Page 13 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

He stops mid-float. “Go on.”

“Got a spare T-shirt I could borrow?”

“Why?”

“For me to sleep in.”

He sighs and puts the bag down on the stair two above the one he’s standing on. After a quick dig, he pulls out a blue shirt with orange edging around the sleeves and tosses it over the glass panel.

It drifts down and lands perfectly in my lap.

“Thank you.”

“Good night,” he says and continues his upward float until his feet disappear from view.

Instinctively I pick up the T-shirt and sniff it.

Then my brain screams,What the fuck are you doing, you fool?and I drop it back into my lap.

The aroma of competitive spirit and grumpiness is pretty heady though.

CHAPTER 5

GABE

I pull a T-shirt on as I scoot barefoot downstairs. Used to living alone, I’d initially gotten to the top of the stairs in just my underwear before going back for clothes.

It didn’t help that I was distracted by all the noise down there. What the fuck is happening?

I’d think Natalie had turned the organ-grinding monkey back on, but the music’s so loud that it has to be coming from inside the house. And what is that sickly sweet smell?

At the bottom of the stairs, I turn toward the kitchen and stop in my tracks.

A red mist of fury flashes across my eyes as my heartbeat rises to match my temper.

How dare she? How fucking dare she?

There’s a pink tinsel Christmas tree adorned with red and blue baubles and other random knickknacks next to the fireplace, stockings hanging from the mantel, green twig things dangling from the minimalist chandelier, a fleeceblanket with a cheesy village ice-skating scene on it stretched across the back of the sofa, and a Santa having a party with some toy-making elves on the sideboard. And he’s waving. Mechanical Santa is grinning and waving at me.

And coming out of every one of the integrated ceiling speakers is someone singing, “I Wish it Could Be Christmas Every Day.”

One day a year is way too much for me. And this was supposed to be the first year of my life where I get to have my dream of absolutely no fucking Christmas at all.

But then my eyes come to rest on her.

There she is in the kitchen, where it looks like a flour bomb has gone off and scattered baking materials everywhere. Oblivious to my presence, she’s mixing something in a bowl while dancing to the music—but only moving from the hips up, because all her weight is on just one of the bare feet sticking out of those ass- and thigh-hugging jeans. The injured one balances on its toes.

And she’s wearing the shirt I lent her. The blue one with my team’s large rocket ship logo blasting across those round breasts that are the perfect probably-more-than-a-handful size.

Screwing up my eyes and shaking my head, I pull myself out of the daze I seem to have drifted into for a second.

“Hey, Bugs,” I call out, heading toward her. “What the hell is all this?”

“Oh, morning.” She looks up from her mixing duties, a wide, bright smile across her ridiculously gorgeous face.

I run my fingers through my hair and head toward the kitchen island, which looks like the scene of a violent food fight.

I rest my hand on the one clean patch near the edge. “Was I not clear enough last night that I don’t want decorations or music? I didn’t want them on the outside, and I don’t want them on the inside. You’re supposed to be taking down the ones you already put up, not adding more.”

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