Chapter 3
Nicole
I felt like crying. If I didn’t have just over two hours to pull this off, I would’ve cried. Instead, I squinted at the recipe for marry-me yams again and tried to figure out what the first step was. For the tenth time.
Our one day off in months, and I had everyone coming over to celebrate. There was the holiday too, of course. We were a bunch of rejects with nowhere else to go on Thanksgiving, not even a hockey game. I wanted it to be perfect.
My kitchen looked like a war zone. Flour dusted the counter in uneven snowdrifts, the sink groaned under the weight of dishes, and the turkey… the turkey.
I turned around and was met with a blank square on the oven door where moments ago there was a promising yellow glow. A light that showed me things were moving along on schedule.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I touched a palm to the door. Nothing. Pulled it open, and my heart sank before my brain fully caught on to what had happened. No rush of hot air. No sizzling sign the bird was doing the thing I needed it to do. I pushed the buttons and tried the dial, but nope. It was totally dead.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
Heart hammering, I gave in to the quiver of tears that had been threatening.
I was gonna have to present this uncooked monstrosity to my friends after promising them the dinner of the year.
Now all I could think of was the mocking messages that would undoubtedly fill our group chat for the next few weeks.
Then, as I stared into the cold, dark failure in the belly of my oven, something struck me.
Like some sort of divine culinary intervention, a plan clicked into place.
I slipped on my oven mitts and grabbed the bird, leaving myself no time at all to reconsider this hairbrained idea as I rushed out my front door and swung a hard right.
Maybe this was insane. Maybe I was insane to think it qualified as any kind of viable solution.
But this was what neighbors were for, right?
Hands full, my only option was to kick his door.
A few seconds of silence, then the sound of lazy footsteps gradually grew closer.
The handle rattled, and I held my breath.
This was it. If I changed my mind now, he’d see me running back into my apartment like an idiot, and then I’d have to live with that embarrassment on top of a ruined Friendsgiving dinner.
There was no time to think about the fact that I was wearing my Hello Kitty pajamas and an apron that said “Kiss the chef”, because the door swung open and the world stopped spinning.
Landon Cross. Shirtless. Sweats slung criminally low, hair sticking out at an improbable angle, like he’d just been pulled from a nap. Shit. My brain short-circuited, leaving me with nothing but a mental Out of Order sign, flashing in my head.
“Hat girl, right?” His Bostonian accent wrapped around his words, making me want to lick them clean out of his mouth.
The warmth that shot to my cheeks was the worst betrayal I’ve ever suffered as I stood there, blinking at him.
And also staring. Blinking and staring. I was familiar with the full sleeve of tattoos on his right arm, so it was the star on his left pectoral that caught my attention.
That, and the rustic ribbon inked around it, blank spaces where names would usually go.
Another thing, I realized without an ounce of guilt or shame, that I wanted to lick.
My mouth wanted to form words, but the only thing that escaped the riot in my head was a pathetic squeak.
He breathed a little laugh, and I shook my head abruptly.
Friendsgiving. Turkey. I only had a couple of hours to make everything perfect.
This wasn’t the time for getting caught up in his mouthwatering physique or his tattoos or that smug look on his face that said he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“I… uh…” I yanked my eyes back up. “My oven just gave up the ghost, and I’m hosting Friendsgiving dinner.”
He glanced at the raw turkey, then tilted his head when he looked back at me. “I need to know this because…?”
“Your kitchen. I mean, could I maybe use your oven to finish cooking? Please. Please could I use your oven to—”
“I don’t know you.”
“No.” I let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. “No, you don’t. But I swear I’ll only be a few hours, and I’ll leave the place totally spotless. There won’t be a hint of any roasting, toasty goodness after I’m gone.”
His expression shifted, eyebrows raising as amusement turned into caution. “You’re not gonna steal my underwear while I’m not looking, or whatever?”
Heat flooded my ears. “I… I promise I won’t touch your underwear. Not unless you want me to.”
He smirked, and that amused glint in his eye was back. Maybe even a little respect this time, too. Either way, whatever I’d said had worked, because Landon stepped aside and gestured for me to come in.
“Fine. But don’t make me regret this.”
I sidled past him, turkey clutched like a trophy, scanning his kitchen like a battlefield I could commandeer. Time wasn’t on my side, and as much as I would’ve loved to get to know him better, there was a Friendsgiving that needed saving.
The bird was first. Popped into the working oven, and timer set. I straightened, wiping my hands on a dishtowel, and Landon leaned against the counter, one eyebrow arching.
