He looks straight at me, eyes holding mine.
"Looks like you could use some help."
Chapter 19
Denton
On the drive back from practice, the snowstorm is all anyone can talk about on the radio. The “storm of the decade,” they’re calling it. Record accumulation. Whiteout conditions by nightfall.
As I’m heading home, my knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.
Tabby’s safe with my mom at her place, a fortress of central heating and backup generators.
An image of Holly’s bakery flashes in my mind as the weather guy drones on about plunging temperatures and the risk of burst pipes in older structures. The pipes at Sugar Rush probably haven’t been updated at the bakery since the Carter administration.
Not your problem, Blake.The internal voice is cold, logical. The voice of a defenseman who protects his zone and only his zone. The kiss… that was a lapse of judgement. A moment of weakness.
I turn the radio off. The city crawls past my windshield, already coated in a thickening layer of white. A few people hurry along sidewalks, heads down against the driving flakes.
She’s probably fine.She’s resourceful. She’ll figure it out. She has Charlie. Or neighbors. Someone. Right??
My hands tighten on the wheel again.Not your zone, Blake.
But the memory of her lips against mine, soft and yielding, then fierce and hungry, explodes behind my eyes. The way she’d looked at me afterward – dazed, vulnerable, hopeful.
Damn it.
I turn the Range Rover towards Wicker Park. Towardsher.
The rationalizations start as I navigate the slickening streets.Just checking. Quick look. Make sure she’s okay. Because of Tabby. Tabby would be upset if something happened to Holly.They’re flimsy excuses, and I know it.
The drive takes twice as long as usual. Visibility drops to near zero. Wipers struggle against the relentless onslaught.
I finally arrive and park haphazardly, the SUV listing slightly in a drift, and push my way through the snow to the back service entrance. The metal door is unlocked.
I shove it open. The scene that greets me is worse than all the grim scenarios my mind had conjured up on the drive over.
An inch of murky water covers a significant section of the kitchen floor, swirling around the legs of the island, lapping at cardboard boxes. And in the middle of it, looking like a half-drowned kitten, is Holly.
She’s wrestling a bulky wet-dry vacuum, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Her hair is plastered to her neck in wet strands, her apron and jeans soaked through, clinging to her curves.
She’s shivering visibly. The machine roars, sucking water into its tank, but it’s a losing battle against the sheer volume.
Something cracks open in my chest. Seeing her like this – overwhelmed, defeated, fighting a literal flood alone – ignites a fierce, protective burn low in my gut. It’s more potent than anything I’ve felt in years.
"Looks like you could use some help." The words cut through the vacuum's roar.
She whirls around, eyes wide with shock, then disbelief, then a flicker of relief. Her breath hitches. "Denton? What… how did you…?"
"Snow report. Burst pipe warnings." I shrug out of my heavy wool coat, tossing it onto the counter. “Figured…" I trail off.Figured you might need me."Where’s the shut-off? Main valve?"
She points a trembling hand towards the utility sink cabinet. "I… I got the leak stopped. Earlier. But the water…"
"Right." I don’t wait for more. Action. That’s what I know. That’s what cuts through the confusing tangle of feelings seeing her like this evokes.
I wade into the flood, the icy water soaking my boots instantly. It’s shockingly cold. I crouch, ignoring the protest in my knees – a souvenir from last season’s playoffs – and shove my head into the cramped, damp space under the sink. My fingers trace cold wet pipes. "Show me."
She kneels beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. Her proximity sends that now familiar jolt through me.
