Page 32 of Mr. Mistletoe
No emojis. She doesn’t deserve emojis.
At the store, I march to the freezer aisle like a man on a mission. The glass doors fog with the cold, rows of ice cream mocking me. Vanilla. Chocolate. Mint chip. Every flavor under the sun.
And then it hits me—I didn’t get her number. I can’t text her, can’t apologize, can’t explain that if I could’ve ignored my sister’s craving, I would have. Now I’m the guy who abandoned her mid-date with no explanation.
I grab the rocky road and slam the door shut. “Hope you’re happy, Ingrid.”
Truth is, I’m not mad at her. I’m mad at myself. I could’ve gotten Jess’s number. Now I’m the guy who left her standing in a parking lot, holding a branch of mistletoe.
At checkout, Mrs. Dobbins—the town’s unofficial gossip courier—eyes the ice cream. “Ingrid’s cravings must be kicking in.”
“How’d you guess?”
She presses buttons on the register, peering over her glasses. “You’re a sweet brother to take care of her.”
Nice words, but the tone is a shovel, digging for more. Everyone knows Ingrid’s having a baby on her own. She chose this path—didn’t want to wait for the perfect man. She wanted a mothering life, and I promised to be there for her.
Mrs. Dobbins isn’t done. Her eyes narrow. “You were playing Santa earlier, weren’t you? Down at the rink.”
I clear my throat. “Maybe.”
She grins like she just won the church raffle. “Knew it! I’d recognize those shoulders anywhere. You gave little Tommy Jenkins a candy cane. He hasn’t stopped telling everyone Santaknowshis name.”
“Santa knows everyone’s name,” I mutter.
“Don’t be a grump,” she says conspiratorially. “It’s Christmas.”
I laugh despite myself. “I’ll try.”
She slides the tub across the counter. “Well, Santa, don’t let Ingrid’s sweet tooth keep you from spreading more holiday cheer.”
Outside, snow falls soft and steady. Wreaths hang from every lamppost, lights stretch across the sidewalks. Quiet, peaceful, enough Christmas charm to put Hallmark to shame.
Part of why I moved back to Starlight Bay was family. Part of it was a fresh start. I couldn’t live in the city as the former NHL star—someone always recognized me, wanted a picture or autograph, or worse, judged my playing skills. Here, I’m just Clark Carter, the Christmas tree farm kid. Not Clark Carter, the Bad Boy of Hockey.
I pull up at Ingrid’s. She’s at the door, beneath the garland she insisted on hanging herself, waddling like a penguin. A wooden sign leans against the railing:Believe in the Magic, glittered in her signature style. I stomp the snow off my boots.
“You brought it!” she gasps, gaping at the tub like it’s oxygen.
I hand it over with a scowl. “You owe me. You ruined my night.”
She plucks it from my hand and pulls me inside. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Laura lounges on the couch in flannel reindeer pajamas, popcorn balanced on her lap. “Saving the world again, Santa Claus?”
I flop onto the couch, narrowly avoiding a stack of baby name books. “Ran into someone.”
“A woman?” Ingrid peeks from the kitchen.
“Not just any woman,” I say, snagging popcorn.
Laura shoves the bowl at me. “Don’t leave me hanging. What woman?”
“You remember the tall brunette from the—”
“Stingers game?” Ingrid guesses, spoons in hand.
“I thought she ghosted you,” Laura adds, grabbing a spoon.
