Page 80 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

He turns and moves toward the fridge, where he bends over, giving me a fine view of his firm ass as he opens the freezer drawer.

When he stands up, he’s holding a brown cardboard box that’s about twelve inches square.

He turns his back to the freezer and slides it shut with his foot at the same time as he tosses the box at me. “Here.”

Surprised, I manage to catch it before it hits my chest. “Gee, thanks for the careful delivery.”

He leans back against the counter next to the fridge and folds his arms.

His expression is hard to read. It’s part excited, part satisfied, part nervous, and part something else I can’t put my finger on. Something I might not have seen in him before.

I turn the box over in my hands. It’s kind of heavy. “A gift? I thought you were trying to avoid Christmas things with every fiber of your being.”

“It’s not Christmas yet.” He shrugs. “So it’s just a regular old non-specific-occasion gift. And you need to open it sooner rather than later.”

“Why?” I ask, picking at the brown packing tape.

“The clue is in the fact I just took it out of the freezer.”

I rip off the tape, only to discover the box seems to have been fastened shut by some sort of industrial stapler or maybe a nail gun.

“Who wrapped this? Brinks?” I finally get my fingertips under the edge of a flap and pull. But all it does is rip the box and leave the giant staple exactlywhere it is.

I offer it to Gabe for assistance.

He tightens his arms across his chest, like he’s holding himself back, and shakes his head. “Nope. You decorated the entire front of my house single-handedly. I’m damn sure you can rip open a cardboard box.”

“Just when I was starting to like you.” I set it on my lap and dig under the torn part until I can get two fingers in, then give it a hard yank. “Ah-ha!”

It gives me enough room to tear off the rest of the top.

Looking inside reveals nothing helpful. There’s something a bit like the gel ice pack Gabe gave me for my ankle that first night lying across the top.

When I lift it off, I still for a second, reading and rereading the lid of the carton below it. Every inch of my skin goes tingly as my brain struggles to process what it’s seeing—process that this is real.

But real it most definitely is.

Surrounded by a blue-and-gold filigree are the words “Amoroso Gelati” in a swirly font. Exactly as I’ve seen them on the Italian ice cream shop’s website the hundreds of times I’ve looked at it.

I lift the tub out from the rest of the cold packaging and turn it around and around, gazing at all the Italian words in wonder. I sense my lips part as my mouth drops open, my mind swirling in disbelief as to how I’ve come to be holding a tub of ice cream that I know for sure is not sold on this continent. I don’t think it’s even sold anywhere outside of Italy. Or even outside of their own store in Florence.

The thought that Gabe has done this for me makes me feel like there’s a bird fluttering its wings inside my heart.

“Um, do you like it?” He sounds unsure.

“Oh, God, yes.Yes.” I lift my gaze to his concernedface. “Of course I do. I’m just…well…stunned. How did you even get this?”

“Remember I was busy yesterday because I had rehab and meetings and some things to do?”

I hold up the carton of ice cream. “Are you saying that was a cover forgoing to Italyfor the day to buy this?”

He releases his clenched arms and pushes his fingers into his pockets as a smirk plays on his lips. “No. I don’t like youthatmuch.”

God, his teasing is such a turn-on.

“I made the calls to get it here though,” he says. “Then went to go pick it up from the airport this morning.”

“The airport? Which airport? You drove to JFK and back?”

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