Page 55 of Spying Under the Mistletoe
She reaches out and scratches Whiskey behind his ear. He happily soaks up the attention, content to remain in my arms.
“I’m sure it will.” Needing to pull my thoughts away from how her body would feel against mine, I ask, “When are you volunteering next at the seniors’ home?”
“Not until Thursday.”
I nod. That’s good. “I have a hockey game tomorrow night. This place is secure, but I still want one of my colleagues to stay with you while I’m gone.”
“You mean like a babysitter?” There’s no missing the grimace in her tone, even though it’s absent from her face.
“I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.”
Her face brightens, and the stirring shifts to my chest, warming me up from the inside, in a way I haven’t felt in a while. “Can I watch you play hockey instead?”
“Are you sure?”
She nods. “Positive. I haven’t watched a game since Kiera’s husband died. She stopped watching hockey after he passed away.”
“Okay, I’ll ask Isabelle and Jayden to join you.”
“Jayden?”
“He’s one of my other colleagues. He’s engaged to Isabelle.”
“Ahh, so I’ll be the third wheel?”
“Not exactly. They’ll be working, so they’ll be keeping that disgusting mushy stuff on hold.” I screw up my nose like a little kid who sees his parents kissing.
Chloe laughs and goes back to stirring the food in the saucepan. “How did you end up playing hockey? Why not football or some other sport?”
“That might have something to do with my dad originally being from Canada. He grew up playing hockey and was super talented. He just wasn’t quite talented enough to be drafted into the NHL. He passed on his love of the sport to my sisters and me.”
“Did they learn to play it, too?”
“Kathy, my oldest sister, didn’t. She loved watching the game but was never interested in playing it. I don’t think it even dawned on my father at the time to encourage her to play hockey. There was no question when I was born that I would participate in the sport. And that led to my little sister, Evie, playing it. Her theory was, if the sport was good enough for me, then it was good enough for her, too.”
Chloe’s eyes shine and she grins. “Was she good?”
“Definitely. She was as competitive as I was and put a lot of talented guys to shame when it came to skill.” I chuckle at the memory of just how many guys she put to shame that were foolish enough to challenge her.
“What are your parents like?”
“They’re great. My mom was a pediatric nurse. Now she spends her time refurbishing discarded furniture and selling it. Dad recently retired from his job and helps her. The two of them have created quite the little business.” That keeps them both happy and busy.
But not too busy for Mom to ask from time to time about my (non-existent) girlfriends.
“What about your family?”
A cloud briefly crosses Chloe’s face. She picks up a knife and starts chopping the parsley on the cutting board. “There isn’t much I can say about them. As you know, none of them are in my life anymore.” She chews on her lip for a second, as if contemplating whether to tell me something, but then releases it and shrugs. “But before that, my mom and I were close. She’s an amazing woman. She always manages to find the bright side in everything.”
Chloe grins, and it feels as though a cloud has drifted from the sun and the world is suddenly brighter. “I remember one time when I was eight years old, and I’d painted a vase for her birthday. It was bright and had lots of yellows and reds and oranges. Her favorite colors. I was so excited to give it to her, but I accidentally dropped it and it broke. Mom glued it together, but a piece was missing. It was impossible to use as a vase.
“Mom told me that it didn’t matter because she had an even better use for it. She turned it into a plant pot. The hole worked great for drainage. The last time I saw her, she still had that vase with a plant growing in it.”
Chloe’s eyes grow shinier, but this time for a different reason. It’s clear she misses her mom, but unlike me—who can easily hop on a plane and visit mine or any of my family—Chloe doesn’t have the same luxury.
And for the thousandth time since I first learned about the Orlov family, I mentally curse Vadik and his criminal activities.
An itch to pull her into my arms bites me on the ass.
