My pulse stuttered. Heat, adrenaline, cranberries, biscuits, and bacon grease. It was a lot to process. Too much for my fragile heart to take.
“Please put on a shirt,” I said firmly, not meeting his eyes.
“What?” He backed up, a mixture of confusion and amusement playing in his voice.
“I said, put on a shirt. Having you sit here all… without any… It’s unhygienic.”
“Unhygienic?” He laughed.
“Yes! I’m working with food.”
“I promise I won’t get my pecs in your yams.” Then, just to make a point, he flexed, just enough to make the muscles jump under his skin.
I groaned softly, trying to focus on the sauce, stirring, tasting, muttering about the chipotle-sweet balance. The sight of him was, I admitted, a problem. But I shoved the thought aside. Turkey roasting. Yams caramelizing. Brussels sizzling. Cranberry-chipotle sauce bubbling. Time ticking.
I had work to do, and it didn’t involve salivating over the impressive form of the incredibly hot hockey player in front of me.
At one point, a pan slipped from my grasp, and Landon jumped up to catch it in a single motion, brushing my fingers with his. “You’re lucky I’m good under pressure.”
“Yeah. Lucky.”
He winked at me before helping to steady the pan. “Anything else I can help you with?”
It was the nudge I needed.
“Okay, Brussels are done, yams are good, sauce is simmering. Now for—” I found my footing again, and launched into a rapid-fire rundown of the other dishes: roasted pecan salad with goat cheese, apple slaw with a little heat, mini chocolate-pumpkin tarts—all hinted at across the counters, waiting for me to finish.
“You’re insane,” he said, voice low enough for me to feel it in my chest.
“Yes,” I said, shoving a whisk into his hand. “Now whisk as if your life depended on it.”
He did, and with mock ceremony too, adding a little flick to the sauce and smirking when I shot him a look. The clock ticked down. The scent of maple-bacon Brussels was intoxicating, yams sticky and sweet, cranberries smoky from the chipotle.
I glanced at Landon perched on the barstool again, watching me work with a mix of amusement and mild horror, and muttered under my breath, “This is why I don’t cook for normal people.”
He chuckled. “Keep talking, Hat Girl. I’m learning a lot about Friendsgiving and apparently the NHL at the same time.”
I threw a stray cranberry at him. He caught it. Tossed it back. I ducked behind the counter, laughter mixing with frantic motion, trying to keep up with the clock and the spread.
By the time the last tray of yams went into the oven for caramelization, Landon was hovering at my shoulder again, commenting on spice levels and how “brave” I was to mix chipotle with cranberries.
“Brave or desperate,” I muttered, swirling the sauce and tasting again. “Depends on how you define survival.”
He winked, and the butterflies in my stomach went ballistic. “I’d call it genius if it weren’t so terrifying to watch in real-time.”
And somehow, despite the chaos, it was working. I was saving Friendsgiving with the most unlikely sidekick.
I collapsed onto the barstool next to him. My apron was covered in streaks of sauce and flour, my hair escaped in a dozen wild strands from the ponytail I’d given up on hours ago. I was messy. Exhausted. And, inexplicably, a little giddy.
Probably because the heat from his naked torso was seeping through the flannel of my pjs.
“You know,” I said, trying to sound calm but still catching my breath, “there was one year Dallas won the Cup, and they didn’t have a great season leading up to it.”
His brow lifted, a flash of surprise crossing his face. “Uh… okay?”
“Think about it.” I gestured with the spatula to guide him through my thoughts. “Surge’s current stats are way better than theirs were back then, and with you as the secret weapon…” I let my gaze flick briefly to him, catching the steely gleam in his bluest eyes. “All I’m saying is, despite what other fans are whining about, I totally believe you guys can take it a second time.”
He stared at me, eyes narrowing just a touch, that teasing curl on his lips. “Secret weapon, huh?”
