Chapter 37 Just Like a Dog #2
Making it to the first blind-date cookie event on Monday night. I promised Mabel I’d be there early to help set up, but the team meeting started late. It’s going overtime too.
“You’ve done a good job turning things around after last season’s rough ending. We’ve got a few more games to play, but I just want to remind all of you that we don’t have much time off during the holidays,” Coach Ahmed says—stuff we should all know by now.
But I’ve learned over the years that some players go a little too hard over the short Christmas break and come back sluggish.
Translation: hungover as hell.
“So hydrate, men. Okay?”
Ivan chuckles. “Shouldn’t you save this speech for New Year’s?”
“And I will,” Coach deadpans. “Because that’s when you’ll really need it. Keep up the workouts, keep up the conditioning. Let’s finish the year strong and start the new one even stronger.”
“Yes, sir,” Miller says, like a good soldier.
“Suck-up,” Lake mutters.
“Feel free to do extra push-ups, Axelrod,” Coach fires back.
“I love push-ups,” Lake says matter-of-factly.
“Of course you do.” Coach shakes his head.
He turns it over to the assistant coach to review plays and strategy for our next few games, and I check my watch. Shit. No way I’m helping set up now.
“Got somewhere to be, Knight?” Coach asks.
Chastened, I look up. “Right here, sir.”
“I thought so.”
Twenty minutes later, the meeting finally ends. Soon I’m flying along the Embarcadero toward the Golden Gate Bridge, and I call Mabel on the car’s speaker.
She answers after a few rings. “Hey, what’s up?” She’s friendly, but sounds busy.
“The meeting ran late. I’ll be fifteen minutes behind. Maybe twenty.”
She pauses. Plates clatter in the background. Shit. Did I piss her off?
“And here I thought you were never late,” she teases. “Or was that just what you told Ronnie to get me into the trailer?”
The callback makes me laugh, tension loosening in my chest. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“It’s all good. No worries,” she says. “I’ve got Aisha here—we can handle it.”
But that doesn’t sit right with me. I want to handle things too.
After we hang up, I call Annabelle. “Got any mistletoe?”
“Of course I do, hun. I’m a plant dealer.”
Her shop’s along the way, so once I exit into Cozy Valley, I swing by, grab the sprigs, and race over to our bakery.
I walk into Afternoon Delight, waggling three bunches like contraband. “Look what I brought.”
From behind the counter where she’s straightening a display card, Mabel gasps. “Great idea. So glad you thought of it.”
Yup. I’ve still got it. Even though, as I look around at the bakery—the tables with Christmas pine cones, the plates with snowflakes, the napkins decorated with reindeer—I wish I’d been here to set up.
That’s why I insisted on being a hands-on investor in the first place.
But at least there’s mistletoe.
Are we matchmakers? Not exactly, but the event goes well, and I get the sense that there might be a second date or two.
The potential lovebirds leave, and then after Aisha helps clean up, she heads out too, leaving Mabel and me to finish.
When everything is done, Mabel yawns, then turns toward the stairs. My chest aches with the desire to follow her.
But I can’t. Charlotte’s with me tonight, so I steal a kiss under the mistletoe instead.
And it does feel stolen.
Maybe someday it won’t.
On Wednesday night, we destroy Montreal in our barn, and it feels damn good to crush them.
“It’s a very fucking Merry Christmas indeed,” Ivan says as we skate off the ice with the W, and he taps his stick on the gate.
Lake follows suit.
It’s their ritual. They started doing it a few weeks ago when we went on a tear, and who am I to disagree. I tap too.
After I chat with the media, talking about tonight and then the game coming up in New York against the Ice Kings, I take off to the locker room.
Once I’m showered and dressed in my gray suit, I’m out of there, sliding into my car, texting Charlotte that I’m on my way, then cruising home as I listen to my post-game pump-me-up playlist, a mix of upbeat anthems and rock songs.
When I reach Cozy Valley, its familiar sign with an illustrated squirrel curled up asleep in the V, I’m antsy to get home.
