Page 15 of Slapshot & Sweet Potato
“Guess you’ll have to get used to this,” I tease, whisking flour, sugar, eggs, cocoa—the beginnings of my famous waffles.
The big hockey player wraps his arms around me from behind, “Didn’t dream it, did I?”
I shift, gazing over my shoulder at his too-handsome face, felted with stubble. “The part where you said those three little words?”
“The part where you said them back,” he murmurs, kissing my ear and nibbling my earlobe.
I giggle. “Nope. You’re stuck with it … with me.”
“Good.”
“Maybe I’ll mark the calendar ‘Thanksgiving miracle,’” I tease.
He shakes his head. “Not the right terminology.”
I arch an eyebrow.
“Not ‘Thanksgiving miracle’—the ‘start of the best part of our lives.’”
My voice catches in my throat. “Better than hockey championships and awards ceremonies?”
“Better.” His arms tighten around me, his rich voice rumbling through me.
“Better than fame and paparazzi?”
“Far better than that.”
“Better than money and accolades?” I ask.
“Better than anything else in this world, Wendy.”
At breakfast, our eyes meet across the table. Cozy, warm, safe perfection. Wallace cuts off a forkful of chocolate waffle dusted in powdered sugar and takes a bite. “Mmm,” he groans, and my throat tightens, remembering the sounds he made our first night together in front of the fire. “Holy hell, what is this? It’s amazing.”
“Choco-Choco Wendy Waffles,” I answer without blinking.
He chuckles. “Should’ve known.” He shakes his head.
“What?”
“Everything about you is so damn adorable … and delicious. Add this to the list of my new faves. But you’re going to have to change the name.”
“Why?”
“Because from now on,” he says, hand sliding across the table to cover the back of mine, voice like velvet, “I’m the only one who gets to taste Wendy’s Waffles.”
I shake my head, giggling and flushing.
“So, what happens when the roads open?” he asks, looking straight at me.
I shrug, saying half-jokingly, “I’ll be slaving over the ovens at the bakery again. And preparing for the annual Thanksgiving Dinner 2.0.”
“I’ll have to deal with the locker room gossip, the cameras,” he pauses, studying the rough-hewn dining room table like answers are hidden there. “I don’t want to losethis, Wendy.”
“Then, maybe we stick to the one cabin, one bed thing. Seems to be working so far.” My cheeks heat as memories from the storm rush back.
“One cabin. One bed. One family. How about that?” he asks.
My face freezes.
