Chapter 2 #2
“Why’s it lucky?” I undo it, letting her waves fall in a dark mess, a contrast to her fair complexion. She looks…good. Even with frosting and cake guts all over those strands.
“I wore it to my first big wedding catering gig,” she says as I set the clip down on the counter. “It’s been good to me. I have another wedding coming up soon.”
“Then I’ll make sure to take good care of it,” I say, glancing at the hair clip. I wet the end of the towel under the faucet and dab the frosting off the strands near her face.
As I touch her hair, she shudders in a breath, then goes quiet, and I work steadily.
I wet the towel once more, then clean the sugar and cake bits from the back of her hair. I check the time. She’s due out in eight minutes for the picture. “Done.”
“Is it all gone?”
“Yes. But your hair’s damp now.”
“Does it really matter? No one’s going to be looking at the llama-kissing ex,” she says with a snort.
I spin her around, shaking my head. “You’re wrong. They will.”
Her look says she doesn’t buy what I’m selling. “To stare at the five-car pileup on the side of the road?”
I scoff. “Not in the least.”
She parks her hands on her hips. “Why, then? Why will they look at me?”
The question hangs in the air, taking up the very small space between us.
The mere inches between us.
It’s the first time I’ve been this close to Mabel. I’ve seen her a few times over the years. At hockey games. At barbecues. In the diner, when she stops by Cozy Valley to see her family.
With her shiny hair, her expressive eyes, and her bow-shaped lips, Mabel Llewelyn’s always been pretty. I’ve thought so ever since the day I met her at a fundraising event for the local fire department in Cozy Valley—her hometown, and now mine too.
But I knew it in an empirical sense.
Now I take a beat to drink her in, and the answers to her question are clear and bright.
Why? Because freckles dance across the bridge of your cute nose. Because your lips are so lush. Because your eyes shine with fire and humor. And because you’re so fucking brave.
“Because…you’re you,” I say at last.
There. That’s safe enough. Just because I’m thinking things about her for the first time—or, really, the first time since I learned who she was—doesn’t mean I’m going to say them out loud. Let alone act on them. Our lives are too…connected. It’d be messy, and I hate messes.
But helping her right now? That’s easy, so I keep going. “Which means you’re going to have the best French braid ever.”
She blinks. “You can French braid?”
“Of course.”
“Really?” She sounds like she’d be more surprised if I said I spoke French.
“I have a twelve-year-old daughter. Now, turn around.”
“Yes, sir.” Mabel spins around once more. I take the clip and run the teeth of it through her hair, combing out the wet strands, then separating them into three chunks.
Checking the time on my watch, I put the clip on the counter, then grasp the right chunk in my hand. Her breath hitches.
That’s an interesting reaction, but I need focus to do this quickly and well.
I weave that handful over the middle section, then loop in the left chunk.
I gather more locks on the right, add it to that strand, and weave it into the braid.
I do the same on the left side, then slowly, steadily work my way down her hair, crafting a tight French braid.
As I go, I sneak a whiff of her sugary scent. No surprise—Mabel smells like the treats she makes. It’s the best kind of smell, like candy and butter, with a hint of vanilla.
When I reach the nape of her neck, my thumb slides across her pale, creamy skin. I don’t want to stop touching her, and this is a problem.
A problem I like far too much. My chest heats as I steal another touch, grazing her neck once more.
She stifles a gasp, and I pause, absorbing the realization that she likes the way I’m touching her hair, maybe even the way I have to pull on it to braid it.
When I near the end, she goes still, as if she’s holding her breath.
I fight the urge to tug on the end of her braid.
But I focus on finishing, neatly looping one strand over the other until I’m down to the middle of her back with little hair left.
“I don’t have a hair tie,” she says quietly.
“But we have a lucky clip.” I grab the clip once more and use it to secure the end of the braid. “Done. And with four minutes to spare.”
She turns around, and there’s something in her brown eyes that wasn’t there before. It’s not gratitude, though there is some of that. It’s more like curiosity with a touch of heat.
A part of me thinks that’s good. Another part thinks it’s a problem that this temptation seems mutual.
“Thank you, Corbin.” She lets out a laugh, then adds, “I should bake you a cake to show my appreciation.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m just glad I was here.”
“You don’t like cake?” From her tone, indifference to cake would be blasphemy.
“I ate some off your arm a few minutes ago.”
“But did you like it?”
I’d have thought that was proof. “Of course I like cake.”
“Why of course?”
“Because I like things that taste…” I pause, trying not to look at her mouth, but failing, “really fucking good.”
Maybe that came out a bit naughtier than it sounded in my head. Maybe I’m flirting with my best friend’s little sister. Didn’t have that on my bingo card for today.
“Like what?” she counters.
This woman doesn’t back down. And there are so many reasons I shouldn’t answer that question.
Her brother’s the acting general manager for my hockey team, filling the role after the longtime GM retired last season.
As if that’s not enough, with the season barely underway, a rough end to last year’s playoff hopes, and my daughter extremely busy with middle school in the city, my life is complicated enough.
But there’s something about the space in this trailer, or the lack thereof. There’s something about the flirty way Mabel asked, Like what? And there’s definitely something about the way she’s waiting for my answer like she needs it.
My gaze drops to a tiny bit of frosting still left on her forearm, then returns to her eyes. “Things like frosting.”