Page 69 of Mistletoe Face Off

“Why the heck not?” he demands in his gruff voice.

“Because I don't think there's a story there. But I did want to thank you for?—”

He interrupts me with, “There is a story. Are you telling me you're not going to run it?”

“I'm not, but I did want to thank you for?—”

“Whatever.” He hangs up.

Well, that went about as well as I expected.

My next task is to inform Slippery Stephen of my decision. I knock on his open door and he looks from his computer screen up at me.

“How's the story coming?” he asks.

“There isn't a story. Well, not the one Donald Mitchell thinks there is.”

He pulls his bushy brows together. “What are you talking about?”

“I spoke to Harrison Clarke after I met Donald Mitchell yesterday, and he told me that the whole doping scandal was in fact a fabrication, made-up by his coach at the time, a man by the name of Garth Gluckman.”

“Of course the guy is going to deny it,” he scoffs.

“I believe him.”

He arches his brows at me. “Is this because he's a good looking hockey player you're star-struck over or something?”

“I'm not star-struck over him,” I insist, because I’m not. It’s more that I’m falling for him—but there’s no way I’m going to tell Slippery Stephen that. “I believe Harrison Clarke.”

He twists his mouth, narrowing his eyes at me, and not for the first time does it occur to me he resembles a weasel.

I bite back a smile.

“So, I'll go get on with my next story,” I tell him as I turn to leave.

He harrumphs in response.

“Macy. You’re doing so great!” Harry says as he watches Macy take another turn at gliding across the ice on her own.

I'm nearby, ready to catch her if she falls, but the look on her face tells me how delighted she is that she's doing this on her own, finally, after all this time.

My heart is set to burst with love for my brave little girl who, with Harry's kind and gentle leading hand, has been taking huge steps in overcoming her fear of the ice.

She's wearing the figure skating dress and tights I gave her for her birthday a couple months ago, which she has worn many times as she's done her twists and turns and jumps in the livingroom. But this is the first time it's seen the ice, and with her hair in a neat bun, she one hundred percent looks the part.

“Just look at you, honey! You're like a real figure skater now,” I say as I watch my little girl glide across the rink, wobbly legs steadying with each push she takes. Her eyes, once wide with fear, now sparkle with excitement. With her arms outstretched, she finds her balance, giggling with sheer exhilaration.

“She’s got this,” Harry says as he skates beside me, taking my gloved hand in his.

My throat is hot with unshed tears of pride, and I smile up at him. “I don't know how to thank you for what you've done for Macy.”

“I have some ideas how,” he replies with a waggle of his brows that makes me laugh out loud. “But seriously, it's my pleasure. She's a great kid. All she needed was that final push to get her out here.”

“But you were the one who gave her that push, and I will be forever grateful to you.”

“I don't want your gratitude, Holly. I just want you,” he replies, his eyes soft, and I swear, my heart expands to twice its size.

“The feeling’s mutual,” I reply, feeling suddenly shy. This oversized tough guy hockey player is everything I could ever want in a man, both as a man and as a father figure for Macy.

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