On Thin Ice (17 page)

All Malory could do was nod slowly and stick another bite of pancake in her mouth.

Maggie came back out from the kitchen with a white paper bag. She set it down in front of the man who occupied the stool next to her. “Here you go. One and a half dozen chocolate-chip cookies.”

“Oh, Ms. Douglas.” He patted her hand. “You are a doll. I heard you get the first batch of these every morning from this little one here.” The man reached over to Malory and pinched her cheek.

Malory stopped chewing. Little one?

He slid her money over the counter and winked. “Good day, ladies.”

“Have a good one.”

As the man waddled to the door, he dug his hand into the sack and pulled out a cookie. He took a bite and then turned back around. “Oh, Malory, you might think about putting together a Christmas wish list. You’re never too old to want something special.” He gave a wave and walked out the door.

Maggie tucked the money into her apron as Malory stared after the man. “Wil, close your mouth.”

She guessed it was because of her mood, but her day flew without a hitch and she stood alone in the sparkling cleanliness of the bakery at two in the afternoon. What better way to end her day than to go by and give Christopher a big, wet kiss, then head home and watch some silly black-and-white movie on TV with a fire in the fireplace?

Christopher was in the office when she got there. Her father was behind him looking at a stack of papers strung out on the desktop. Both men had creases in their foreheads and their eyes were narrow studying the paper. She wanted to laugh at how alike they were. No wonder she loved one; he was so like the other man she loved.

“Wil.” Her father’s voice stirred her. “What a nice surprise.”

Christopher looked up at her and a smile slid over his lips. Her belly did a little flip and her skin grew warm.

“I had some cookies left over. I thought you might like some.”

“I’d love one.” Harvey walked around the desk and took the bag from her, kissing her on the cheek. “I think I have some milk in the kitchen. That’s the only thing that would make this better.” He walked out of the office, and Christopher stood.

“You came to just bring cookies?”

“Oh no. I really wanted to kiss you.”

“That’s my girl.” He walked around the desk, scooped her up in his arms, and planted a kiss on her that shook her very core.

“Yep, that’s what I was looking for.”

He set her back on her feet. She studied his face. Worry lingered in his eyes. A weight grew in that very core that he’d shaken with his kiss. It was love, true love that made someone hurt when the one she loved hurt. She didn’t want to disturb him with questions, so she fought off the urge to ask. But she worried about him—for him. She loved him.

“I’ll see you at home later.”

“Count on it.”

Malory turned to leave and ran right into a long-legged blonde shuffling in high-heeled boots along the concrete. “I’m sorry.”

The woman blew out a breath. “Where’s Chris Douglas?”

“Who’s asking?” Malory crossed her arms over her chest.

“Who are you?”

Knowing this was probably a “surprise” from LeBlanc should’ve helped Malory keep her composure. But it was easier in theory than in practice. She cocked her head and fisted her hands on her hips. “Let me guess. Are you Mercedes? Or are you Shelby?”

The woman’s jaw dropped.

Christopher hurried out of the office and stood behind Malory. She felt his hand touch the small of her back.

The woman shot up a shaky finger. “I want a word with you.”

“Have one.”

“I . . . I . . .” she stammered as if she were drunk.

“That’s quite a word.” Malory took a step forward. “Here are a few more. Why don’t you tell Mr. LeBlanc to keep his ladies for himself. Mr. Douglas is spoken for.” She turned to Christopher, wrapped her arms around his neck, and gave him a kiss that would melt the ice in the rink. “He’s off the market. Pass the word around,” she said as she pushed Christopher into the office and shut the door without looking back.

He had a grin on his face—not a sexy smile, a grin—and it lit his eyes. “You kicked her where it counted, didn’t you?”

“Think he’ll get the message?”

“Honey, I think you spoke loud and clear.”

That was what she wanted. This was her turf and Christopher was her man. No second-rate hockey player and his three bimbos were going to take what was hers. And Christopher Douglas and his heart and his silly grin—they belonged to her.

