Page 82 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

I put down my spoon and wrap my arms around his neck. “I just realized I haven’t said thank you. So thank you.”

And suddenly there’s space for all the feelings trapped inside me to bubble up. The fact that my parents were always away. The fact that they told me about all the places they visited but I’ve never been to any of them. And the fact that this incredible man has just brought one of them to me.

“Hey, Bugs.” He wipes away the single tear that’s tumbled down my cheek.

“This is truly the most amazing, thoughtful thing I have ever known.” My voice cracks on almost every word.

“Maybe you’re worth it,” he whispers, then stabs his spoon upright in the ice cream before stroking my face with the backs of his fingers. “When you’re not scaring the shit out of people by jumping on them in the dark and covering their house in Christmas crap, that is.”

Then his lips are on mine and our cold tongues come together in a meeting of strawberries and mutual appreciation and something that feels like it might have a whole lot more potential than just a festive fling.

CHAPTER 26

GABE

I pull my spoon out of the ice cream, scooping up a large strawberry, and rest it against Natalie’s mouth.

Her glossy blue eyes lock with mine as her lips part to welcome the sweet treat.

My dick was already straining at my zipper from the throaty groan on her first taste, never mind the kiss that followed. But the sight of the cream-covered fruit disappearing into her mouth has it throbbing so hard the fly might not be able to contain it a whole lot longer.

Natalie’s eyelids grow heavy and she emits a softer, lower sigh as she rolls the fruit around in her mouth. I can only imagine it succumbing to the warmth of her tongue, melting, and slipping down her throat.

Ordering this gift now ranks as the best day’s work I’ve ever done. And it took a lot more than a couple of phone calls. Not that I would ever admit to her how much effort it was to persuade the owner of the store to even try to make it happen. It was only when I got the interpreter forour team’s Italian player to talk to the Amoroso Gelati guy that he finally agreed.

But the look on Natalie’s face when she realized what was in the box, along with her current expression as she swallows the strawberry, make every second worth it.

When she opens her eyes, it’s like she’s coming around from the most shattering orgasm.

“Look at that smile,” she says, reaching up to run her finger along my lower lip.

“I was smiling?” I make a dramatic sad face. “Must have been an accident.”

“Nope,” she says. “That’s how giving someone the perfect gift feels. How can you hate Christmas when giving gifts makes evenyouall smiley?”

Her fingers play on my lips again and my shifting dick tries to claw its way out of my jeans.

“Oh, you know.” It’s not the time to get into any of that, so I shrug it off. “It’s just commercial bullshit.”

I take her hand, kiss the back of it, and redirect the conversation. “Tell me why you love it so much?”

“Because I like making people happy,” she answers without even a millisecond’s hesitation. “Christmas doesn’t have to be commercial bullshit. It’s whatever you make of it. And I like making it fun and meaningful.”

She takes her spoon out of the tub and licks the residue from the back of it and, Jesus, if the sight of that creamy substance on her tongue doesn’t make me want to have her right here on the kitchen counter.

“Like this,” she says, tapping the luckiest spoon in the world on the side of the container. “You got this for me, and it made me happy. And it made you smile, so that means it made you happy too, doesn’t it?”

I brush my fingers lightly up her outer thigh. “Yes, it makes me happy.”

And it instantly crosses my mind that I don’t think I’ve ever uttered that phrase before. About anything. Or anyone. Is that weird? Or wrong?

“Did I make you happy in the theater on Monday night too?” I ask, as my fingers arrive at her hips.

She stops with her spoon plunged into the ice cream and gives me the sassiest, most adorable side-eye. “I don’t make a habit of things like that, you know?”

She pulls out a spoonful and draws it into her mouth achingly slowly.

“Really? You mean you’ve never worked late painting scenery in a theater and then banged your devastatingly handsome hockey player assistant in the front row before?”

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