Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Clark
When I saw the text from Ingrid with the word EMERGENCY, I panicked.
I screeched out of the inn parking lot, already imagining myself delivering her baby in the front seat of my truck. I’ve seen the movies. How hard could it be? Towels, breathing, and—okay, I’m going to throw up.
But then her next text arrived:
Ingrid: We’re out of rocky road. I need rocky road. Like, now.
I blink. Read it again. Seriously?
“That’s the emergency?” I growl at the glowing screen. I’ve officially reached the point of arguing with electronics.
When I get to Ingrid’s, she’s going to sit through a dramatic reading of what counts as a crisis. Spoiler alert: ice cream does not make the cut.
I grip the wheel tighter. She has no idea what she just ruined. Jess and I were… God, we were good. Pressed against each other like teenagers, lips locked, hands everywhere—the kind of kiss that makes your brain forget your own name.
And then my phone buzzed. Poof. Mood murdered by rocky road.
Maybe it’s for the best. What if Mike had seen us? Or one of the hockey kids? Hard to lecture about discipline when Coach Clark is steaming up the Sugar Plum Inn parking lot with a stranger.
Still, I can’t shake the hollow pit in my chest. Jess’s body felt perfect pressed against mine. It was more than heat on a cold night—it was the possibility of something real.
I thumb a reply to Ingrid.
Clark: Fine. I’ll get your rocky road.
No emojis. She doesn’t deserve emojis.
At the store, I march to the freezer aisle like a man on a mission. The glass doors fog with the cold, rows of ice cream mocking me. Vanilla. Chocolate. Mint chip. Every flavor under the sun.
And then it hits me—I didn’t get her number. I can’t text her, can’t apologize, can’t explain that if I could’ve ignored my sister’s craving, I would have. Now I’m the guy who abandoned her mid-date with no explanation.
I grab the rocky road and slam the door shut. “Hope you’re happy, Ingrid.”
Truth is, I’m not mad at her. I’m mad at myself. I could’ve gotten Jess’s number. Now I’m the guy who left her standing in a parking lot, holding a branch of mistletoe.
At checkout, Mrs. Dobbins—the town’s unofficial gossip courier—eyes the ice cream. “Ingrid’s cravings must be kicking in.”
“How’d you guess?”
She presses buttons on the register, peering over her glasses. “You’re a sweet brother to take care of her.”
Nice words, but the tone is a shovel, digging for more. Everyone knows Ingrid’s having a baby on her own. She chose this path—didn’t want to wait for the perfect man. She wanted a mothering life, and I promised to be there for her.
Mrs. Dobbins isn’t done. Her eyes narrow. “You were playing Santa earlier, weren’t you? Down at the rink.”
I clear my throat. “Maybe.”
She grins like she just won the church raffle. “Knew it! I’d recognize those shoulders anywhere. You gave little Tommy Jenkins a candy cane. He hasn’t stopped telling everyone Santa knows his name.”
“Santa knows everyone’s name,” I mutter.
“Don’t be a grump,” she says conspiratorially. “It’s Christmas.”
I laugh despite myself. “I’ll try.”
She slides the tub across the counter. “Well, Santa, don’t let Ingrid’s sweet tooth keep you from spreading more holiday cheer.”
Outside, snow falls soft and steady. Wreaths hang from every lamppost, lights stretch across the sidewalks. Quiet, peaceful, enough Christmas charm to put Hallmark to shame.
Part of why I moved back to Starlight Bay was family.
Part of it was a fresh start. I couldn’t live in the city as the former NHL star—someone always recognized me, wanted a picture or autograph, or worse, judged my playing skills.
Here, I’m just Clark Carter, the Christmas tree farm kid.
Not Clark Carter, the Bad Boy of Hockey.
I pull up at Ingrid’s. She’s at the door, beneath the garland she insisted on hanging herself, waddling like a penguin. A wooden sign leans against the railing: Believe in the Magic, glittered in her signature style. I stomp the snow off my boots.
“You brought it!” she gasps, gaping at the tub like it’s oxygen.
I hand it over with a scowl. “You owe me. You ruined my night.”
She plucks it from my hand and pulls me inside. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Laura lounges on the couch in flannel reindeer pajamas, popcorn balanced on her lap. “Saving the world again, Santa Claus?”
I flop onto the couch, narrowly avoiding a stack of baby name books. “Ran into someone.”
“A woman?” Ingrid peeks from the kitchen.
“Not just any woman,” I say, snagging popcorn.
Laura shoves the bowl at me. “Don’t leave me hanging. What woman?”
“You remember the tall brunette from the—”
“Stingers game?” Ingrid guesses, spoons in hand.
“I thought she ghosted you,” Laura adds, grabbing a spoon.
Heat burns the back of my neck. “She showed up tonight. Sat on Santa’s lap.”
“Oooh!” They squeal in unison.
“They’re loving this too much,” I mutter.
“She’s just your type,” Laura teases, eyes sparkling.
“I don’t have a type,” I protest.
Ingrid laughs, clutching her belly. “Lizzy Langford? Stella Mackenzie?”
“Tisha Costello?” Laura adds.
Okay, maybe I do have a type.
“She’s not—” I start, then stop. Chest tight. “It’s… complicated.”
Ingrid snorts. “You think I don’t know complicated? Try picking a sperm donor from an app, little brother. Life’s complicated. But this woman? She seemed good for you. Like, lighten-you-up good.”
I look away. “Yeah. She is.”
Ingrid elbows me. “Knew it. Santa’s got a crush.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “I didn’t even get her number.”
Ingrid grins around a mouthful of ice cream. “But I bet you know where to find her.”
“What are you waiting for?” Laura asks.
I jump up so fast both of them giggle, but it’s no joke. On the drive back to the inn, I rehearse what I’m going to say: I need your number. Now.
But when I get back, the doors are locked. I ring the bell repeatedly until Sam appears, flannel robe looking annoyed.
“Oh. It’s you,” he says.
“Hi, Sam. Can you let me in? I have to tell Jess something.”
“Jess?” He taps his chin. “No Jess here tonight.”
Frustration makes my head ache. “I was with her. Eating chili.”
He pretends to think. “Nope. No Jess.”
“Come on. I just want to tell her goodnight.”
He starts to close the door. “You should call her, then.”
I stick my boot in the door. “Please. I really need a break.”
“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s what my son said too.”
The door slams in my face. I remove my foot just in time.
Undeterred, I sneak around to the back. Maybe a door or window is unlocked. Nope. The Sugar Plum Inn is tighter than Fort Knox.
I trudge back to my truck, boots dragging through fresh snow. Whatever I was going to say to Jess… will have to wait until tomorrow.