Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
WALLACE
Achill lingers in the morning air. Scarlet, gold, and orange leaves tremble on skeletal branches, waiting for that first strong wind. I stroll down Main Street in Alpha Ridge Creek. Not much to see.
So, why’s my throat tightening? My heart throbbing behind my ribs. An allergic reaction to something. Has to be because I refuse to entertain the alternative.
I exhale sharply, donning my disgruntled hockey player expression like I change coats. It’s what Wendy expects from me. Why try to change her mind now?
Sweet Intentions. The peach-and-mint bakery smells of butter, cinnamon, and coffee. On one wall, covered in a splashy floral mural, a couple of small tables invite patrons to linger.
I stand in line, trying not to let my eyes settle on Wendy. But that’s impossible.
Everything about her is cute as fuck. Heart-shaped face, upturned nose, snapping sage eyes, freckled cheeks, cleft chin. Her short, raven-hued locks shine against the fluorescents, reflecting lavender, and her frilly pastel apron emphasizes her small waist and curvy hips. Mouthwatering.
But not for me.
Too mouthy. Too sassy. Too not into hockey.
Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Too not interested in me. That’s the real problem. I grimace. Great, the one thing I don’t feel like thinking about.
I notice the line’s snaking the wrong way now, patrons surrounding me. Cell phones come up as bakery customers ask for selfies, searching frantically for something I can sign. Dammit, this is the last thing I need today.
Wendy frowns. “Can you give the guy some breathing room already?” She motions for an employee to take her spot behind the register.
Then, she fights through the crowd, grabbing the sleeve of my shirt and pulling me along.
Flashes pop like fireflies. My jaw locks.
“Come on, Slapshot.”
Something tightens in my chest—ridiculous.
The corners of her mouth turn down as we traverse the hallway to her office. “So, how’s my favorite holiday hater?”
“Favorite? Since when, Wendy?”
She stops, eyes rounding. “Wait a second. Did you just seriously call me by my real name? Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Don’t get used to it, Sweet Potato.”
“So, how’d you end up being the team’s errand boy today?” she asks, taking a seat behind a desk cluttered with recipes, ingredient lists, customer orders. An homage to the rigors of running a bakery.
I grumble, “Believe me, it was against my will.”
“Nice to see you, too.” She motions for me to sit.
My eyes scan her office. Autumn leaf garlands, horns of plenty, even a Pilgrim couple. I laugh out loud.
She eyes me like I’m losing it.
“Who decorates for Thanksgiving?”
“Me. Is there a problem?”
“God, Sweet Potato, you are the most obnoxiously happy, upbeat, holiday fan I’ve ever met. We couldn’t be more polar opposites.”
“Not my fault you’re such a humbug.”
I frown. “I have my reasons.”
“Of course, you do.”
I furrow my brows. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“A big-name celebrity hockey player who wants for nothing. And gives just as little. You’re a full-on Scrooge, Wallace. Nothing to be proud of.”
I shift my weight, dissected beneath her minty gaze. “Lost both my parents in a car accident on Thanksgiving. So, sorry if I’m not Mr. Chipper.”
The call had come during practice. The rink lights had never felt colder.
Her face falls, lips parting just enough to make the breath catch in my throat. Her mouth opens, shuts, opens again.
Finally, she manages, “That’s awful. I had no idea.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it—”
“How can I not? That’s terrible. How tragic. Were you … with them?”
I shake my head, eyes storming. “Happened three years ago on their drive to see me up here in my new digs. Still sucks thinking about it. So, yeah, I don’t have the same appreciation for festive holidays that you do.”
I stand, lean across her desk, and push an envelope in her direction. “Here’s the check from the Desperadoes’ charity event.”
“Thank you. Did the pies go over well?”
“Delicious as always.”
“Despite the festiveness that went into them?”
“I’d prefer to call them sweet intentions,” I quip, and she smiles. “Nice talking to you as always, Sweets.”
I turn to leave, but her huff stops me. “Sweets? Okay, that’s one nickname I refuse to accept.”
I wheel back around, amused. “Sorry, Sweet Potato. I promise not to shirk on your syllables next time.”
“Will you be at the annual Thanksgiving dinner?” she asks with a bittersweet smile. Pity. Exactly what I don’t want from her. Exactly why I keep what happened to my parents private ninety-nine percent of the time.
“Have to, though I’d rather not.”
“Good.” She smiles. “You shouldn’t be alone this time of year. After what you just told me.” She catches herself, looks away for a moment, and then adds, “Not that you’re probably ever alone as a drool-worthy hockey star and all.”
Warmth floods my chest. “So, I’m drool-worthy in your book?”
Her cheeks flush, and she stammers. “Not at all. I mean, other women think you’re drool-worthy.”
I chuckle. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Only when I’m lying.”
"Alright, then, drool-worthy to other women. And for your information, ladies aren’t lining up around the block or anything. At least not the ones I’m interested in.”
“Maybe you should lower your standards, then,” she teases.
“Never. I’d rather be alone than with the wrong person.”
She nods, sadness flickering. “In my opinion, there’s no lonelier place than surrounded by people who don’t get you.”
This feels too intimate. Too real. Discomfort grips me. “Yep, like all you holiday go-getters. You could drive a body crazy.”
“I’m sorry about your parents,” she says in silky tones. “But at some point, don’t you think they’d want you to move on?”
My face tightens, her words getting dangerously close to the raw spot inside my heart. “Probably, but if moving on means forgetting… Well, count me out.”
Her head tilts to the side. “Actually, I think moving on means holding even tighter to the important things.”
“A baker and a philosopher. Nice seeing you again, Wendy.”
“You, too, Wallace.” I can feel her waiting, her energy still watching me as I open the door to leave.
Last minute, I cock my head back in, say in rough tones, “Weather report says we’re in for a doozy. If you need a ride or help preparing for the event, let me know.” The pull to keep the sassy girl with the pixie cut safe is strong, though I don’t know why.
She couldn’t look more surprised if an alien walked into the room.
I add, “I’ve got a big truck, and I know how to get more than little black pucks from point A to point B.”
Sweet Potato, with her lavender hair and ridiculous heart, has me volunteering before my brain catches up.
“A multi-talented man,” she grins. “I do have a grocery run coming up that I could use an extra hand with. You free tomorrow?”
“Stopping by my new cabin to make sure it’s buttoned down for the winter.
But other than that, I could find some time.
” I reach into my back pocket and pull out a business card.
I flick it across the desk to her. She picks it up, eyes the glossy dark blue and black card.
“I didn’t know you used to be a mechanic. ”
“Still am. Keeps me sane when the ice gets tough.” Why the hell I sound so vulnerable around her today, I can’t decide. I growl, letting the door shut behind me as I move through the bakery. Gotta get out of here before I say something even dumber—or offer to fix her damn oven next.