Page 8 of Slapshot & Sweet Potato
“Excellent,” he says, eyes glinting in the candlelight, snow-dusted hoodie and baseball cap still in place.
“Halloween’s over, Slapshot. No need to stay in costume.” He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s weighing his choices before tossing them onto a nearby flat-topped steamer trunk.
We head to the couch with our mugs, sitting in front of the cold hearth. The lights flutter, and I hold my breath.
“No worries, Sweet Potato. Generator’s ready to go if needed. You’re safe and warm with me.”
Safe and warm. Two things I never thought I’d feel with this man, and yet I do.
“For good measure,” I say, reaching into my purse and pulling out a candle. “Lighter?”
He laughs. “You seriously carry candles in your purse?”
“Never know when coziness calls.” I run my thumb over the label. “Cinnamon and sandalwood.”Our love child in candle form.
Now, he roars with laughter, shaking his head. “Wendy, you never stop surprising me.”
“That a good or bad thing?” I ask.
“Dunno yet.” He presses his lips together, like he’s holding back. But then, he stands up halfway, fishes a lighter from his pocket, and lights the candle, like a peace offering.
Sitting back, he eyes the flame, confessing, “Nothing I hate more than being the constant center of attention. It gets so damn old, not being able to go anywhere, do anything like I used to. I feel like a product instead of a person. So thank you for sticking up for me at the grocery store.”
“Of course,” I say, letting his words sink in. “That’s why I like Thanksgiving and Christmas so much. I know they seem like stupid holidays. But there’s no other time of the year that people really see each other—family, flaws, and all.”
His gaze shifts to my face, studying me. Taking me in, pressing into me, like he’s really seeing me for the first time. The generator sputters, and I gasp. Then, the cabin goes dark again.
“What a night,” he says testily. “Better get a fire going.”
“Can I help?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You a pyromaniac or something?”
“Never made one before, actually.”
“Your dad didn’t teach you?” he asks.
I sigh. “My dad was never home much. A total workaholic. Didn’t have time for his family … except on the holidays.”
His face softens, like everything has just fallen into place. “So, holidays mean safety, peace, security to you?”
I pause. “Never thought about it that way, but I think you’re onto something.”
“Makes sense,” he says, leading me toward the hearth where he shows me how to add kindling, build a tepee of smaller logs. “You want to light it?”
“Sure,” I say, warmth rushing through me as he hands me the lighter, and our fingers brush again. Only this time, they linger, like our stare. “You smell like sugar and trouble,” he murmurs.
I swallow hard. “And you still look like a man allergic to joy.”
“Maybe it’s time I stop pretending winter’s the enemy,” he says.
I nod. “Maybe tonight, the world’s worth seeing.”
A gust slams against the side of the cabin, unable to touch our inner warmth. Snow hammers the windows, looking for entry. But nothing can steal the comfort in this room.
One blizzard. One bed. One chance to melt a Grinch.
Chapter
