Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“I’ve been hit harder in hockey games. I can take it.”
“Stop trying to make me smile,” she mutters, but she’s smirking, and that’s good. I’d rather see that than her feeling sorry for herself.
She tosses the towel over her shoulder and scrubs her arms over the sink. Once they’re clean, she dries them off, then wipes most of the frosting from her apron too. She peers around, like she’s looking for a mirror before she asks, “I think there was some in my hair?”
I stifle a laugh. “Some being the operative word.”
“Seriously?”
I point at her hair. “Remember when you got so annoyed with yourself you shoved your hands in your hair, oh, about three minutes ago?”
She lets out a low moan, like a tire leaking air. “Noooo.”
“Yesssss.”
Since there’s no mirror, she has to rely on me. “How bad is it?”
I should resist touching her again, but my hands seem to have a mind of their own around her today. Maybe I have a thing for cute women in aprons with llamas kissing on them.
Maybe you have a thing for the woman you wanted to ask out the day you met her.
Setting a palm on her shoulder, I spin her around and…wow…it’s a fucking nest of frosting and cake. “On a scale of one to desperately-in-need-of-a-wash, I’d say it’s one hundred.”
The sound that emanates from her is now death-moan level. But Mabel’s undeterred, and that’s nearly as sexy as her attempt at a smash-cake save. The woman doesn’t let the small stuff get her down. She beelines for the locker-sized bathroom and squeezes in to deal with the problem. She attempts to wipe off bits of frosting from her hair with her towel, but her elbows bump against the wall. The bathroom’s so small she can’t quite get the right angle.
She turns back to me with a look of surrender. “Fine. Go ahead. Be nice if you insist. Help.”
I give her an I told you so look as she emerges. “I insist,” I say.
When she’s standing in front of me a second later, I pace around her, reviewing the damage. Once I’ve done a full loop, she meets my eyes and says: “Level with me. Is it time for a buzz cut?”
“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, you are the 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-kiss 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 been this close 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.