Page 7 of Slapshot & Sweet Potato
He glances up, caught in the swirl overhead. “We’ll give it a shot. If the visibility gets much worse, we can stay at my new cabin. It’s closer than either of our places.”
I open my mouth to protest, struck by how it will rearrange my best-laid plans. But it’s not Wallace’s fault. He’s helping me. As I look up, peering into the thickening storm, I can’t deny the wisdom in his plan.
I try to stay positive, reframe this as an adventure, even as my stomach knots. Bedding over at Wallace’s is unthinkable. After all, he’s the guy I dislike most in this town—after George. But even more than that, he’sdanger… all caps.
The kind that comes with deep chest growls, carved muscles, and a square-cut jawline felted with afternoon stubble. The kindthat smells like pine sap and sandalwood and looks at me, every now again, just for an instant, like there’s more tothis.
The drive out of the parking lot is nail-biting. I hold my breath, trying to remain calm. But the wipers are in a losing battle with powder, visibility near zero.
He squints, leaning forward, using his hand to wipe away the condensation that keeps building on the inside. I help with my mittens, our fingers brushing a few times. Sparks flying even through wool.
“This is ridiculous. Can you even see where the road is?” he grumbles, concentrating hard.
Fortunately, his hands-free GPS acts as a guide, voice steady and calm as the instructions that finally land us in his garage. “Thank God,” I say, letting myself breathe again.
“Whatever can stay in the truck tonight, let’s leave it. This is getting so bad. Not sure the power will hold.”
The garage is huge and immaculate. Shelves of tools line the walls, interspersed with shiny signs featuring classic cars. A couple of vehicles sit to one side, swathed carefully in gray fabric.
I step out of the garage, peer up through the lacy, swirling storm, opening my mouth and catching more than a few snowflakes on my tongue. “But it is beautiful! Quiet, peaceful, makes me feel holiday cozy.”
He groans. “Great! I’m snowed in with Mrs. Claus.”
Inside, he flips a light switch and nothing happens.
“Dammit. Was afraid of this.”
He pulls out his phone, turns on the flashlight, and I do the same, surveying the room.
Instead of the big celebrity mansion I envisioned—the rustic version of MTV Cribs—it’s cozy, restrained, andsmall. Like one-bedroom, one-bathroom small. The garage feels bigger. My throat tightens as I side-eye the handsome hockey player.
“So this is where celebrities hibernate?” My breath clouds white in the chilly air.
He frowns. “Only the antisocial ones.”
Cedar and motor oil thread the air, honest to goodness. I can almost feel his business card in my hand again. A mechanic. Who’d’ve guessed?
“This feels authentic. Like the real ‘you,’ Wallace. It’s kind of nice.”
“The real me?” he grumbles, shaking his head. Silence fills the room for a moment, his mouth working with what to say. Instead, he mutters, “Better get the generator going, break into the woodpile. That real enough for you?”
I laugh. “Yes, it is.”
Within minutes, the lights come on, the generator hums, and the faucet works. I walk around the cabin, finding one bathroom, one bedroom, one bed. My pulse races.
“There’s a couch, too, Wendy,” I scold myself. “No reason to start freaking out.” But the throb pulsing through me is anything but “freaking out.”
By the time he stomps snow from his boots by the front door, homemade hot cocoa simmers in a saucepan, and I whip up fresh, homemade cream.
I grab two large, stoneware mugs from the cabinet above, filling and garnishing them with dollops of cream and chocolate shavings. He nods his approval.
“It’s good,” I say, digging my finger into the cream, jonesing for another taste.
But he grabs my hand first, licking it clean. My knees nearly give out. Definitely not OSHA-approved kitchen behavior.
He arches an eyebrow. “Thought you were offering. Wrong thing to do?”
I laugh nervously, pulse racing, body enflamed with a hum like desire. “Is it good?”
