Page 42 of Breaking the Ice

I’m about to start cleaning up when my phone rings. I hurriedly pick it up. “Hello?”

“Ellie, it’s Jake from the hospital.”

A chill of dread starts at the base of my spine and rapidly shoots toward my head. “Is my mom okay?” I demand. “Is the bleeding worse?”

“Your mom is fine,” he tells me. “I told you I’d call regularly, and I will until my shift ends at seven. I just wanted to let you know that you probably won’t hear from the night nurse because your mom will be sleeping.”

“Oh, okay,” I tell him. “But she’s good now?”

“She’s great. She’s resting.”

“Do you work tomorrow?”

“I’ll be back at seven in the morning,” he says. “I’ll ring you as soon as I get your mom’s vitals.” I thank him before hanging up.

After cleaning up the kitchen, I go into my mom’s room and lie down on her new bed. I play with the remote, raising the mattress up and down like I’m a kid with a new toy. I can’t wait to show her how easy it will be for her to get in and out of bed.

Somewhere along the line, I close my eyes and fall asleep for two whole hours, which is not something I normally do. I dream about Zach. I dream that he and I fall in love and get married before having enough boys to fill a hockey team of our own.

I’m not one to fantasize about outrageous things like marrying a billionaire, but now that Zach is in town and he’s not the villain I thought he was, a part of me can’t help but wonder if there’s a fairytale ending to my story.

Looking at the clock, I discover it’s already four thirty. I get out of my mom’s bed and cross the room to the mirror to assess the damage to my hair. It’s not as bad as it could be, yet I still run a brush through it and pinch my cheeks for color.

Walking down the hallway, I look out the picture window in the living room in hopes of discovering Zach’s car. It’s there, but being that I don’t know how long he’ll be home, I head to the kitchen and wrap a caramel apple for him in a sheet of cellophane. I tie the base with a raffia bow before walking down the path with my offering. The closer I get to Zach’s cottage, the more excited I feel. It’s freeing to not feel anger when I think about him. Yet, it’s equally anxiety-inducing that I’m starting to feel something more.

I knock on his door but there’s no answer, so I wait a few beats before repeating the action. Still, nothing. Why isn’t he answering? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little worried, especially after what just happened with my mom. Turning the knob, I discover the door is unlocked so I walk in. “Zach?” I call loudly. “Where are you?”

Moments later, he comes running out into the living room with a towel haphazardly wrapped around his waist. “Ellie, are you okay? Is it your mom?”

I stare at him in what can only be described as complete awe. The man is an Adonis. “I … um ... fine …” My mouth dries up to the point where I can barely speak.

Zach hurries to my side and demands, “What’s wrong?”

Shaking my head, I tell him, “Nothing. I … just …” I hold up the caramel apple between us, “brought you a treat.”

Zach’s eyes shift from concern to something else entirely. “A treat, huh?” The way he says that makes it clear he’s not talking about the proffered apple.

My face heats up to the point where I’m pretty sure I’m about to spontaneously combust. Looking away, I tell him, “I made it myself.”

“You made the caramel?” He sounds as impressed as he should. Making caramel isn’t hard, but it is tedious.

“I did.” I force myself to breathe so I don’t wind up in a heap at his feet. There’s only so much fainting—real or otherwise—I can do in his presence without looking like an invalid.

“What are you doing for dinner?” Zach suddenly asks.

“They’re keeping my mom in the hospital for a couple more days so I’m on my own.”

“Why don’t I cook for us?” he asks. “It’s the least I can do after you went to all the trouble of making dessert.” Once again, I sense he’s not talking about the apple and my face flushes hotly.

“What are you cooking?” I don’t know why I bother asking because I’d say yes even if he were making mud pies.

“How about steak and potatoes? That’s my specialty.”

“You have to get dressed first,” I say, sounding like a prissy schoolmarm out of the Old West.

Zach tightens the towel at his waist. With a smile, he says, “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he leaves the room, I collapse onto the sofa in a heap. Holy cow, I just saw Zach without his clothes on and now he’s going to cook for me. This is not what I expected when I came down here, but I’m sure as heck not going to complain.