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)
I close the email and remind myself to focus on my goals for good days—the game I play, my kid, the team.
I look at my hands—steady, sure, confident. I’m not worried about Parkinson’s for me. That’s not my concern. But I have to remember this is a gift—the things I can do. The way I can play. The fact that I can score goals in the NHL.
I can’t take that for granted just because I long for my best friend’s sister.
15
THE BEST LAID KIDNAPPING PLANS
CORBIN
The next day, I drop Charlotte off at school, then head to the arena for a workout and morning skate. When I return home, there’s a small box left on the front porch, and I stop to pick it up. It’s familiar, the color. I squint at it, like that’ll make the difference. Maybe I should try those color-blind glasses again so I can see it better.
But I don’t want to walk around wearing tinted glasses all the time. And really, what’s the point?
It’s a bakery box from our bakery—still feels so strange to think of it like that. But that means I don’t need glasses. It’s blush.
And it’s tied with a white polka-dot ribbon. A stupid smile takes me hostage. Dammit. I shouldn’t feel this way over a ribbon-wrapped box, but it’s from Mabel.
Drawing a breath, I will myself to calm down. It’s just a little thing—this gift. A little thing with a tiny card tucked under the ribbon. I grab that first and flick it open.
Dear Corbin,
All that lilac made me think of lavender, which made me think of Earl Grey and lavender, which made me think that those are one of the most delicious combos ever, which made me turn them into a London Fog cake. And then I thought of the perfect “story” for this treat too. What do you think?
Mabel
P.S. The color of the box is Blush.
“I know,” I whisper to myself.
There’s a paper heart inside the card, like the one Mabel first mocked up.
When it rains, I gaze out the window and eat cake…
It’s a little poignant, the short story of the cake. The gesture’s thoughtful too, not just because she’s showing me the color of the boxes we’ll use but she’s baking for me. Mabel doesn’t take anything for granted. She wants to prove herself to me too.
We’re similar like that. My chest warms from that awareness. And all at once, I don’t want to be outside on the porch where anyone can see me thinking mushy fucking thoughts about a piece of cake.
I go inside, shut the door, and absently run my thumb and forefinger along the satiny ribbon. What did she wear when she baked this? Did her T-shirt slope down her shoulder, exposing her collarbone for stolen kisses? Would her neck have tasted like lavender, sugar, and warm kitchen calling me home? Did she tie this ribbon herself? Of course she did. That’s her style. She planned all this, baking it and dropping it off and—
For fuck’s sake, she’s your business partner, not your damn girlfriend.
Thank god that voice in my head is also rolling its eyes as it laughs at me. Yup. The voice is right. I can’t get caught up in these feelings, in these ridiculous daydreams. That’s all they are.
I take the note and the box to the kitchen and focus on business. Just business. I dip a fork into the cake. It’s moist, sweet, and silky. And it’s so damn soft that the texture is making me think of other soft things.
Her mouth. Her skin.
I’m already aroused from picturing her baking. I really can’t start entertaining filthy fantasies as I sample what she made. I also shouldn’t eat all this cake, or I won’t be able to make the plays I need to make on the ice.
I slice off the section I took the bite from and set it on a plate next to the note and the heart. The rest of the slice is neat and clean now. I place it back in the box and hop on my bike, then head up the street to Annabelle’s. She answers the door with a knowing tilt of her head, her braids swishing. Seven is at her feet, rubbing up against her calf. “I heard I was right,” Annabelle says.
I guess this conversation has been inevitable since the day she said Something big is about to happen.
“Yes. You were,” I admit, but my chest tightens. Maybe I don’t want that reminder. “I brought you something.”
I hand her the box, then make a move to go. I’m itching to take off. I don’t know why. I like Annabelle. She’s only ever been good to me and to my mom. But this intense impulse to jet is pulling at me uncomfortably.
She smirks, eyes the box then me. “You do know that giving me this won’t stop you from thinking of the woman who made it for you.”