Malory had nestled into the couch, her feet cozy in fuzzy socks. The fire crackled in the fireplace, and Cary Grant smiled that fantastic, classic smile from the television. All she needed to enjoy the night was Christopher cuddled up on the couch with her. And maybe a dog, but that would be something to think about if they got a bigger place.

She stopped herself and let that thought settle. She was thinking in terms of them and they. Was she ready for that? After all, she’d all but punched him when he asked her to marry him. Then again, he was the one asking her never to let him sleep alone again.

Malory sank down into the couch. Marriage wasn’t horrible. Her outlook on marriage was horrible. She’d never really loved Alan the way she should have. She’d loved the thought of his companionship and she’d loved his mind. He was a wonderful conversationalist, when it came to things he knew about. Otherwise, he was quiet and reserved.

Christopher Douglas was anything but quiet and reserved. Oh, and talk about opinionated.

And he was insightful and compassionate. And she was fully in love with the man who so many years ago left her with a broken heart.

She reached for her necklace and touched the medal that hung from the chain. Perhaps he had always watched over her. Hadn’t she always felt him near her heart?

She wouldn’t say no if he asked her to marry him again. In fact, if he took too long, she’d ask him.

Suddenly it was what she wanted for Christmas more than anything else.

Christopher quietly pushed open the front door to Wil’s house. It was well past midnight, and the glow of the television filled the room. The fire had died down to just a glow, and there lay Wil, wrapped in a blanket and asleep on the couch. Had she waited up for him? Was this how it could be?

He closed the door quietly so he wouldn’t disturb her.

The Christmas Pageant had him worried; one of the girls had sprained her ankle. The bills kept piling up on his desk, though the tournament he’d put together was selling out and he’d had calls all day from the media wanting to set up to cover the event.

It certainly looked like it was going to be a huge success, not only for the rink but for all of Aspen Creek. If people were coming from all over to see the event, surely, they would stay and spend money in the many other shops in town—but he’d have to play and that twisted in his gut.

Since he’d retired professionally, he’d been on the ice. He’d spent hours every week puck handling and running drills, but in none of those hours had he been forced into the boards by a lunatic like Quincy LeBlanc.

Wil stirred on the couch, but she didn’t awaken. He toed off his boots and set them on the tile floor by the door and quietly made his way to her. He smiled as he looked down at her. It was a proud moment when Wil told off that blonde at the rink. LeBlanc would get the message. Wil wasn’t going to let him get to her, so why did it shake him up so bad?

There was so much to lose now, that’s why. More than the respect of the town, or the ice rink, there was Wil. What if she bought into LeBlanc’s lies? And what if the game turned sour?

He raked his fingers through his hair. He had to play. Everyone was counting on him.

When he touched her arm she startled awake and then, eyes heavy, she smiled at him. His heart nearly burst.

“Hey, beautiful. I thought you were meeting me in bed.”

“That was the plan,” she said through a yawn. “Now we can go together.”

He helped her to her feet. With an arm around her waist, he walked with her to the bedroom. She stumbled to the bed and fell back to sleep.

The day had been drawn out and tedious. He’d skated much longer than he’d anticipated. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t fall asleep. And his insomnia had nothing to do with the beautiful woman in the bed with him.

It was Quincy LeBlanc who occupied his mind.

The game was less than two weeks away. He was physically in good shape, and his skills were still intact as a player, but his mind wasn’t on the game. His last concussion, he’d smashed into the boards as Quincy LeBlanc shot up in front of him, Quincy’s shoulder under his chin, their skates tangled. Chris’s head snapped back and then there was black.

He let out a breath. It still stuck in his chest when he thought of it. The man could have killed him and not given him another thought. It wasn’t the first hit he’d taken from him either. Why did he have to be the first guy to sign up for the game? Why was it his name that would bring the biggest draw?

Rubbing the back of his head, Christopher got up out of bed and walked to the bathroom to run a hot shower. It would be fine. They were all professionals, and the game was going to be professional. He would keep the rink open and save what Harvey Wilson had worked for his whole life.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Malory drove down Main Street after closing up the bakery. As Christmas drew near, the town bustled with tourists. Every shop had customers streaming in and out. The sidewalks were full of people, arms laden with packages, even in the freezing temperatures. The small house, just off the street, which was set up each year as Santa’s house, had a line that wrapped around it.

