Chapter 15 The Best Laid Kidnapping Plans
THE BEST LAID KIDNAPPING PLANS
CORBIN
The next day, I drop Charlotte off at school, then head to the arena for a workout and morning skate.
When I return home, there’s a small box left on the front porch, and I stop to pick it up.
It’s familiar, the color. I squint at it, like that’ll make the difference.
Maybe I should try those color-blind glasses again so I can see it better.
But I don’t want to walk around wearing tinted glasses all the time. And really, what’s the point?
It’s a bakery box from our bakery—still feels so strange to think of it like that. But that means I don’t need glasses. It’s blush.
And it’s tied with a white polka-dot ribbon. A stupid smile takes me hostage. Dammit. I shouldn’t feel this way over a ribbon-wrapped box, but it’s from Mabel.
Drawing a breath, I will myself to calm down. It’s just a little thing—this gift. A little thing with a tiny card tucked under the ribbon. I grab that first and flick it open.
Dear Corbin,
All that lilac made me think of lavender, which made me think of Earl Grey and lavender, which made me think that those are one of the most delicious combos ever, which made me turn them into a London Fog cake. And then I thought of the perfect “story” for this treat too. What do you think?
Mabel
P.S. The color of the box is Blush.
“I know,” I whisper to myself.
There’s a paper heart inside the card, like the one Mabel first mocked up.
When it rains, I gaze out the window and eat cake…
It’s a little poignant, the short story of the cake. The gesture’s thoughtful too, not just because she’s showing me the color of the boxes we’ll use but she’s baking for me. Mabel doesn’t take anything for granted. She wants to prove herself to me too.
We’re similar like that. My chest warms from that awareness. And all at once, I don’t want to be outside on the porch where anyone can see me thinking mushy fucking thoughts about a piece of cake.
I go inside, shut the door, and absently run my thumb and forefinger along the satiny ribbon.
What did she wear when she baked this? Did her T-shirt slope down her shoulder, exposing her collarbone for stolen kisses?
Would her neck have tasted like lavender, sugar, and warm kitchen calling me home?
Did she tie this ribbon herself? Of course she did.
That’s her style. She planned all this, baking it and dropping it off and—
For fuck’s sake, she’s your business partner, not your damn girlfriend.
Thank god that voice in my head is also rolling its eyes as it laughs at me. Yup. The voice is right. I can’t get caught up in these feelings, in these ridiculous daydreams. That’s all they are.
I take the note and the box to the kitchen and focus on business. Just business. I dip a fork into the cake. It’s moist, sweet, and silky. And it’s so damn soft that the texture is making me think of other soft things.
Her mouth. Her skin.
I’m already aroused from picturing her baking. I really can’t start entertaining filthy fantasies as I sample what she made. I also shouldn’t eat all this cake, or I won’t be able to make the plays I need to make on the ice.
I slice off the section I took the bite from and set it on a plate next to the note and the heart.
The rest of the slice is neat and clean now.
I place it back in the box and hop on my bike, then head up the street to Annabelle’s.
She answers the door with a knowing tilt of her head, her braids swishing.
Seven is at her feet, rubbing up against her calf. “I heard I was right,” Annabelle says.
I guess this conversation has been inevitable since the day she said Something big is about to happen.
“Yes. You were,” I admit, but my chest tightens. Maybe I don’t want that reminder. “I brought you something.”
I hand her the box, then make a move to go. I’m itching to take off. I don’t know why. I like Annabelle. She’s only ever been good to me and to my mom. But this intense impulse to jet is pulling at me uncomfortably.
She smirks, eyes the box then me. “You do know that giving me this won’t stop you from thinking of the woman who made it for you.”
I flinch. “How did you know a woman made it for me?”
My god, is she that psychic?
Her smile widens, shifting into a laugh. “I took a good guess. But I was right, I see.”
“I’m not thinking of anyone,” I lie. Maybe this is why I want to leave. She’s too astute, and I’m not sure I’m in the mood to be read, energy or otherwise.
“Corbin,” she chides, then her eyes soften. “It’s been a long while, hasn’t it?”
Not just a while. But a long while. Did she even meet Eliza? I can’t remember. “Since what?” I ask.
To her credit, she doesn’t roll her eyes. She does, however, push on. “Is she someone special?”
That’s a loaded question. I could tell her Mabel’s the woman I can’t stop thinking about. That she’s someone I wanted to ask out seven years ago. Or I could say she’s my new business partner.
Maybe she’s even my good luck charm.
All of those may be true, but none matter as much as this: “Yes, she’s the woman who’s finally helping me make my mom’s dreams come true.”
