“Hmm,” I say as I take the towel from her. “Have you got clippers in that apron pocket?”
Her brown eyes pop. “It’s that bad?”
I don’t mince words. “Mabel, youarethe smash cake. It’s everywhere.” But I’m fast on my feet and quick with a solution. Years of taking care of my mom, of raising my little girl, and of executing plays on the ice mean I don’t fuck around when it comes to taking care of people or problems. “I have an idea.”
She holds up her hands, but she’s not defeated. Her words crackle with a spark that hasn’t been snuffed out from a rough day. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Game on,” I say and reach for the clip in her hair.
“That’s my lucky clip,” she says.
“Why’s it lucky?” I undo it, letting her waves fall in a dark mess, a contrast to her fair complexion. She looks…good. Even with frosting and cake guts all over those strands.
“I wore it to my first big wedding catering gig,” she says as I set the clip down on the counter. “It’s been good to me. I have another wedding coming up soon.”
“Then I’ll make sure to take good care of it,” I say, glancing at the hair clip. I wet the end of the towel under the faucet and dab the frosting off the strands near her face.
As I touch her hair, she shudders in a breath, then goes quiet, and I work steadily.
I wet the towel once more, then clean the sugar and cake bits from the back of her hair. I check the time. She’s due out in eight minutes for the picture. “Done.”
“Is it all gone?”
“Yes. But your hair’s damp now.”
“Does it really matter? No one’s going to be looking at the llama-kissing ex,” she says with a snort.
I spin her around, shaking my head. “You’re wrong. They will.”
Her look says she doesn’t buy what I’m selling. “To stare at the five-car pileup on the side of the road?”
I scoff. “Not in the least.”
She parks her hands on her hips. “Why, then? Why will they look at me?”
The question hangs in the air, taking up the very small space between us.
The mere inches between us.
It’s the first time I’ve beenthisclose to Mabel. I’ve seen her a few times over the years. At hockey games. At barbecues. In the diner, when she stops by Cozy Valley to see her family.
With her shiny hair, her expressive eyes, and her bow-shaped lips, Mabel Llewelyn’s always been pretty. I’ve thought so ever since the day I met her at a fundraising event for the local fire department in Cozy Valley—her hometown, and now mine too.
But I knew it in an empirical sense.
Now I take a beat to drink her in, and the answers to her question are clear and bright.
Why? Because freckles dance across the bridge of your cute nose. Because your lips are so lush. Because your eyes shine with fire and humor. And because you’re so fucking brave.
“Because…you’re you,” I say at last.
There. That’s safe enough. Just because I’m thinking things about her for the first time—or, really, the first time since I learned who she was—doesn’t mean I’m going to say them out loud. Let alone act on them. Our lives are too…connected. It’d be messy, and I hate messes.
But helping her right now? That’s easy, so I keep going. “Which means you’re going to have the best French braid ever.”
She blinks. “You canFrenchbraid?”
“Of course.”