“So do I just keep calling you Hat Girl or…?”
My stomach did a weird flip, and I blushed all over again. Being addressed by the most famous rookie in the league wasn’t on my bingo card for the year, but here I was.
“Nicole,” I said, holding out my hand.
He took it with a firm grip, eyes crinkling at the corners as he gave a little nod. “Pleased to meet you, neighbor Nicole. Happy I could save your dinner.”
Dinner. Right. I shoved aside the fluttering in my stomach and muttered, “Oh, the bird’s not even half of it.”
“It isn’t?”
But I was halfway across the living room, waving him to follow. “Help me haul the rest of it from my kitchen.”
We hustled between our apartments until I’d assembled everything in his kitchen. Half-finished sauce, my precious yams, brussels sprouts, bacon, you name it.
“How many people are you having over? It looks like you’re feeding the entire NHL.”
“I wish,” I replied, and got right to work on the yams. “Just a few of my coworkers. A reward for getting the day off. Also, I just love the holidays.”
He nodded, sliding onto a stool at the counter. “I don’t do holidays, but I can get behind celebrating a day off. From what, exactly?”
“I’m a nurse at Mission Valley.” I wiggled the can of cranberries at him, and slid it over.
He peered at it, then slowly got to the task I’d set out for him. “Canned, huh? That’s… efficient. I like it.”
We fell into an easy rhythm, darting between my apartment and his, ingredients in hand, swapping trays, scraping pans, whisking sauces. Every so often, Landon would perch on the counter or barstool, bare chest gleaming under the light, head tilting as he watched me tear through his kitchen.
Whenever I gave myself a moment to take it all in, the effect was staggering. Landon Cross. I was cooking in Landon Cross’ kitchen. With him watching. Topless!
I couldn’t wait to see Rose’s face when I told her.
Wrist-deep in biscuit batter, I puffed air out the corner of my mouth to work back a strand of hair that had been pissing me off for the better part of the last ten minutes. It didn’t work, so I did it again.
The second failure is what got Landon to come over, all tattoos and bare chest. I gazed up at him, my thoughts stalled, my eyes locked on his. Without a word, he tucked the strand of hair behind my ear.
“There. That’s better.”
My pulse stuttered. Heat, adrenaline, cranberries, biscuits, and bacon grease. It was a lot to process. Too much for my fragile heart to take.
“Please put on a shirt,” I said firmly, not meeting his eyes.
“What?” He backed up, a mixture of confusion and amusement playing in his voice.
“I said, put on a shirt. Having you sit here all… without any… It’s unhygienic.”
“Unhygienic?” He laughed.
“Yes! I’m working with food.”
“I promise I won’t get my pecs in your yams.” Then, just to make a point, he flexed, just enough to make the muscles jump under his skin.
I groaned softly, trying to focus on the sauce, stirring, tasting, muttering about the chipotle-sweet balance. The sight of him was, I admitted, a problem. But I shoved the thought aside. Turkey roasting. Yams caramelizing. Brussels sizzling. Cranberry-chipotle sauce bubbling. Time ticking.
I had work to do, and it didn’t involve salivating over the impressive form of the incredibly hot hockey player in front of me.
At one point, a pan slipped from my grasp, and Landon jumped up to catch it in a single motion, brushing my fingers with his. “You’re lucky I’m good under pressure.”
“Yeah. Lucky.”
He winked at me before helping to steady the pan. “Anything else I can help you with?”
It was the nudge I needed.
“Okay, Brussels are done, yams are good, sauce is simmering. Now for—” I found my footing again, and launched into a rapid-fire rundown of the other dishes: roasted pecan salad with goat cheese, apple slaw with a little heat, mini chocolate-pumpkin tarts—all hinted at across the counters, waiting for me to finish.
“You’re insane,” he said, voice low enough for me to feel it in my chest.
“Yes,” I said, shoving a whisk into his hand. “Now whisk as if your life depended on it.”
He did, and with mock ceremony too, adding a little flick to the sauce and smirking when I shot him a look. The clock ticked down. The scent of maple-bacon Brussels was intoxicating, yams sticky and sweet, cranberries smoky from the chipotle.
I glanced at Landon perched on the barstool again, watching me work with a mix of amusement and mild horror, and muttered under my breath, “This is why I don’t cook for normal people.”
He chuckled. “Keep talking, Hat Girl. I’m learning a lot about Friendsgiving and apparently the NHL at the same time.”