Page 47 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

I push my hands into my jeans pockets to hide what’s going onbehind my zipper.

“Ankle’s clearly better then,” I call louder than the song lyrics.

“Yup, all good.” She turns to look at me and continues dancing backward, smiling and making the situation in my pants worse. “But of course it is. I know how to fix these things because I’m a top injury manipulation and repair expert, remember?”

I turn away and toss my coat over the edge of the stage and into the first row of seats. I have to look away. For my own good as well as hers. I simply cannot entertain any of the multiple things her backward dancing and ironic smile make me want to do.

So, instead of having the holidays I wanted, holed up in my house on the hill in glorious isolation, without so much as a bauble to annoy me, what do I do? I pick up two brushes, two cans of paint, and head to my side of the stage in a local community theater, where I will spend the evening painting Christmas trees and listening to god-awful Christmas music while the most festive person I know, who I kissed yesterday, sings and dances along.

But somehow—somehow—instead of wanting to run for my hill, I just want to kiss her again.

I meanreallywant to.

CHAPTER 16

NATALIE

I groan like a ninety-year-old as I stand up and step back from the mayor’s house, rubbing my lower spine. Crawling around painting the flowers and grass along the bottom has just about finished me off.

But a wiggle of my hips in time to “Last Christmas” does help to loosen it up.

And the good news is, this crucial piece of scenery is done. And it looks pretty damn great, if I do say so myself.

The stonework has come out well, and I’m particularly pleased with the curtains and window boxes. I might have struggled a bit on the step ladder to reach the top ones—but only because there was no way I was going to accept Gabe’s offer of help. I needed to keep him safely on the far side of the stage so no nonsensical kissing situations could re-arise.

I wipe my paint brush on the rim of the can, then press the lid back on. Only then do I allow myself to turn and look at the six-foot-something wall of splendor that’spainting trees. Like he wasn’t sexy enough already, watching him carefully add brown branches to break up the masses of green is utterly heart melting.

I can only see the side of his face, but the concentration in it is fucking adorable. And the way his jeans stretch across those bulky, solid thighs as he crouches down is adorable in a totally different way. But they both have the exact same panty-dampening effect.

Closing my eyes for a second, I remind myself that everything about him and our circumstances make him a no-go zone. Not to mention the media stories that say he treats women incredibly badly.

But how can the man who cared for my ankle, who marched onto the ice to break up a fight, who gave Grayson his own gloves, and who came here tonight purely to complete the task he’d promised to do without seeking a single ounce of recognition for it be a total assjacket?

I just can’t put the two things together.

But I also can’t put him and me together either.

Even if I were looking for a relationship, it wouldn’t be with someone who’s my polar opposite in every way and who I’m about to live nowhere near. No matter how sexy it is that he’s focusing so damned hard on painting that branch.

I wipe my hands on my jeans—the ones covered in six years of Christmas play scenery paint—and pull my phone from my pocket.

“Shit.” I can’t believe how late it is.

“You okay?” Gabe turns around so fast brown paint flies from his brush and splatters across the green part of the tree.

“Yes, but that tree won’t be if we don’t get that paint offright away.” I grab a clean rag and trot toward the Gabe danger zone.

It’ll be fine. I just have to remember that deep down he’s a jerk, and then everything will be fine.

He’s already dabbing at the paint by the time I get there and when we reach for the same spot at the same time our forearms brush each other.

The shiver that runs up my arm, across my chest and down between my legs is exactly what I was trying to avoid.

“Oh, God. I’m making it worse.” I’m not so much removing the paint as redistributing it, in large brown smears.

“Try this.” Gabe picks up a container of water from near his feet and offers it to me.

As I dip my cloth into it, I cast my eyes along his forest production line. “Wow, you’ve done them all.”

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