Page 3 of Slapshot & Sweet Potato
And unfortunately, the man who hates Thanksgiving almost as much as I love it.
Chapter
Two
WALLACE
Achill lingers in the morning air. Scarlet, gold, and orange leaves tremble on skeletal branches, waiting for that first strong wind. I stroll down Main Street in Alpha Ridge Creek. Not much to see.
So, why’s my throat tightening? My heart throbbing behind my ribs. An allergic reaction to something. Has to be because I refuse to entertain the alternative.
I exhale sharply, donning my disgruntled hockey player expression like I change coats. It’s what Wendy expects from me. Why try to change her mind now?
Sweet Intentions. The peach-and-mint bakery smells of butter, cinnamon, and coffee. On one wall, covered in a splashy floral mural, a couple of small tables invite patrons to linger.
I stand in line, trying not to let my eyes settle on Wendy. But that’s impossible.
Everything about her is cute as fuck. Heart-shaped face, upturned nose, snapping sage eyes, freckled cheeks, cleft chin. Her short, raven-hued locks shine against the fluorescents, reflecting lavender, and her frilly pastel apron emphasizes her small waist and curvy hips. Mouthwatering.
But not for me.
Too mouthy. Too sassy. Too not into hockey.
Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Toonotinterested in me. That’s the real problem. I grimace.Great, the one thing I don’t feel like thinking about.
I notice the line’s snaking the wrong way now, patrons surrounding me. Cell phones come up as bakery customers ask for selfies, searching frantically for something I can sign. Dammit, this is the last thing I need today.
Wendy frowns. “Can you give the guy some breathing room already?” She motions for an employee to take her spot behind the register.
Then, she fights through the crowd, grabbing the sleeve of my shirt and pulling me along.
Flashes pop like fireflies. My jaw locks.
“Come on, Slapshot.”
Something tightens in my chest—ridiculous.
The corners of her mouth turn down as we traverse the hallway to her office. “So, how’s my favorite holiday hater?”
“Favorite? Since when, Wendy?”
She stops, eyes rounding. “Wait a second. Did you just seriously call me by my real name? Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Don’t get used to it, Sweet Potato.”
“So, how’d you end up being the team’s errand boy today?” she asks, taking a seat behind a desk cluttered with recipes, ingredient lists, customer orders. An homage to the rigors of running a bakery.
I grumble, “Believe me, it was against my will.”
“Nice to see you, too.” She motions for me to sit.
My eyes scan her office. Autumn leaf garlands, horns of plenty, even a Pilgrim couple. I laugh out loud.
She eyes me like I’m losing it.
“Who decorates for Thanksgiving?”
“Me. Is there a problem?”
