He turned, his knee pressing against mine. "I wanted to be one hundred percent sober tonight."
"Why?"
His eyes held mine. He curled his finger for me to lean in. His breath was hot on my ear as he whispered, "So I can remember every second."
Heat pooled low in my belly.
Our table was rowdy. Beer sloshed out of his glass as Wick reenacted his assist. Nick grumbled about a shitty offside call from ref in the first period.
A hush came over the group as Logan stood and raised his glass. "To Beck Shepherd," he said. "The newest Beardog Growler."
Everyone cheered. Beck lifted his water glass.
"Speech, speech, speech!" Freddie the electrician slapped his palms on the table.
A flush of pink spread along Beck's jawline. I released his hand and he squeezed my leg before standing. "I had a hell of a team out there tonight. Getting drafted to play in the Christmas Classic is almost as exciting as when I got drafted to the NHL." He paused. "And since I'll be staying in town to oversee the development, I might need a permanent number on the team."
My pulse skipped a beat, then hammered a drummer-boy rhythm against my ribs. Maybe this was going to be his home after all.
Charlie delivered giant plates of nachos. I ate a few chips, but I couldn't focus on the food or the conversation. All I could feel was Beck's hand holding mine under the table, his thumb tracing slow circles on my palm. My mind drifted to how those strong stick-handling hands would feel on other parts of my body.
"Clara!" Beck nudged me. "Someone wants to say hi."
I turned. It was Maddie's dad, Phil White.
"Hey, Mr. White."
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to tell you that Maddie has been practicing her lutz non-stop since she landed it. I think she's going to wear out a spot on the kitchen linoleum from all that spinning in her socks." He beamed, the look of a man who's spent ten weekends in a row at a rink.
"She's a good little skater."
"And she hung her Dorothy costume on the wall next to her Taylor Swift poster. You've brought so much joy to our daughter's life."
My throat tightened and I bit my lip to stop myself from tearing up. "It's a two-way street, sir. Your daughter is a joy to coach."
He turned to Beck and shook his hand. "Thank you for saving the programs. Without this woman, there would be a lot of kids pushed out of figure skating."
Beck draped his arm over my shoulder and squeezed me tightly. "She's a true small-town success story."
The tears welled in my eyes once again, but this time I had to grab a napkin to make them disappear.
"She is." Mr. White stepped back. "I'll see you at the rink. No, wait! I'll see you at the town meeting tomorrow.” He waved and disappeared into the crowd.
Beck leaned close. "I'm so proud of everything you've done here."
I turned to him. "It's time to go."
After some drawn-out goodbyes and a few exaggerated excuses about Dash's dinnertime, we put on our coats and stepped onto Main Street. Beck held my hand as we walked to my truck. The street speakers played an instrumental version ofSilent Night. The snow fell in soft, fat flakes.
"I'm so glad you're back in my life, Clara Dalton." Without waiting for a response, Beck pressed me against the driver's door and kissed me. It was soft at first, until I pressed my hips into his. I could feel the unmistakable hard line of his desire, and my younger self would've shoved him into the truck and taken him right there under the streetlights.
But we were older, and more mature.
"We could park your truck on a side street?" He nipped at my ear and kissed along my jawbone.
Giggling, I pulled away. "Get in that fancy car and follow me. I live in the bunkhouse at the old Fallingbrook Ranch."
"I know where it is." His forehead rested against mine. "But I won't let you out of my sight."
