Page 9 of Santa's Pucking Hat Trick

“Somehow, I doubt any of us would have as much luck as he does,” I commented as I watched Roman move in closer to the woman at the bar, one hand on the small of her back as he ordered her a drink. “Too much baggage.”

“If that’s a comment about Sharon, just know that…well, yeah, it’s still kind of a shit show.” Wes grimaced as he took alarge swig of his beer. “She hasn’t texted me in a few days, but that definitely doesn’t mean she’s given up hope that we’ll get back together. God, I wish she would.”

“Yeah, I never liked her,” Mike told him with a shrug. “She didn’t seem to get you.”

“And yet she’s so attached even after you dumped her that she’s still hanging around,” I mused. “Must have been something there, I guess.”

“Please. She cares more about not dating Wes Robbins, defenseman for the Skatin’ Santas than about me.” Wes shrugged off the whole subject, then pivoted quickly to my least favorite topic. His blue eyes focused on me. “Any news on your quest toward hermithood?”

I couldn’t help but snort, and Michael chuckled along with his long-time friend as the two of them zeroed in on their mission to harass me back into the dating pool.

“It’s not like you’re lacking in options,” Michael pointed out after my first denial of interest on that front. “Not that I’ve noticed, because I’m very committed to my beautiful girlfriend, but there are practically fan clubs of women who come to our games just to see you.”

“Men too,” Wes added. “If you decide you’re into that after your ex wronged you. No judgment.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not gay, and I’m not a hermit. I just don’t see the point in putting time and effort into something that’s just going to end in a breakup, divorce, or death regardless.”

“Jeez, Sawyer. Real cheery outlook,” Mike grumbled.

“I’m being realistic. Besides, no women have really even interested me in years, anyway. I’m not game for another puck bunny.”

It was an excuse, sure, but it was mostly true. I hardly ever noticed a woman who was particularly beautiful or dazzlinglycharming anymore, and it wasn’t just because it was slim pickings in a town the size of Mistletoe. Even when we went on the road for away games, it was like everyone blended together for me. No one stood out.

Well, except for a certain fiery brunette who’d hated my guts on sight. I flashed back to Michael’s twin sister’s welcome home party, the brief and disastrous introduction the two of us had without her twin there to facilitate. The bite in her slightly husky voice when she said,“Oh, please.”

Fucked up as it was, my body had stirred at her presence more than it had for anyone else since Alicia. That wicked twist in her lips, and the lithe body I glimpsed against my will—sweetly flared hips, long legs, perfection.

Of course, I couldn’t tell any of that to her freakingtwin brother,one of my best friends and a family-oriented sap through and through. Even though Mike liked and respected me a hell of a lot, I knew his sister was off-limits to everyone in his mind. Not that I was planning to make any kind of moves on her regardless. That was a bad idea for more reasons than I could count.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Roman and his blonde moving away from the bar and toward the front door, his hand still placed possessively on the small of her back, which was partly exposed by her crop top. As Michael voiced his disapproval about Roman’s ever-changing roster of bedmates and Wes shook his head, I felt the first burning of envy. That Roman had the freedom, the guts, to take a woman home. Unburdened by the bullshit I’d carried since my divorce.

It was hard not to picture myself taking the same step with Rachel Henning. My hand at her back, her laugh filling me with anticipation for the pleasure to come.

Having her around the ice center would be dangerous for my health, if Michael really got her that marketing gig. A distractionat best, and a temptation at worst. But in a moment of ill-advised horniness, I was excited for the prospect too.

5

RACHEL

“I’m gonna murder Bria,” I hissed between my teeth as I trudged back inside the house after a long day. I threw down my purse and flopped onto a bar stool in my mother’s kitchen, where she seemed to be organizing all of her different festive Tupperware containers so she could decide which ones she’d overused and needed to throw away. It was a tradition every year before she started to plan her Christmas cookie deliveries to all of the locals. She was getting started far earlier than usual.

“Did the interview not go well?” Mom asked without looking up.

“She literally had me interview for a freaking elf position at the Santa’s workshop thing at the mall,” I explained. “No wonder she kept emphasizing that I should ‘keep an open mind.’”

“Oh, honey, you know she’s just trying to help,” my mom said breezily as she whisked a newly organized stack of containers off the counter and into one of her soft-close kitchen cabinets. “Steve, did you clean out the gutters like I asked?”

My dad’s voice came closer as he walked into the room, looking chipper. “Of course, dear. Spic and span.” He passed meat the kitchen counter on his way to the fridge, and he stopped to give me a kiss on the top of my head. We fell into a newly revitalized habit of chatting about our days, with me having to relay every terrible detail of the interview that had been a complete waste of my time, until my brother came bursting into the house like a happy little tornado.

“Rach, you’d better stay sitting, because I haveamazingnews,” he gushed as he came in to give our mom a hug. Mom beamed in satisfaction that she had her son trained so well, and then a slightly out of breath Michael flopped onto the bar stool next to mine. “I found you a job. Well, an interview for one. It’s perfect, but you can thank me later.”

I blinked at him, too spiritually exhausted by the past few days since I’d been home to share his excitement. He huffed, then continued.

“You’ve got an interview tomorrow morning for the marketing and PR director gig with the Santas.” His grin was half wicked, and my stomach sank as my parents started to buzz with happiness about this new development.

“See, honey? You’d be perfect for that gig, hockey knowledge notwithstanding,” my dad asserted. “I knew it’d all work out. Mistletoe has more to offer than you used to think, huh?”

Ugh, notthisagain. My dad was a born and bred Mistletonian, and he never understood why I’d dreamed of moving to a bigger city, someplace with museums and better shopping and more appeal than a little permanent Christmas town, when I was a little girl. I remembered working with him on minor repairs to our family cars and regaling him with my future travel plans while he tried to share fun facts about the town I’d lived in all my life. As if I didn’t already know about the famous Mistletoe specific candy cane variety or the annual export of Douglas fir.

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