Page 54 of As You Ice It

“I’ll text you.” I suddenly remember the nagging questions that have taken a backseat with all of the other big things we’ve addressed. “By the way, what kind of job interviews are you conducting?”

“Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

“You don’t have a Jane Eyre in the attic, do you?”

“From what I remember of Jane Eyre, it was aBerthain the attic. And no—I don’t have a wife, girlfriend, or anyone else hidden in my attic.”

I’m oddly pleased he knows enough aboutJane Eyreto correct me. More pleased that he says no.

“I promise, it has nothing to do with any kind of romantic entanglement.”

“Okay.”

“Naomi?”

I love the way he keeps saying my name. It’s as though he takes a little joy in it each time. “Camden.”

“I can’t wait.”

CHAPTER12

Naomi

“Mom, chill,”my son tells me twenty minutes later, his words infused with all the wisdom of his ten years. “It’s just a hangout, right? Like you have with Aunt Eloise and Aunt Merritt and Aunt Sadie.”

Oh, sweet, innocent Liam. To think that entertaining hockey-related women ranging from never-met to barely-know is anything like having the Markham sisters over.

Not to mention the way my entire nervous system is still trying to reboot after Camden’s kisses. I honestly expected Liam to take one look at me and know.

“You’re right,” I tell him. “I’ll try to chill. Careful with the knife.”

He’s cutting a pan of my s’mores brownies, the only food I really excel at making, and doing a much better job than I would right now. My hands are too shaky. Because despite telling Liam I’ll try, zero chill exists in my body right now.

Liam rolls his eyes, then cuts with a much more exaggerated slowness. “It’s a butter knife, Mom.”

I swear, he’s sounding more and more like an almost teenager every day. Still sweet. Goofy. Fun. And, thankfully, a big fan of his mom, but I’m starting to see glimpses of what’s ahead. I am … not enthused.

“Ow!” Liam exclaims, pulling back his hand. I almost leap across the kitchen to grab his hand, so certain I'll see blood that sweat prickles at my hairline and my stomach dips.

Instead, I get a smirky little grin as he wiggles perfectly unmarred fingers. “Kidding. I know how to use a butter knife without cutting myself.”

“Too soon, Liam. Too soon.”

I tap the skin near his stitched-up arm. It's healing nicely, but it's still nasty, and makes my stomach lurch when I look at it for too long.

“Sorry,” he says. His face tells me that he is absolutely not sorry.

“You’re pushing your luck, kid.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in luck,adult.”

I groan. “Can you just … maybe not throw my words back at me?”

“What is it Grandpa Ned always says—don’t dish it out if you can’t take it?”

“That’s it!” I grab Liam, and before he can wiggle away, I wrap my arms around him. I swear, he gets a little taller every week. “You’re getting a hug.”

“Ew. No hugging.” He half-heartedly tries to fight me off, but I smile because I can tell he doesn’t mean it.

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