Page 109 of Stolen for Keeps
“I’m hoping,” I said. “But there’s someone else too.”
“Who?”
“Your goat-chasing partner in crime.”
“Log?”
I grinned. “Don’t give him grief. He’s a solid friend.”
Elia side-eyed me with full big-brother energy. “As you say, little brother.”
I groaned. “Okay, maybe it’s time we retired that nickname.”
His grin returned. “You sure? You still look pretty little from up here.”
“You’re like two inches taller.”
“Two inches is a lot.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He threw an arm around my shoulders, tugging me in for a quick shake. “Fine, fine. No more ‘little brother’ stuff.”
“Thank you.”
“Unless you piss me off. Then all bets are off.”
“Ergh. Why do I even bother?”
“Because you love me,” Elia said.
I shook my head, but yeah, I was smiling like a fool.
Because I really did.
30
MAYA
The Buffaloberry Blizzards had their first real weekend on the ice, and the entire town showed up like it was the Olympics. Noah stood out there in the middle of the rink, whistle around his neck, herding kids in mismatched gear and oversized helmets. He was flushed from the cold and completely in his element.
The rink used to be part of the old Buffaloberry Cannery, a brick-and-beam relic at the edge of town that had sat abandoned for years, collecting pigeons and rumors. But Noah had seen something in it—a long, flat stretch of floor, sturdy walls, and just enough stubborn Montana spirit to turn it into something new. He’d called in favors, roped in Elia, and spent weeks scrubbing, painting, patching, and laying down the boards. By the time the first snow fell, it was a rink. A rough one, sure, but one with soul.
Meanwhile, I was on cupcake duty.
The folding table I’d commandeered had barely enough room to keep up. Kids kept darting over for sugar boosts, parents followed behind them, claiming they were “just checking,” and everyone had an opinion about which cupcakewas best. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I’d just thrown together whatever I had in the pantry that morning. Apparently, Flathead Cherry & Maple Buttercream was now a town favorite.
“You should name that one ‘Power Play,’” someone joked as I boxed another dozen for a mom who swore she wasn’t sharing with her kid.
From where I stood, I could see Noah kneeling beside a boy who’d taken a tumble, gently adjusting his elbow pads and saying something that made the kid nod like he’d just been entrusted with national secrets.
This wasn’t just about hockey. It was about giving the town’s kids something to look forward to, and giving the town itself something to rally behind.
And maybe, for Noah, it was about making sure everyone had a place.
I wiped my hands on my apron, watching him skate backward, whistle in his mouth, and calling out drills with the kind of easy joy that could melt the ice if you let it.
God, I loved this man.