This was what she’d missed.

This was why she’d come home.

She pulled into Maggie’s parking lot just as she flipped the sign to Closed. Maggie waved at her.

The same men who hung around after closing time were still seated at the table, bantering back and forth as Maggie gathered the salt- and pepper shakers from each table.

“I know you miss this so much you can’t stay away.”

“That must be the draw.” Malory hung up her coat and collected shakers off the other tables as she passed. She set them on the counter, on the designated trays, and began to take off their lids.

“Hey, fellas, wrap it up,” Maggie called out to the men.

They grumbled and a bubble of joy filled her. When she was young, she hadn’t appreciated routine, no matter what it was. Now she embraced it.

Maggie rested her arms on the counter. Malory watched as Maggie tried to read her just by the expression on her face. Once that would have had her shifting in her seat, probably because she’d been guilty of something. That’s what mothers did when they wanted you to offer up information.

Maggie tilted her head. “He’s staying with you?”

“You may be one of my dearest and closest friends, but do you seriously need details?”

“Yes.” Maggie laughed and began to open the ketchup bottles. “I have a lot to gain if this works out.”

“Are we really going to discuss this again?”

“C’mon. Let me dream about a normal life with a daughter-in-law and grandkids.”

Malory coughed, and Maggie picked up a rag from the counter and threw it at her.

“There is a business side. If you two occupied only one side of the duplex, I could rent out the other side for twice what you’re paying.”

“I’m not paying.”

“You see my point.”

Malory shook her head. She loved the woman who stood before her making checklists of her life. No matter what Malory decided in her life, even if it hadn’t included Christopher, Maggie Douglas would support her.

“I’m in love with him,” she blurted.

“Not a day you haven’t been.”

That was true enough, Malory thought. From the moment that dirty-faced, long-haired little boy had peeked his head around the wall of the skating rink while she was learning to skate backward; she’d been in love with him. “I’ve been giving some thought to his marriage proposal.”

Maggie reached for her hand. “Did he ask again?” Her voice was light and airy, hopeful.

Malory shook her head. “No, he seems too occupied to talk about marriage right now.”

She took the container of salt and began to fill the shakers. The men left, and Maggie walked to the door, locked it, and turned back toward Malory.

“He’s scared, you know. Not of marriage. He’s scared to play hockey again.”

Malory spun on her stool to face Maggie. “Afraid to play? It’s what he’s always done.”

“Yeah, but this is different. He played his heart out when he played professionally. He always played his heart out. But before he retired he took some hard hits. They told him if he got hit too many more times, it just might kill him.” Maggie tipped the ketchup bottles up one top each other and let them begin to drip down into the bottom one. “No one would play if he wasn’t playing, and I don’t blame them. But that LeBlanc guy has him scared.”

Malory shifted on her stool uncomfortable with what Maggie had told her. “No one would take a shot on someone in a charity game.”

“Quincy LeBlanc would.”

Malory’s mouth gaped open. “Why? Why would he do something like that?”

“He’s always had it out for Chris. It started out when Chris got the center position LeBlanc was vying for and he got cut. Then a call on LeBlanc their rookie season for a hit on Chris. He was fined and suspended.”

“Guys get hit in hockey all the time.”

“Yeah, but the slash he took to Chris nearly cost him his career. He’s been after him ever since.”

“He shouldn’t play then.”

“He will.”

“Can’t we get this LeBlanc guy to quit?”

Maggie shrugged. “He’s the biggest draw.”

Malory let out a long, ragged breath. “This is stupid. He can’t risk his life on some stupid idea I had.” Guilt was scratching at her insides. If he got hurt, it would be all her fault. The game was her idea. If she’d known he’d get hurt, she wouldn’t have mentioned it at all.

“He wouldn’t risk it if he didn’t believe in it.”

Malory felt the onset of a headache creep across her forehead. She rubbed her temples trying to soothe it away.