Her shop’s along the way, so once I exit into Cozy Valley, I swing by, grab the sprigs, and race over to our bakery.
I walk into Afternoon Delight, waggling three bunches like contraband. “Look what I brought.”
From behind the counter where she’s straightening a display card, Mabel gasps. “Great idea. So glad you thought of it.”
Yup. I’ve still got it. Even though, as I look around at the bakery—the tables with Christmas pine cones, the plates with snowflakes, the napkins decorated with reindeer—I wish I’d been here to set up.
That’s why I insisted on being a hands-on investor in the first place.
But at least there’s mistletoe.
Are we matchmakers? Not exactly, but the event goes well, and I get the sense that there might be a second date or two.
The potential lovebirds leave, and then after Aisha helps clean up, she heads out too, leaving Mabel and me to finish.
When everything is done, Mabel yawns, then turns toward the stairs. My chest aches with the desire to follow her.
But I can’t. Charlotte’s with me tonight, so I steal a kiss under the mistletoe instead.
And it does feel stolen.
Maybe someday it won’t.
On Wednesday night, we destroy Montreal in our barn, and it feels damn good to crush them.
“It’s a very fucking Merry Christmas indeed,” Ivan says as we skate off the ice with the W, and he taps his stick on the gate.
Lake follows suit.
It’s their ritual. They started doing it a few weeks ago when we went on a tear, and who am I to disagree. I tap too.
After I chat with the media, talking about tonight and then the game coming up in New York against the Ice Kings, I take off to the locker room.
Once I’m showered and dressed in my gray suit, I’m out of there, sliding into my car, texting Charlotte that I’m on my way, then cruising home as I listen to my post-game pump-me-up playlist, a mix of upbeat anthems and rock songs. When I reach Cozy Valley, its familiar sign with an illustrated squirrel curled up asleep in the V, I’m antsy to get home.
To see Charlotte. And those little dogs we picked up yesterday for a brief two-day stint here. I pull into the driveway, and my gaze swings to a familiar car at the curb.
Mabel’s ride.
My heartbeat speeds up. So annoying, but annoying is becoming my new normal. I head inside, and the second the door closes, the scrabble of paws ricochets through the house. The sound of yaps echo too. Then two little critters race over.
They bark their little brains out, but they’re excited to see me. I kneel to give them scratches.
“Hi, Mischief,” I say to one of them.
Mabel cracks up as she sets her book on the living room table and walks over to me. “That’s Mayhem.”
“Well excuse me,” I tease.
“Mayhem has the tan head—it’s lighter in color. Mischief’s more black,” she explains simply.
And…that’s helpful. But honestly, the issue wasn’t that I couldn’t differentiate the colors. It’s that they seriously look alike. “Good to know,” I say, then peer around my house. It’s quiet. No pitter-patter of tween feet. “Is Charlotte asleep?”
As Mabel returns to the couch, she nods. “She crashed around ten.”
It’s nearly midnight now. “You stayed? You don’t have to babysit.” Shit, the last thing I want is for her to feel that way. “She convinced me she was old enough to stay home alone with the dogs.”
Mabel gives a dismissive wave as she sinks down onto the couch, and two little Chiweenies jump up next to her. “It wasn’t babysitting,” she says, then strokes one dog’s head, then the other’s chin before she looks up at me. “Oh, sorry. Are they allowed on your couch?”
