Page 39 of Mistletoe Face Off

“Mac and cheese for dinner,” I confirm, grateful I thought to make a larger batch last time and freeze enough for an extra dinner for two.

Mac and cheese is Macy's favorite meal, and I find myself making it more often than not when her dad fails to turn up with whatever flimsy excuse he's giving this time. Really, it's incredible she still likes the dish considering she probably associates it with feeling let down by someone she loves.

I know Phil lives in Denver these days, thanks to signing with the Thunderwolves when Macy was only two, but he comes to town to play the Blizzard often enough as they’re part of the Central Division in the NHL Eastern Conference. And besides, the hockey season doesn’t run all year. He could come visit her way more often than he does.

It begins to snow as we arrive at the ice rink, and I park my car next to a shiny black Mercedes SUV. I don't know a whole lot about cars, but I can tell this one is expensive, and next to my beat up old Toyota, it’s next level in the luxury stakes. We bundle up against the cold, dash across the parking lot, and into the rink. The place is buzzing with plenty of skaters out on the ice, Christmas songs blasting over the sound system, decorations adorning the ceiling and walls, complete with a Christmas tree, covered in lights.

“Mommy, it's so beautiful!” Macy exclaims, and I've got to agree with her. The place looks like a Christmas wonderland, right down to the line of reindeer positioned along the side of the ice.

It doesn't take long to spot Harrison, mainly because he's a good head taller than most people, but also because he standsout so clearly to me. When my eyes land on his I get that familiar thrill in my belly, and I've got to remind myself that all that's happened between us is a tiny bit of flirting and nothing more, just as Selena said.

Which is the way it should stay—even if there’s a part of me that would like it to be more.

He’s a hockey pro, and I know all too well what those guys are like.

“Hello, you two,” he says in greeting.

“Hi,” I reply as I throw my eyes over him. Like us, he's bundled up against the cold, a hat pulled down low across his forehead. His ocean green eyes are sparkling as his face lifts into the smile that always seems to make me feel like a teenage girl again, stealing glances at him in study hall, wishing he could be mine.

“Hi, Harry,” Macy says brightly. “Where's your Santa suit?”

“I left it in the sleigh. I didn't want to get mobbed by kids,” he replies.

“Is that a common problem for you when you're dressed as Santa?” I ask.

“It happens all the time. That's why I need to dress like a regular person.”

There’s nothing much regular about this particular person, that’s for sure.

“But youarea regular normal person,” my daughter insists with a giggle, winning another smile from Harrison.

“You’re so right, Macy. I’m as regular as they come.”

“Thank you so much for doing this,” I say. “I know you're busy and we really appreciate it. Don't we, honey?”

Macy nods, her face lit up in a smile.

He gestures at the ice skate boot hire station. “Let's go get some boots. Will you be skating today too, Holly?”

“Of course. Not that I'm anywhere near as good as you. When did you learn to skate like that?” I ask as we make our way over to the station.

“A lifetime ago,” he replies elusively.

I’m not going to push him. I’m not here as a reporter today, and the guy’s doing me and Macy a favor.

We hire skates and sit down at the edge of the ice to lace them up while the music plays, creating a fun and festive atmosphere.

Harry is the first to be ready, probably thanks to the fact he wears hockey skates most days of his life. “Who's ready to get out there and have some fun?” he asks.

I bounce up, trying to be as positive as I can to encourage Macy to take that final step out onto the ice today—both literally and metaphorically. “Just try and stop me!” I exclaim.

“Just try and stop me!” Macy echoes, and I take her hand, walking gingerly on our skates as I lead her to the edge of the ice with Harrison.

He immediately steps onto the gleaming white surface and turns to face us. With his arms outstretched toward Macy, he says, “Last one on the ice is a chicken.”

“I sure don't want to be a chicken. Do you, honey?” I say.

Macy's face has gone as white as a sheet, and I just know what's coming next.

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