Chapter 14
Holly
The borrowed dress I’m wearing is a slippery silk the color of midnight. It clings in places I’m not used to having fabric cling, and dips in a V at the back.
My reflection in the polished brass elevator doors is a stranger: hair swept up, a few artful tendrils escaping, makeup applied with Charlie’s expertise. Elegant. Polished. Utterly foreign.
I look like I should be holding a champagne flute, discussing stock portfolios or the merits of curated artisanal cheese boards.
The elevator chimes softly. Fifth floor. The doors slide open onto a wall of sound – laughter, clinking glasses, the smooth thrum of a jazz quartet playing “Let It Snow.”
Warm air, scented with expensive perfume, pine garlands, and something savory like roasted duck, washes over me.
It’s a sensory assault after the quiet tension of the drive over. Denton, silent and radiating a low-level hum of what I suspect is pre-game dread beside me in the car. Me, trying desperately not to fidget in this ridiculous dress.
He steps out first, a solid wall of black tuxedo that fits him like it was forged onto his powerful frame. He pauses just beyond the elevator threshold, turning back, his hand extended.
“Ready?” His voice is low, barely audible over the din.
I force a breath past the sudden constriction in my throat. I place my hand in his. His warm fingers close around mine.
“As I’ll ever be,” I manage, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere near squeaky dog toy.
He tucks my hand firmly against the crook of his elbow, his forearm solid as steel beneath the fine wool. “Stay close,” he murmurs, his gaze already sweeping the crowded ballroom entrance ahead. “Stick to the game plan.”
The ‘game plan’, hastily outlined in the car, consisted mostly of ‘smile, nod, I’ll handle the rest.’ Not exactly a detailed tactical briefing.
But the warmth of his arm beneath my hand, the subtle pressure guiding me forward, sends a confusing mix of comfort and adrenaline rushing through my veins. We step into the fray.
It’s… a lot. Crystal chandeliers drip light onto polished marble floors. Women shimmer in sequins and silk, their laughter sharp and bright. Men tower, many of them nearly as tall and broad as Denton, their movements carrying the easy, powerful grace of professional athletes.
Cameras flash intermittently near a backdrop emblazoned with the Chicago Blades logo. It feels like walking onto a movie set where everyone knows their lines except me.
Denton’s grip tightens fractionally on my arm as a man with a camera slung around his neck steps towards us. “Denton! Over here! Quick shot?”
Denton gives a curt shake of his head, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Not tonight, Mike.” His voice leaves no room for argument. The photographer falls back, already scanning for easier prey.
We weave through clusters of people and I catch snippets of conversations about hockey.
This world is so different from flour-dusted counters and the comforting clatter of my bakery.
A wave of profound inadequacy washes over me.
What am I doing here? I’m Holly James, baker of slightly lopsided gingerbread castles. Not… this.
Denton stops abruptly beside a towering arrangement of white roses and holly berries.
He turns slightly towards me, his body angled to create a small pocket of relative privacy amidst the flow.
His hand slides down from my elbow, coming to rest lightly on the small of my back.
The touch, through the thin satin, is electric.
“Breathe, Holly,” he says quietly, his voice pitched for my ears only.
His gaze holds mine, intense, searching.
“You look…” He hesitates, his eyes flickering over my face, my hair, the unfamiliar line of the dress.
“… really nice.” The corner of his mouth twitches.
Almost a smile. A tiny crack in the fortress wall, just for me.
A startled laugh escapes me, dissolving some of the tension in my shoulders. Nice. From Denton Blake, that’s big. “High praise indeed, Mr. Blake,” I retort, finding a sliver of my usual spark.
His thumb moves, a barely perceptible stroke against the dip of my spine. “There’s the owner’s wife.” He nods subtly towards a regal-looking woman holding court nearby, draped in what looks like several thousand dollars worth of ivory cashmere.
Before I can formulate a response, a voice booms from our left. “Blakey! You made it! And you brought… a date.”
A man detaches himself from a group near the open bar. Evan Daniels. I recognize him instantly from the hockey game Charlie insisted I watch last night.
He’s slightly shorter than Denton but built with the same powerful athleticism. His dark hair is slightly mussed, his grin wide as he strides towards us, holding two flutes of champagne.
“Evan,” Denton acknowledges, his tone dry. “Try not to scare her off in the first five minutes.”
Evan ignores him, his bright blue eyes zeroing in on me with unnerving focus.
“Scare her? Me? Never.” He thrusts a champagne flute towards me.
