Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
WENDY
“Great hot chocolate, but that last part goes down a little rough,” Slapshot says with a grimace.
“That’s why I prefer baking chocolate bars, but all you had in the kitchen was cocoa powder. I was pleased to see real heavy whipping cream in your fridge, though.”
He shrugs, eyes catching the firelight. “Like it in my coffee.” He pauses, and the cabin settles in the storm. “How you doing over there? Staying warm enough without the generator?”
I tug the blanket tighter. “You’d think the fireplace would give off more heat.”
He huffs a laugh. “Not sure how our ancestors survived.”
The wind howls down the chimney, scattering a few sparks onto the hearth. He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, every line of him carved in gold and shadow.
“Maybe not my ancestors,” I tease. “Yours were hockey gods, right?”
Something shifts behind his gaze, the spark fading to distance. “First hockey player in my family, actually.”
“How’d you get into it?”
The storm rattles against the walls, snow whispering across the windows. A log pops in the fire, sending a shower of embers up the chimney. For a second, the only light is the flicker of orange across his face, and the soft hiss of the logs in the hearth.
He smiles faintly, gaze still on the fire. “The Olympics. Like every other kid my age. Wanted to represent for the nation, though I’ll never get there now. Not that it matters anyway…”
The disappointment in his tone tugs at my heart. “To answer your question, though, we had a rink in town, but my favorite games were on the frozen lake behind our farm in Minnesota. Those were brutal.”
I picture him as a boy on the ice, cheeks red from cold, grin wide. “Did you celebrate the holidays back then?”
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Big family gatherings … cousins, chaos, too much food.”
“How many siblings?”
“Five. Three brothers, two sisters.”
“They must be proud of how far you’ve come.”
He shakes his head, expression tightening. “They’ve got their own lives.”
His tone is final, but his eyes give him away, a flash of something lonely. I want to reach out, touch his arm, but the air between us feels fragile. Instead, I shift closer to the fire, pretending to warm my hands when really, I’m trying to steady my heart.
“I get it. I have two sisters. Both older.”
“The ever-optimistic baby of the family,” he teases. “Should’ve guessed.”
I arch a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Our eyes meet, the flames reflected between us.
“Just that the best thing that’s ever happened to Liam is Cassandra,” he says softly. “And her sidekick sunshine isn’t half bad either.”
I chuckle. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.”
“You should.” He licks his far too kissable lips, and my heart shivers behind my ribs. What the hell is wrong with me? Love or hate him, I can’t deny Wallace Lemoille is the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Hands down. “We should probably go to bed. Getting late,” he adds like an afterthought.
“Yep.” My insides are in knots, and I can’t explain why.
“I’ll take the couch,” he says, eyes glinting. “Only one bed.”
My pulse trips. “No, I’ll take it. I’m smaller. I’ll fit better.”
He shakes his head. “I’m bigger. I’ll freeze slower.”
The obvious solution hangs between us, thick as the firelight.
“And here I thought chivalry was dead,” I say, trying for lightness.
“Nope. I just need my cook rested and ready to work tomorrow.” He frowns. “It is Thanksgiving, after all.”
My cook. The words land somewhere between possessive and provoking.
“No cook does it all alone,” I shoot back. “I’ll need my assistant rested, too.”
He chuckles, softer now. “And here I thought I’d get to watch you sling flour sacks. Shame. Though that ‘my assistant’ thing is interesting.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
He meets my gaze, voice lower. “Kind of thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
“When you’re being the famous, arrogant hockey player? Yeah, I kind of want nothing to do with you.”
Vulnerability flickers in his eyes. “Gotta be that guy … on the ice, off it. It’s what people expect. But most days, it feels like a lie.”
That catches me off guard. He’s not deflecting. He’s admitting something raw.
“Liam’s lucky,” he goes on quietly. “He found someone who wants him for who he is. No fame, no game required. We gave him hell at first, but now I get it. He found the one thing that matters—a girl who sees him, no matter what.”
I never thought I’d see this side of Wallace Lemoille. “Cass has always been real … funny, down-to-earth, impossible not to love. And Liam worships her for it. They’re the couple everyone envies.”
Speaking of nevers, I never imagined I’d be peeling back this man’s heart, seeing what’s hidden beneath all that swagger.
His gaze sharpens. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re funny too. Smart. A go-getter. So damn sunshiny, I get burned every time I’m near you.”
I laugh softly. “So I burn you?”
“Pretty sure you set fires, Sweet Potato.”
Heat curls low in my belly. The room feels smaller somehow, the air thick with unsaid things and the sweet ache of possibility. My pulse stumbles, suddenly aware of how close we are, how the space between words has grown warm and dangerous. I can smell the cedar smoke on his skin.
He leans in, voice a rough whisper. “Fame feels like performing all the time. Even when my parents died, I had to keep skating, smiling, pretending. The public needed the illusion more than I needed to grieve. My family didn’t understand that … and it broke us.”
I swallow hard. “I can’t imagine.”
“You’d think you’d get used to the noise,” he murmurs, eyes on the fire, “but it’s the quiet that hurts most.”
My heart cracks for him. “I get it. On a smaller scale, maybe. In this town, I’m always on, too. Everyone expects me to be Sweet Intentions Wendy—endless cheer, endless pies. But since the breakup with George, I feel like I’m running on frosting and fumes.”
His eyes soften, studying me. “So I hide in shadows, and you hide in light.”
Outside, the wind whips harder, pressing snow against the windows. Inside, time goes syrup-slow, the fire painting him in amber. My breath tangles with his.
He reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of my blanket, tugging gently until I’m inches away.
“Wallace—”
“If this isn’t what you want, tell me now.”
My breath hitches. Our eyes meet, spark.
“Stop talking, Slapshot.”
Then I kiss him.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to firelight and the taste of cocoa on his lips. His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me, pulling me closer. The soft sound he makes against my mouth—half sigh, half growl—undoes every defense I’ve ever had.