Page 14 of Slapshot & Sweet Potato
Then, he pulls back, slides a little deeper. I gasp at the feel of his heat, the stretch, the need that urges him on as I whisper against his ear. Push and pull, filling and emptying me out until there’s nothing left but the pulse of our need. Like we’re one heart hammering together.
His pace quickens, hips pounding into mine until I don’t know how I’ll walk straight tomorrow. I could care less. Walking’s overrated anyway. I grip his neck, mouth covering his as our breaths mingle, bodies unraveling together.
I’m shaking and trembling, seconds from breaking around him, when he pulls back, eyes pooling. “Just for the record, Sweet Potato, I love you.” And then, he slams into me hard, giving and taking as I fall apart all over again, and he shudders against me with every wave of release.
Morning humswith the generator and the smell of coffee. I burrow deeper into the blankets that smell of cedar and sandalwood—of him. My mind wanders back to last night, still not fully able to absorb everything that happened.
Did he really say he loved me? Or did I dream that part?
He pads into the room shirtless in a pair of flannel pants slung low on his hips. The bed tips when he sits down. “Morning.”
“Morning, Slapshot,” I echo, stretching.
A sheepish grin captures his lips, warm eyes washing over my face. “Happy Thanksgiving, Sweets.” His hand comes up, finger stroking my jawline.
“Guess we didn’t freeze after all,” I tease.
“Nope, but you did de-thaw a heart,” he grumbles with a grimace. “Hope you don’t regret it in the daylight.”
“I think we’ll figure it out,” I say, grabbing his hand and kissing his fingertips one by one.
“You know, I meant what I said last night, though that’s the kind of thing you’re not supposed to confess in the heat of the moment.”
I hesitate, mouth half open.
“I love you, Wendy. Have since the first night we met.”
His words slam into me. So much about the way he’s acted, finally lining up, falling into place.
“I love you, too, Wallace.” I say, warmth spilling through my chest with my words.
He smiles, cupping my cheek. “What comes next?”
“Let’s make this the best Thanksgiving yet,” I say in my no-nonsense, sunshiny voice.
“Already done that,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss me.
Outside, snow still falls, soft now instead of raging. Inside, warmth hums between us—the quiet kind that lasts.
Epilogue
WENDY
ONE DAY LATER
For the first time in two days, sun shines through the curtains of Wallace’s cabin. The storm has finally passed. Through a slit in the fabric, snow glitters on the windowsill, pale light spilling across the cabin.
In the bedroom hearth, the embers glow blue and orange as if clinging to the last remnants of their warmth. I move quietly and slowly, slipping from Wallace’s arms and moving to the rocking chair across the room where one of his flannels hangs. I shrug into it, rolling up the too-long sleeves, and watching him sleep. So peaceful, almost boyish.
Can’t believe he’s the same guy who used to scowl at my pies. I tiptoe into the kitchen to make coffee. As the thick, earthy smell fills the room, I rummage through our copious baking supplies for a little breakfast inspo.
The annual Thanksgiving dinner has been officially rescheduled to next week, which means I can poach the ingredients we purchased at the store.
Stirring comes from the bedroom, then a gruff voice. “If you’re planning to bake at dawn, I’m rescinding my offer of free labor.”
“Relax, Grinch. I’m making breakfast, not a parade.”
He chuckles, entering the living room. Bedhead, low-slung flannel pants, soft eyes that have me ready to crawl back into bed. “With you, everything’s a parade,” he grumbles.
