Epilogue
WENDY
ONE DAY LATER
For the first time in two days, sun shines through the curtains of Wallace’s cabin. The storm has finally passed. Through a slit in the fabric, snow glitters on the windowsill, pale light spilling across the cabin.
In the bedroom hearth, the embers glow blue and orange as if clinging to the last remnants of their warmth.
I move quietly and slowly, slipping from Wallace’s arms and moving to the rocking chair across the room where one of his flannels hangs.
I shrug into it, rolling up the too-long sleeves, and watching him sleep. So peaceful, almost boyish.
Can’t believe he’s the same guy who used to scowl at my pies. I tiptoe into the kitchen to make coffee. As the thick, earthy smell fills the room, I rummage through our copious baking supplies for a little breakfast inspo.
The annual Thanksgiving dinner has been officially rescheduled to next week, which means I can poach the ingredients we purchased at the store.
Stirring comes from the bedroom, then a gruff voice. “If you’re planning to bake at dawn, I’m rescinding my offer of free labor.”
“Relax, Grinch. I’m making breakfast, not a parade.”
He chuckles, entering the living room. Bedhead, low-slung flannel pants, soft eyes that have me ready to crawl back into bed. “With you, everything’s a parade,” he grumbles.
“Guess you’ll have to get used to this,” I tease, whisking flour, sugar, eggs, cocoa—the beginnings of my famous waffles.
The big hockey player wraps his arms around me from behind, “Didn’t dream it, did I?”
I shift, gazing over my shoulder at his too-handsome face, felted with stubble. “The part where you said those three little words?”
“The part where you said them back,” he murmurs, kissing my ear and nibbling my earlobe.
I giggle. “Nope. You’re stuck with it … with me.”
“Good.”
“Maybe I’ll mark the calendar ‘Thanksgiving miracle,’” I tease.
He shakes his head. “Not the right terminology.”
I arch an eyebrow.
“Not ‘Thanksgiving miracle’—the ‘start of the best part of our lives.’”
My voice catches in my throat. “Better than hockey championships and awards ceremonies?”
“Better.” His arms tighten around me, his rich voice rumbling through me.
“Better than fame and paparazzi?”
“Far better than that.”
“Better than money and accolades?” I ask.
“Better than anything else in this world, Wendy.”
At breakfast, our eyes meet across the table.
Cozy, warm, safe perfection. Wallace cuts off a forkful of chocolate waffle dusted in powdered sugar and takes a bite.
“Mmm,” he groans, and my throat tightens, remembering the sounds he made our first night together in front of the fire.
“Holy hell, what is this? It’s amazing.”
“Choco-Choco Wendy Waffles,” I answer without blinking.
He chuckles. “Should’ve known.” He shakes his head.
“What?”
“Everything about you is so damn adorable … and delicious. Add this to the list of my new faves. But you’re going to have to change the name.”
“Why?”
“Because from now on,” he says, hand sliding across the table to cover the back of mine, voice like velvet, “I’m the only one who gets to taste Wendy’s Waffles.”
I shake my head, giggling and flushing.
“So, what happens when the roads open?” he asks, looking straight at me.
I shrug, saying half-jokingly, “I’ll be slaving over the ovens at the bakery again. And preparing for the annual Thanksgiving Dinner 2.0.”
“I’ll have to deal with the locker room gossip, the cameras,” he pauses, studying the rough-hewn dining room table like answers are hidden there. “I don’t want to lose this, Wendy.”
“Then, maybe we stick to the one cabin, one bed thing. Seems to be working so far.” My cheeks heat as memories from the storm rush back.
“One cabin. One bed. One family. How about that?” he asks.
My face freezes.
“What?”
“Sounds kind of like a proposal,” I blurt out before thinking.
“It is kind of like a proposal only because I don’t have a ring on me.”
I giggle. “So, you don’t carry black velvet boxes around?”
“Like I don’t carry condoms around, Wendy. I don’t have half as much game as you think, and there’s only one flavor that interests me.”
“And what’s that?” I manage, throat thick.
“Sweet Potato,” he says, voice low and wicked.
My phone vibrates on the table next to us, and I look down. Storm warning lifted, power restored, town roads reopening. “Guess the world’s calling.”
Wallace grabs it, eyes the screen. His jaw tenses for a moment. “Let it go to voicemail.”
I nod, ear-to-ear grin on my face. “Now that you’ve turned over a new leaf when it comes to holidays, what are your plans for Christmas? I, for one, will be baking for the whole town.”
“Then, I’ll be there early. You’ll need your assistant, right?”
“You volunteering, Slapshot?” I ask, losing myself in his rugged, stupid-handsome face.
“For life.”
My heart thuds hard against my ribs. “Careful. I’ll put you on the payroll.”
“You already have,” he says, caressing my hand and tangling his fingers with mine.
Outside, snow drifts shimmer. Inside, the fire still burns—steady, bright, ours.