To see Charlotte. And those little dogs we picked up yesterday for a brief two-day stint here. I pull into the driveway, and my gaze swings to a familiar car at the curb.
Mabel’s ride.
My heartbeat speeds up. So annoying, but annoying is becoming my new normal. I head inside, and the second the door closes, the scrabble of paws ricochets through the house. The sound of yaps echo too. Then two little critters race over.
They bark their little brains out, but they’re excited to see me. I kneel to give them scratches.
“Hi, Mischief,” I say to one of them.
Mabel cracks up as she sets her book on the living room table and walks over to me. “That’s Mayhem.”
“Well excuse me,” I tease.
“Mayhem has the tan head—it’s lighter in color. Mischief’s more black,” she explains simply.
And…that’s helpful. But honestly, the issue wasn’t that I couldn’t differentiate the colors. It’s that they seriously look alike. “Good to know,” I say, then peer around my house. It’s quiet. No pitter-patter of tween feet. “Is Charlotte asleep?”
As Mabel returns to the couch, she nods. “She crashed around ten.”
It’s nearly midnight now. “You stayed? You don’t have to babysit.” Shit, the last thing I want is for her to feel that way. “She convinced me she was old enough to stay home alone with the dogs.”
Mabel gives a dismissive wave as she sinks down onto the couch, and two little Chiweenies jump up next to her. “It wasn’t babysitting,” she says, then strokes one dog’s head, then the other’s chin before she looks up at me. “Oh, sorry. Are they allowed on your couch?”
But she doesn’t sound contrite, or like she cares what the answer is as she pets the pups. And yup. She didn’t babysit at all. But the effect is the same. She stayed here at my house with my kid, and I appreciate that. “You were dog-sitting.”
She gives me a smile that says I’ve nailed the answer.
“And yes, they’re allowed on my couch. Not like I had a say.”
“Not to throw your kid under the bus, but she totally let them on the couch,” Mabel says.
“Why am I not surprised? Last year she made a Christmas ornament with Scrabble tiles and it spelled out D-O-G-G-Y.”
Mabel’s expression is thoughtful. “I know you travel a lot and you don’t think it makes sense, but would you ever share a dog with, say, Sarah?”
“That’s a fair question, but kids usually think they’ll take care of the dog and they usually don’t,” I admit. “And if I adopted one myself, I wouldn’t want to board a dog half the time during the season.”
“True,” she says with a sigh.
After I toe off my shoes, I set my phone on the table and join Mabel, petting the little dogs too. They’re soft and playful and Mischief rolls onto her back, letting me pet her belly.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I wish I could have a bakery dog.”
I laugh at the concept, but then stop laughing in a second. “Actually…”
“We should totally get a bakery dog?” There’s so much hope in her voice.
“What if we host dog adoption events outside the bakery? Set up tables right on the sidewalk, work with the local rescue and so on?”
Her eyes sparkle. “I love that. And we could use the store’s social media to highlight adoptable dogs.”
“Yes. We could put their pictures on the top of the display case too. With QR codes, in case someone is interested in learning more.”
She hums appreciatively, running her nails down my shirt. “I don’t think you’ve ever been hotter than you are right now.”
“Saving animals gets you going?”
“Absolutely,” Mabel says, then scratches Mischief’s belly some more. “Right, girl?”
Mischief waggles her rear end, and I pet her some more too. The little critter snuggles against me, rubbing her snout on my leg.
“She likes you,” Mabel observes.
I raise my face, wiggling a brow, inviting Mabel to say that she does too.
“Oh my god, you’re so shameless. Seeking praise just like a dog,” she says.
And damn, she sees right through me. And yup, I’m just like a dog.
She reaches for the lapel of my suit jacket, runs a hand down it. “Nice charcoal suit.”
“Is it? Charcoal?”
She nods. “It is. You’d look good in burgundy too.” She tilts her head, studying me. “And midnight blue. Oh! And ice blue would look nice as well.” Her gaze turns a little dreamy.