Annabelle’s smile turns sad. “I’m so glad to hear that, honey.”
I give her a tight nod, then turn to go. But halfway down the steps, I stop and turn around. That same uncomfortable feeling from the Foxes gift shop returns, but I push past it once again. “Annabelle, the cake?”
She tilts her head. “Yes?”
I grit my teeth, then blow out a breath, trying to release the tension. “What color is the frosting?”
Humming thoughtfully, she looks down at the cake, studies it, then raises her face. “It’s the soft blue of the early morning before the sun rises. It’s calm, restful, but a little wistful.”
I blow out a breath, and that clawing desire to take off has vanished. Like it was released somehow.
That’s good. A relief. But I still need to go. After I thank Annabelle and say goodbye to her and to Seven, I hop on the bike and head home. Once I’m in my house, I text Mabel. It’s the right thing to do.
Corbin: The cake tastes as good as it looks. It’s the color of the pre-dawn sky, right?
Mabel: Yes!!!! How did you know?
Corbin: I asked someone.
Mabel: I’m so touched. Also, I have to tell you something.
Ah, fuck. Nothing good ever starts with those words. I can’t even imagine what’s coming. But I brace myself as I reply.
Corbin: What do you want to tell me?
Mabel: I wasn’t sure if I’d be any good at working with someone else. I’m a little…
Corbin: Lone wolf? Free spirit? Intensely, incredibly, unequivocally independent?
Mabel: Tell me what you really think.
But I can’t do that, so I write back with something else.
Corbin: You were saying?
Mabel: You make it easy to work with someone else.
Easy is not how I’d describe this desire for her. There’s nothing easy about it.
Corbin: Same for you.
As much as I want to text more, I stop there. I have to.
Fine, fine. Mabel’s clearly not my good luck charm, and I’m not complaining. We win the next game on the road, and since she’s not here in Phoenix, it was foolish of me to think she’d been the thing that broke my point-less streak.
It’s just hockey, plain and simple. And it’s best I keep my eye on the game.
In the visitors’ locker room, as we get dressed to travel to Los Angeles this evening for tomorrow night’s game, Miller is riding that post-game high. “I’m feeling like some bocce ball, boys.”
Lake rolls his eyes from his stall. “You’re such a weirdo.”
Miller cups his ear. “What did you say? Miller is such a friendly, outgoing, interesting guy? Why, yes, I am.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Lake mutters, then gives us a chin nod and says, “See you on the plane.”
Once he’s gone, Miller spins around, looking at me, then Riggs, then Ivan. “I say we kidnap him and make him play once we land.”
“Team bonding now involves kidnapping?” I ask as I grab my suit jacket and put it back on.
“I’m in,” Ivan says, since he’s always game.
The thing is, so am I. I can’t resist a little trouble. Fucking with my teammates is too fun. “It’s on.”
“You got a plan?” Riggs asks.
I tap my temple. “Course I do.”
The plan that’s forming requires input from Mabel. She did say she knew the best bakeries in any city. That’s absolutely the only reason I text her once we board the team plane.
Corbin: Got a favorite cupcake shop in Santa Monica?
Mabel: Are you ready for us to make our first acquisition? We haven’t even opened yet. Sheesh.
Corbin: Think big, Mabel, think big.
Mabel: How big, Corbin?
She ends her message with emojis of eyeballs, and I’m pretty sure she’s not talking about the size of dreams or ambitions.
Don’t engage, don’t engage, don’t you dare engage.
I settle into my cushy seat in the second row next to Riggs. He seems pretty engrossed in his own text exchange, so I write back to Mabel.
Corbin: Very.
Fine, I engaged a little. But I quickly add another text.
Corbin: Now, do I need to rely on Google, or are you the best market researcher in the bakery world? Like you said you were.
Mabel: Obviously, I am the best. I would go to Sweet Cheeks.
I snort-laugh.
Corbin: Is that name for real?
Mabel: Google it.
I do, then I place the order as the plane takes off, leaving the desert behind and hurtling toward the coast. After I set my phone down, I grab my tablet, so I can work on recipes, when I catch a stupid grin on Riggs’s face.
I know what kind of grin that is. I’d bet good money he’s texting a woman.
And since he’s not bothering to hide his phone, I do what I must—ignore my tablet and check out his screen. The message says I’m so excited to meet you in person too!!! with triple exclamation points courtesy of the sender. This is like a wide-open net and nothing but ice.
I clear my throat. “How much did you bribe the Romance Beach hostess for that meeting?”