“You must be the legendary baker. Holly, right? I’ve heard so much.
” The emphasis on ‘so’ is heavy with implication.
He glances meaningfully at Denton’s hand, still resting possessively on my back.
Heat floods my cheeks. Denton’s fingers flex slightly against my spine. “Daniels, if you don’t cut it out, I will remind everyone here about the incident with the Zamboni and the mascot costume. In vivid detail.”
Evan throws his head back and laughs, a loud, infectious sound that draws a few curious glances.
He turns his full attention back to me. “Seriously, Holly. It’s great to meet you.
Any woman who can get this grump within spitting distance of a tree lighting…
you have my undying respect.” He clinks his glass lightly against mine.
“Thanks,” I manage, taking a small sip. The bubbles are crisp and cold, a welcome distraction. “This is… flashy.”
“That’s one word for it.” Evan leans in conspiratorially. “Mostly it’s a lot of people trying way too hard. But the open bar is excellent, and the crab cake appetizers are legit. Avoid the salmon puffs though. Questionable.” He winks.
“So how did Denton talk you into being his date tonight for this circus?”
“She’s not a date,” Denton corrects instantly, his voice clipped. The words land like a hard spray of cold water. “She’s doing me a favor. Buffer duty.”
The warmth that had started to build under his touch cools slightly. Buffer duty. Right. I take another, larger sip of champagne. The bubbles sting my nose.
Evan’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks from Denton’s stern face to mine, then back again. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. “Buffer duty,” he repeats, drawing the words out. He nods slowly, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
Denton’s jaw clenches. A muscle ticks near his temple. “Evan—”
“Okay, okay!” Evan holds up his hands, laughing. “Message received! Buffer it is.”
He turns his full charm back on me. “So, Holly the Buffer. How’s the bakery? Denton mentioned you make a gingerbread castle that could withstand a direct hit.”
The abrupt change of subject is jarring, but welcome. I latch onto the familiarity. “It’s… doing well. We’re in the craziness of the holiday season now, filling enormous orders every day.”
He smiles at me, nods and then nudges Denton, who’s still radiating low-level annoyance. “Lighten up, Blakey. She’s charming. And she bakes. You’ve hit the jackpot with this buffer.”
Denton just grunts, but his hand, still resting on my back, gives a small, reassuring squeeze. “Where’s your better half, Daniels?”
Evan points at a large group of women who appear to be deep in conversation. “I’d love to introduce you to my wife, Sophie, in a bit. When she’s not in the middle of a players’ wife summit.”
“I’d love that,” I respond.
The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and polite chit-chat. Denton steers me through the crowd with focused efficiency. His hand rarely leaves my back – a warm, constant pressure that’s both comforting and increasingly distracting.
He introduces me to teammates and their partners, management figures whose names I instantly forget. My role is simple: smile, nod, occasionally murmur “Nice to meet you,” and try not to look as overwhelmed as I feel.
At one point, while Denton is momentarily cornered by a serious-looking man with a clipboard, Evan materializes at my elbow with his wife at his side.
“Holding up okay, Buffer?” he asks, handing me a fresh glass of champagne.
“Blakey hasn’t scared you off with his sparkling conversational skills yet? ”
“He’s been… perfectly lovely,” I say diplomatically, watching Denton navigate the conversation with the clipboard man.
“Hi, Holly, I’m Sophie. This one’s wife.” She pokes good naturedly at Evan’s arm. “Are you having a good time? I know these things can be a lot.”
I laugh softly. “Nice to meet you, Sophie. It’s been really fun so far.” I glance at Denton who’s still talking to the man with the clipboard.
She pulls me aside a bit and lowers her voice.
“Don’t let his grumpy exterior fool you, Holly.
Underneath all that carefully constructed ‘leave me the hell alone’ armor?
There’s an amazing guy.” She meets my eyes, her gaze unexpectedly serious.
“Seeing him actually engage tonight? Bring someone here?” She shakes her head, a faint smile touching her lips. “It’s a Christmas miracle. Seriously.”
Before I can process Sophie’s words, the jazz quartet shifts gears. The smooth, upbeat tempo melts into something slower, richer. The opening notes of “The Christmas Song” (“Chestnuts roasting…”) fill the ballroom.
Evan grins at both of us. “Ooh. Slow dance time. Perfect.” He nudges me none-too-subtly towards Denton, who has extricated himself from the clipboard man. “C’mon, baby. I’m sure these two will join us in a minute. I’m sure Denton is dying to show Holly his dance moves.”