Page 8 of Season's Schemings
“I didn’t take you for aFood Networktype of guy.” She places a hand on her hip and smiles, but it’s flimsy, and her voice is slightly strained.
I clearly made some sort of misstep. And wanting to bring the tone back to the light bantering it was a few minutes ago, I waggle a finger at her. “Never judge a hockey player by his cover, Madelyn.”
She raises a skeptical brow at me.
“We are sensitive souls under all our muscle and bruises,” I continue. “Sensitive souls who binge-watch cookie shows. While eating cookie dough.”
“To be honest, that just sounds like you have PMS.”
“I believe the term you’re looking for is IMS—Irritable Male Syndrome.”
This makes her grin round out substantially as she walks over to one of the big, stainless steel fridges that line one of the walls. “Well, either way, I call BS, Mr. Hockey Man. You look like you haven’t eaten cookie dough in years.”
“Thank you.” I pat my abs.
“Not a compliment. Plus, I bet you watch nothing butBraveheartandSaving Private Ryanand…Die Hard.”
“Like I said, never judge on appearances. But yes,Die Hardis a solid Christmas movie.”
“You’re proving my point.” She sets a parfait down in front of me and opens a tupperware full of nut and seed mix. “And not a Christmas movie.”
“Agree to disagree?”
“Absolutely not.”
I grab a spoon from the stack of utensils in the basin on the counter and dig into the parfait.
Ho-lyit’s good. Like, ridiculously good.
“What’s your favorite Christmas movie then, Madelyn?”
“Easy: any and all of the Hallmark movies.”
“Oof,” I say, taking another huge spoonful of yogurt. And another. I don’t know what she’s put in here, but I’m not ruling out crack. This shiz is almost weirdly delicious. “You make great-tasting yogurt snacks, but your taste in movies is all wrong. The correct answer isHome Alone.”
She puts a hand to each of her cheeks, imitating Kevin McAllister from the movie. “I’m beginning to wish you’d stayed home alone today, too.”
“The feeling is definitely not mutual.” Now that I know for certain that she’s not a stalker or an ex, I’m free to let my natural flirty flag fly. From what I remember on that baking show, she’s got a boyfriend, so it’s all harmless and in good fun anyway. I wink at her, then walk to the fridge and load two—actually, make that three—more parfaits into my arms before heading for the door. “It was genuinely wonderful to meet you. Thanks for feeding me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I guess I’ll see you around the kitchen and the men’s restrooms then, Lady M.”
“Lady M?” She frowns, even as her cheeks turn pink.
But I’m already out the door, laughing all the way down the hallway.
Never a dull moment here at the Cyclones.
4
MADDIE
“I feel ill,” I moan as I pull a blanket over my head. I’m on my stepbrother Jax’s couch—where I’ve been living like a little hobbit sinceThe Incident—with his rescue dog, Rick Astley, curled up at my feet.
It’s Thursday night, and we’re watching the airing of episode two ofHoliday Baking Bonanza, which perhaps confirms that I am, indeed, a masochist at heart. Because on the screen in front of me, a previous, rounder-faced, more naive version of myself is smiling at the camera and gushing about how Adam and I are high school sweethearts, and he’s my first and only love of my life.
Beside me, Jax tugs the blanket off of my head with one big callused hand and fixes me with a look that tells me I have chocolate all over my face.