Page 62 of Mistletoe Face Off

It's true? The story is true?

But it can't be. This is so unlike Harry. The sweet guy who took me on a date at the Art Institute, who stages arguments with me to help his team and the charities they’re supporting. The guy who coaxes my daughter out onto the ice.

The guy I’ve begun to fall for.

But when I think about it, how well do I really know him? We've been on one actual date. Sure, we’ve seen each other a bunch of other times and we message each other several times a day. But is Harry capable of taking performance enhancement drugs, particularly at such a young age? And why, when he’s clearly so talented on the ice, would he feel it necessary to resort to such a tactic?

The blare of a horn makes me jump in my seat and I drop my phone.

Dang it!

It’s lost somewhere in the dark.

I glance in the rear view mirror and see a car with its indicator on, waiting impatiently for me to leave my parking spot. I lift my hand in an apologetic wave, and pull the car out from the curb, gripping the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline.

For my entire drive to the next Blizzard Christmas charity event—because of course I’ve got to see Harry straight afterlearning about this terrible thing in his past to stage another argument—all I can think about is that Harry was once a figure skater by the name of Harrison Soutar, and that he cheated in a competition—and got caught.

With my thoughts flooding my mind like an overflowing river, I reach the Caulfield Rink, the very rink where Harrison helped Macy onto the ice.

So much has happened since that day.

Back then all I was concerned about was not allowing myself to catch feelings for a hockey pro again. Now there's a whole other layer to Harry, a layer I did not know existed until half an hour ago.

And now we've got a public argument to deliver here at the “Skate Along with the Blizzard” evening at the rink, and the place is packed to the gills with fans when I push through the door. There are several Blizzard team members in their numbered jerseys, skating around the ice, accompanied by fans of all shapes and sizes. I recognize Casey and Chase and Lorcan, as well as Fletcher and Hunter.

No Harry.

Then, I see a guy dressed as Santa, smiling down at a boy who can’t be more than five, who’s busy telling him what he wants for Christmas—a lengthy list, by the looks of things.

Is that Harry? I slide my eyes over his wide shoulders, taking in the fact this Santa towers over everybody at the rink, other than the few Blizzard players out on the ice. It's him all right.

As if I need further proof, he looks up, and as his gaze lands on mine, his face instantly lifts in a smile, his eyes softening.

Right on cue, my breath hitches in my chest.

I might have been afraid of getting too close to this guy. I might be concerned that he has this terrible thing in his past that colors my opinion of him. But wow, when he looks at me the way he does?Magic.

Once the boy is finally finished telling him his list, his mom thanks Harry and he makes his way over to me.

“My, my, Santa. Aren't you looking good in your beard today?” I say, purposefully keeping my tone light and friendly, doing my best to bury my internal conflict currently raging inside.

Is he a hero or an antihero? The nice guy with a heart of gold, or someone who used an illegal substance to help beat out his competition unfairly, then ran away and changed his name?

I huff out a breath.

“I do like to keep a good beard,” he replies toying with it.

I'm too conflicted to hold a normal conversation with him, even though the last time I was in the same room as him was on that amazing date. So instead, I dive straight into the job we have to do tonight. “I've worked out what we can argue about today.”

He raises his brows. “Christmas related?”

“Naturally. Elf on the Shelf.”

He looks at me blankly. “You know, the idea that Santa sends an elf to kids’ homes to watch over them to see what their behavior is like the weeks leading up to Christmas?”

“Oh, like the book?”

He knows the book? What am I saying? Of course he does. Harrison Clarke is the perfect guy. “Exactly. Ready?” I nod my head in the direction of a bunch of people who already have their phones out, primed to capture our latest spat.

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