Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
She turns back to me with a look of surrender. “Fine. Go ahead. Be nice if you insist. Help.”
I give her an I told you so look as she emerges. “I insist,” I say.
When she’s standing in front of me a second later, I pace around her, reviewing the damage. Once I’ve done a full loop, she meets my eyes and says: “Level with me. Is it time for a buzz cut?”
“Hmm,” I say as I take the towel from her. “Have you got clippers in that apron pocket?”
Her brown eyes pop. “It’s that bad?”
I don’t mince words. “Mabel, you are the smash cake. It’s everywhere.” But I’m fast on my feet and quick with a solution. Years of taking care of my mom, of raising my little girl, and of executing plays on the ice mean I don’t fuck around when it comes to taking care of people or problems. “I have an idea.”
She holds up her hands, but she’s not defeated. Her words crackle with a spark that hasn’t been snuffed out from a rough day. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Game on,” I say and reach for the clip in her hair.
“That’s my lucky clip,” she says.
“Why’s it lucky?” I undo it, letting her waves fall in a dark mess, a contrast to her fair complexion. She looks…good. Even with frosting and cake guts all over those strands.
“I wore it to my first big wedding catering gig,” she says as I set the clip down on the counter. “It’s been good to me. I have another wedding coming up soon.”
“Then I’ll make sure to take good care of it,” I say, glancing at the hair clip. I wet the end of the towel under the faucet and dab the frosting off the strands near her face.
As I touch her hair, she shudders in a breath, then goes quiet, and I work steadily.
I wet the towel once more, then clean the sugar and cake bits from the back of her hair. I check the time. She’s due out in eight minutes for the picture. “Done.”
“Is it all gone?”
“Yes. But your hair’s damp now.”
“Does it really matter? No one’s going to be looking at the llama-kissing ex,” she says with a snort.
I spin her around, shaking my head. “You’re wrong. They will.”
Her look says she doesn’t buy what I’m selling. “To stare at the five-car pileup on the side of the road?”
I scoff. “Not in the least.”
She parks her hands on her hips. “Why, then? Why will they look at me?”
The question hangs in the air, taking up the very small space between us.
The mere inches between us.
It’s the first time I’ve been this close to Mabel. I’ve seen her a few times over the years. At hockey games. At barbecues. In the diner, when she stops by Cozy Valley to see her family.
With her shiny hair, her expressive eyes, and her bow-shaped lips, Mabel Llewelyn’s always been pretty. I’ve thought so ever since the day I met her at a fundraising event for the local fire department in Cozy Valley—her hometown, and now mine too.
But I knew it in an empirical sense.
Now I take a beat to drink her in, and the answers to her question are clear and bright.
Why? Because freckles dance across the bridge of your cute nose. Because your lips are so lush. Because your eyes shine with fire and humor. And because you’re so fucking brave.
“Because…you’re you,” I say at last.
There. That’s safe enough. Just because I’m thinking things about her for the first time—or, really, the first time since I learned who she was—doesn’t mean I’m going to say them out loud. Let alone act on them. Our lives are too…connected. It’d be messy, and I hate messes.
But helping her right now? That’s easy, so I keep going. “Which means you’re going to have the best French braid ever.”
She blinks. “You can French braid?”
“Of course.”
“Really?” She sounds like she’d be more surprised if I said I spoke French.
“I have a twelve-year-old daughter. Now, turn around.”
“Yes, sir.” Mabel spins around once more. I take the clip and run the teeth of it through her hair, combing out the wet strands, then separating them into three chunks.
Checking the time on my watch, I put the clip on the counter, then grasp the right chunk in my hand. Her breath hitches.
That’s an interesting reaction, but I need focus to do this quickly and well. I weave that handful over the middle section, then loop in the left chunk. I gather more locks on the right, add it to that strand, and weave it into the braid. I do the same on the left side, then slowly, steadily work my way down her hair, crafting a tight French braid.
As I go, I sneak a whiff of her sugary scent. No surprise—Mabel smells like the treats she makes. It’s the best kind of smell, like candy and butter, with a hint of vanilla.