Page 56 of Mistletoe Face Off

“He was.”

“You must miss him,” she says gently.

I’m surprised at the sadness that swells inside me. “I do miss him, but it was a long time ago.” I lighten the mood by adding, “I'm all grown up now.”

Her face breaks into a soft smile. “Not a man-child?”

“Not a man-child.”

“I bet your grandpop would be so proud of the man you’ve become, on and off the ice.”

“Thanks,” I say, her words meaning so much.

This feels good, right. I find I can be myself with Holly, not Harrison Clarke, defenseman. Not product spokesperson, or someone who feels the need to be guarded, not knowing the intentions of those I meet. There's something about Holly that makes me want to open up, allow myself to be vulnerable. And that is not something I do all that readily. If at all.

We share a moment, looking into one another’s eyes, our hands entwined.

But then her smile drops as she looks down, and the atmosphere around us changes.

“Did I say something wrong?” I ask, tension tightening my brow.

She takes a deep breath, her shoulders lifting. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

It’snevergood when a girl says that.

Worry frays the edges of our shared moment. “Holly? What's going on?”

She pulls her hand away, my heart now thudding for the wrong reasons. “I need to tell you something. Before, when you said you figured I was a journalist looking for story, you were right.”

“I know. Your boss told you to interview me. You told me when you didn’t know who I was.”

“He said there’s something in your past that’s newsworthy, and he wants me to find out about it.”

In an instant, I'm on high alert. I straighten my back, watching her closely, thoughts ping in my brain like raindrops on a tin roof. What does she know? Who's she been talking to? And, most importantly, will she discover my past, the past I've been so careful to conceal all these years?

I make my tone purposefully light when I ask, “What's your angle?”

“That's the thing. I don't have an angle. Writing an article in which I tell everyone you're a great guy who throws on a Santa suit for the team and helps kids onto the ice won't cut it.”

Those raindrops of thoughts begin to clear. She has no story. She doesn't know.

“I’d read that article,” I tell her.

“I bet you would,” she replies, her eyes dancing. “No angle means no story, right?”

She hesitates for a beat before she says, “Right.”

Wanting to get this date back on track, I offer her my hand and pull her to her feet. “Is it totally cheesy to ask you to dance?”

“Here? On the stage?”

“Why not?” I pull my phone from my pocket and select a song. It'sthesong, the only song, the one that led to this date tonight. Immediately, the opening bars of the Pointer Sisters’ songJumpecho around the empty hall and Holly’s face lifts in a beautiful smile.

“I thought you said youcouldresist dancing to this song,” she says.

“It's weird but I find I’ve got to dance, just like Hugh Grant in that dumb Christmas movie that’s not nearly as good asDie Hard.”

“You mean the Christmas movie theworldlikes so much,” she corrects. “And besides, that cue card scene where the guy tells Keira Knightley that he's going to love her forever is totally iconic. People all over the world have copied it, because it's so dang romantic.”

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