Page 24 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
LIZ
If you’d told me last December that I’d be standing in a lace dress and snow-dusted boots, waiting to marry Thatcher, I would’ve laughed until I passed out from a lack of oxygen.
Yet here I am, surrounded by pine and candlelight, my heart beating in time with the soft hum ofSilent Nightplaying from somewhere outside the chapel.
Stevie fastens the tiny pearl buttons on the back of my dress, humming as she works.
“Stop fidgeting,” she says, smiling at our reflections in the mirror. “You’ll wrinkle.”
“I can’t help it.” My voice comes out soft, breathless. “My stomach’s doing backflips.”
“Welcome to the family.” She gives my shoulders a squeeze. “You look perfect. He’s going to pass out.”
I laugh, half giddy, half overwhelmed. “The same thing happens to me every time I see him in a suit. It’s unfair.”
Outside, the music kicks up. The scent of evergreen and candles drifts through the open doorway. I can hear muffledlaughter from the guests — teammates, friends, and family. Most of them are the same people who filled that rink last Christmas Eve.
This year, the ice has been replaced by an aisle of winter roses and garland. And instead of a naughty list, there’s only one thing left worth checking off.
Marry the man of my dreams.
Thank goodness we had a bye week this year.
When the doors open, I step into a glow of twinkling lights and soft snowflakes drifting through the cracked windows. Thatcher stands at the front, tall and impossibly handsome in his dark suit, a tiny sprig of mistletoe pinned to his lapel.
His eyes find me immediately, dark and steady. The rest of the room falls away.
Each step down the aisle brings a rush of the joy he’s brought me the past year. His laugh. His quiet kindness. The way he looks at me as if I’m the most important person in the world.
He can still be a pain in the ass. But he’s my pain in the ass. And I adore him.
By the time I reach him, my hands are trembling. He takes them gently, his fingers closing around mine, centering me and bringing me peace at last.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi.” My throat aches.
The officiant smiles and begins the ceremony. I’m only vaguely aware of what they say and the words I recite back.
When it’s time for our vows, Thatcher clears his throat.
“Actually,” he pulls a small, folded sheet of paper from his pocket, “I, wrote a little something.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You did?”
He nods. “Imade a list.”
Laughter ripples through the guests. Stevie groans good-naturedly from the front row.
I smile brightly at him. “Of course you did.”
Thatcher grins back and unfolds the paper. “It’s not that kind of list. It’s a promise list.”
He glances at me, voice rough but sure.
“Number one: I’ll always bring you coffee in the morning.
Number two: I’ll listen and not butt in with resolutions unless you ask. Even when I think I’m right, which, based on past experience, won’t be often.”
