Page 16 of Mr. Mistletoe
The breath goes out of my lungs, and the glimpse of my hopeful future slips away like water through my fingers.
“I appreciate that.” Somehow I force the words past the lump in my throat. “Is there any chance I can meet with Ms. Jacobs, just to be sure?”
“If she wants to speak with you, she’ll reach out.”
I rise, legs unsteady. “Thank you for your time.”
“Of course.”
As she returns to the counter, the cat slinks across my path again. It meows, a sharp, judgmental note that sounds suspiciously liketold you so.
Outside, the rain hasn’t let up, but I don’t care. It drenches me, icy drops sliding down my face, soaking my hair. Disappointment is colder than the rain.
I shove my portfolio under my coat and hurry down the street to my car. If only I had someone there to comfort me. I could call Gran, but I don’t want to admit my failure yet and put on a happy smile for her benefit.
For one wild moment, I wish I had Clark’s real number. He seemed like the solid sort who could handle my failure in stride. Any man who stands in line to get extra cheese for his pregnant sister’s nachos is a man who can shoulder my pain.
I long to call him, to hear his laugh, let him tell me it’s not over.
But I can’t. He gave me a fake number, and I’ll never see him again.
The rain blurs the street into streaks of red and green, and I duck my head, praying no one notices the tears burning my eyes.
Chapter Eight
Clark
The rink parkinglot is nearly empty when I pull in. Frost glitters on the pavement like someone dumped a snowglobe under the floodlights. Even for December, the air feels colder than usual—the kind that seeps into your bones and takes me back to skating on frozen ponds as a kid.
I’ve always loved the crisp air on my face and the fog of my breath. Grabbing my bag from the passenger seat, I hum a tune as I sling it over my shoulder. Christmas songs are stuck in my head on repeat. Every day at the family tree farm, holiday music pipes out over the speakers, worming its way into my brain—even though I’m not in the holiday mood.
I head straight for the coffee truck, which serves the best brew in town from a converted school bus.
“Morning, Clark,” Jenny says, poking her head out the window. “Usual?”
She slides a steaming cup across the counter like she’s been waiting for me. A smirk tugs at her mouth, and she’s looking at me funny.
I pat my damp hair. “What?”
“Nothing.” She snickers. “Didn’t think you’d be back to your old ways so soon.”
I take a cautious sip. “My old ways?”
“Don’t play dumb. Whole town’s talking about it.”
I nearly choke. “Talking about what?”
“You and the mystery woman.”
I blink. Twice. “I don’t—”
She winks. “Yeah, sure you don’t. Enjoy practice, Ice Prince.”
My ears ring with the old nickname. The tabloids used to call me that—back when I had a different woman after every game and our pictures always landed on gossip sites.
By the time I get inside the rink, my cheeks burn hotter than the coffee. If Jenny knows about the kiss, who else does? And who’s to blame—Ingrid? Laura?
I may have ruined my reputation for a woman who didn’t even call me back.
