Page 1 of Never Sleigh Never

Cara

The balmy Sunday afternoonin December couldn’t be more picture perfect as I glide across the outdoor ice rink, my hand tucked perfectly into Wayne’s warm grip. Everything is going flawlessly this afternoon, from the sweet scent of cinnamon roasted pecans carried on the breeze from a nearby stand to the couples twirling around us, their laughtermingling with the soft strains ofWhite Christmasplaying over the speakers.

My holiday-loving heart swells as I glance over at my boyfriend. Thanksgiving was fine and all, but this—enjoying the first sights and sounds of Christmas together—is the perfect start to a busy andmemorableholiday season.

“Isn’t this magical?” I gush, squeezing Wayne’s manicured hand and hoping he’s enjoying this skating outing as much as I am. “I can’t wait to do All. The. Things. with you before New Year’s. Caroling around my neighborhood, a friendly gingerbread house decorating competition, trimming the tree, a holiday movie marathon, and…”

I trail off, glimpsing Wayne’s lips pursing, his eyes fixed on the ice. The evergreen-and-cranberry plaid scarf I gave him last week as an early Christmas present is styled fashionably around his neck, the perfect complement to his carefully curated look. But he seems a little…off, because of course, he does.

“What do you think, honey? Any preferences?” I ask sweetly.

He shrugs, and I give him a minute to consider the options, but when he still doesn’t respond, I bite my lip. And my tongue. I need to play it cool. I can’t let on that I am onto him like honey butter on a hot biscuit.

My suspicion Wayne is planning to pop the question this holiday season is basically confirmed based on the way he’s being so tightlipped, when usually, he has a witty comeback or cutting remark for every question I ask.

I release his grasp in case he can sense my excitement. “I definitely want to try my hand at your grandma’s famous pecan pie recipe,” I say brightly, picturing us together in his pristine, barely used chef’s kitchen, me mixing ingredients while Wayne mixes us a couple of cocktails. “I know it’s a cherished family tradition, and I’d love to practice, so I can help on—”

Out of the corner of my eye, a blur approaches on my left, and before I can react, a little redheaded boy on hockey skates zooms past, knocking into me, his laughter echoing in the air. I reach for Wayne, but another little boy, hot on the heels of his friend, whips by. My arms flail wildly, but it’s too late. I lose my balance, my heart leaping into my throat as I scramble to brace myself for impact.

It doesn’t help. I hit the ice hard, pain shooting through my tailbone and wrist as I land flat on my ass. The world spins for a moment, and I blink away tears. Even if I wanted to cry, I wouldn’t. I can’t risk smearing my mascara. We haven’t taken any photos yet this afternoon.

“Are you okay, honey?” a nearby skater drawls, stopping to check on me.

“I…uh,” I stammer, still trying to gather my wits.

“She’s okay,” Wayne assures the woman hovering over me with a concerned look. “It’s those damn kids who are to blame.” He makes no move to help me up, his hands on his hips as he glances around with a scowl, trying to locate them in the crowd.

I try to push myself up, but a sharp pain in my wrist makes me wince. “I…I don’t think I am. My wrist really hurts.”

A flicker of annoyance crosses Wayne’s classically handsome features before he extends a hand. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

He helps me to my feet, but I’m still wobbly, gripping his forearm with my good hand as if he’s a lifeline.

“Looks like that’s enough for one day,” he says, already turning toward the exit.

I cradle my wrist against my chest, swallowing hard against the throbbing pain shooting up my arm. “I think I need to get this checked out. It really hurts.”

He sighs, flicking a glance at my hand. “I believe there was a first-aid tent past the line for the photo booth.”

“There was a photo booth?” I glance around. “I love photo booths! It would have been perfect to get a picture together.”

“Hmph,” is his only response as we make our way off the ice. I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Okay, more than a twinge, if I’m being honest. This isn’t how I imagined our first romantic holiday date of the season going. I wanted it to be picture perfect. And not only because I asked Sarah to fly solo at the boutique today, so I could spend the afternoon with Wayne, which is something I rarely do.

In my head, we were going to skate the afternoon away to Christmas music, share a steaming hot chocolate with peppermint whipped cream, kiss under the mistletoe, and game plan for the next few weeks of holiday events to be sure we could fit in everything. Then, fingers crossed, I would have convinced him to let me come over and put up a few decorations at his place.

Instead, I’m inching along, piercing pain from my tailbone shooting up my spine and my wrist pulsating like a strobe light in a nightclub, while Wayne looks as if he’d rather be getting a root canal. We’re definitely in no shape to preserve this moment at the photo booth.

I’m sure it’s just the number of kids here today. Wayne isn’t a fan of children, especially loud, unruly ones, but I’ve known that about him from the beginning. And, he’s got enough of the qualities I’m looking for in a man—sophisticated, charismatic, articulate, and, of course, wealthy doesn’t hurt—so I’m willing to overlook the single character flaw. Even though I’ve dreamed of raising enough kids to fill a minivan for as long as I can remember.

After I struggle out of my skates and slip on my suede ankle boots, we turn in our skates at the counter then, thankfully, locate the first-aid tent easily. It’s cramped inside, the four EMTs killing time playing spades on a stretcher until I walk in.

A paramedic with kind hazel eyes asks what happened and the level of pain I’m experiencing as he checks out my wrist. I fill him in while Wayne pulls out his phone and starts scrolling.

“Looks like a sprain,” the EMT confirms, testing my range of motion and examining the swelling. “You’ll need to take it easy for a couple of weeks. I’ll get you set up with a splint.”

This is the last thing I need when the bustle of the holiday season is here. Though summer is the busiest time for my boutique, Coastal Charm, the Christmas season is responsible for a sizable chunk of our annual revenue. But that’s not what’s got me the most upset.

I turn to Wayne as the paramedic wraps my wrist and forearm. “I guess I won’t be practicing that pecan pie recipe anytime soon, but I’ll be sure to take good notes, so I can help out next year.”

---