. I’m proud of you.”
Warmth spread over his heart as she removed her oven mitts to lightly pat his cheek.
The moment he’d heard Frank’s plight, an image of his father’s frail, cancer-riddled body and crumpled features jolted into his mind. And while not entirely rational, he felt compelled to help out in any way he could.
Avoiding the repressed emotions fighting their way to the surface, Colt popped the pecan into his mouth, crunching loudly as he sank onto the wicker chair at the kitchen table. “I like what you did with my bedroom.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Maggie said as she poured them each a cup of coffee.
“Now that you’re retired, why don’t you go back to Paris?”
Her gaze drifted to the postcard of the Champs-Élysées pinned to the front of the refrigerator—a memento from their honeymoon—surrounded by all the postcards Colt sent from his frequent jaunts around the globe. “It wouldn’t be the same without your father.”
“What about somewhere else?” Colt took a sip of the strong, heady brew, relishing the chocolaty undertones. “You used to love to travel.”
He recalled countless stories about her big European adventure after college, the time she brought back the dreaded cuckoo clock from Germany that drove all the men in the family crazy.
As Maggie scooped a warm cinnamon roll onto one of her favorite Blue Willow collector’s plates, she murmured wistfully, “That was a long time ago.”
“Do you still have the tickets?”
Her hand froze midair, the plump pastry poised on the end of the wide metal spatula. After a long pause, she slipped it onto the plate. “Yes, I do.”