“Mabel, are you giving me a suit makeover right now in your head?”
“I was.”
“You’re picturing a department store. The men’s section. Picking out all the colors. Dressing me. You’ve got a whole movie montage in that brilliant brain of yours, don’t you?”
“Hey! It was a fancy suit shop. With a tailor on staff. And custom fits.”
I tip my head back and laugh.
She snuggles closer, and the dogs do the same. “Maybe I can take you suit shopping as a Christmas gift? From me to you?” she asks, her voice hopeful. Then she walks it back. “Actually, I can’t afford a suit. So it’s not really a gift. Sorry!”
Oh, yes it is. And I’m not letting her take it back. “The gift is you being my personal stylist. I’ll take care of the suits.”
She gasps, sits up straighter. “Really? You’ll let me?”
I press my forehead to hers. “Don’t you know? I’ll pretty much let you do anything.”
She shoves a hand playfully against my chest. “Pushover.”
“I believe the term is cinnamon roll,” I say, then I cup her cheeks and kiss her on the couch, with two little foster dogs snuggling up against us, and my daughter sleeping soundly upstairs.
And everything feels right.
The only problem is I’m leaving for New York in two days. And tomorrow I need to work out in the morning, finish packing, make sure Charlotte has everything she needs, and return these two dogs to Mrs. Henderson. There’s just no time to indulge in shopping now.
But what about later?
Might as well roll the dice. “Can we make a date after Christmas? Since I leave on Friday morning.”
I’m deliberate with the word choice. Putting date out there. Hoping she picks it up. Or at least, the meaning.
She sighs, like she’s so very disappointed. “Fine. We’ll do it after Christmas. So typical of you to edge me.”
“I knew you liked edging,” I say, sliding a hand up the denim covering her thigh.
“I do,” she whispers.
And I want to touch her more, to undo those jeans, to slide a hand between her thighs. But I won’t do that in my home with my kid here. Instead, I press a soft, barely there kiss to her neck. “And when I see you after Christmas, I’ll finish this.”
I cup her where she’s warm for me, already turned on.
Her breath catches. “You tease.”
“If you think I’m such a tease, just wait till you see your Christmas gift.”
She whines. “You’re the king of edging.”
“I know.”
The next day as I’m packing, the little dog with the darker head nudges aside the socks I’ve dropped in my suitcase.
“You want to come to New York, little cutie?” I ask Mischief.
She’s a determined beast, and she keeps nosing at the socks. Her friend trots into my bedroom, and Mayhem gets in on the action too, checking out my suitcase, tunneling through socks until…they find something white and shiny in my suitcase. It’s got a silvery bow on it.
I pick it up, turn it over like it’s a treasure.
Some dangerous hope builds in me. It’s stupid and yet it has a hold of me. There’s a small card on it. It’s white with the words Merry Christmas in black letters.
Holy shit.
She custom-made this card. She must have. No one makes black-and-white Christmas cards. But Mabel did. For me. And she must have snuck this into my suitcase when Charlotte invited her over last night.
I should wait till Christmas morning to open the gift, and I will. I swear I will. But I sit on the edge of the bed, two small pups staring up at me, as I peek at the card for now.
Dear Corbin,
This is just a small token of my appreciation for all that you’ve done for me. From the day you came to my rescue at the romance fair, to the day after that when you said yes to a wild plan to start a bakery, to every day since then.
It’s been quite a ride, hasn’t it? From the knitting club bets against us (ha, take that!), to paintbrushes (not to mention basting brushes), to a strawberry cookie jar, then love letters from another century, and, unexpectedly, a pickleball challenge.
I wouldn’t want to have done this with anyone else. And I can’t wait till we open another letter. That’s become the favorite part of my day.
Actually, it’s the second.
My real favorite part? The way you believe in me.
Thank you, and Merry Christmas!
Mabel
She’s not quite saying I’m the favorite part of her day. But it’s damn close.