“Damn, that’s good,” Penn says around a mouthful, his lips curling into a laugh. “You know, Roman Marinelli loves these things. He’s constantly sneaking them during the season.” He shoots Dad a playful look, eyes glinting. “Wait, you’re not going to tell on me, are you? I know you and Coach are tight.”
Dad waves him off, already chewing, crumbs catching in his mustache. “Nope, too busy stuffing my face.”
The laughter that follows rises into the crisp air, and something swells in my chest—big and warm and aching. I love the way Dad has taken Penn under his wing, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. I love the way Penn is opening up, piece by piece, like a door that’s been locked for too long finally easing on its hinges. If there’s ever been a man in desperate need of a family, it’s Penn. And somehow, without fanfare, mine is becoming his.
I sip my coffee and step aside, nudging a life-size wooden sheep closer to the manger. The wood is cold beneath my palms, but when I stand back, the scene feels fuller, more complete. Penn and Dad’s conversation drifts back to me—hockey talk, tomorrow night’s game, who’s watching where. Apparently, Penn, along with Jaxon—who is arriving back home today—will be catching it with my brothers.
That’s good. It gives me the perfect window to slip out later, to make the drive to The Memory Chest, an eclectic shop over in Rutledge. It’s a big store where you can find old treasures stacked floor to ceiling, things you didn’t even know you needed until they called to you. I’m not sure I’ll find what I’m looking for, but I’ll try. For Penn, I’ll try.
“I’d better get going,” Sloane says suddenly, her voice cutting into my thoughts.
Since the guys are knee-deep in sports stats and don’t need me hovering, I nod. “I’ll go with you. I have a couple of things to check on anyway.”
I turn back to Penn, my heart tugging. “I’ll catch up with you later,” I promise, sliding into his arms for a quick hug. His warmth lingers, but with Dad standing right there, a kiss feels too exposed, too intimate. So, I let go, and Sloane and I head back down the sidewalk, the cold nipping at our cheeks. Snow crunches beneath our boots and for a stretch we walk in silence. But I notice the way she keeps glancing sideways at me, her teeth catching her lip, like she’s working up the courage to speak.
“Everything okay?” I finally ask.
“It’s just… strange.”
“What’s strange?”
She exhales, a foggy plume dissolving into the air. “Dylan thinks you’re up to something with Penn.”
My blood runs cold, sinking straight to my toes. Up to something. The words coil tight in my gut. Why did I ever concoct a fake dating plan? It had seemed so harmless, so controlled. Now it feels like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering speed, impossible to stop. If Dylan knows—if Dylan suspects—we could both end up crushed beneath it.
“He just thought it was rather strange that you two were suddenly engaged,” Sloane continues, her voice softer now. Then her eyes flick to mine, steady. “But I can see it. I can see how good you are together.”
My laugh comes out sharper than I intend, more defense than amusement. “Why does Dylan care anything about me anyway?” I huff, trying to brush it off, even as unease claws at me.
Her steps slow, and she lifts her left hand, the diamond catching in the glow of winter sun. Her voice hitches. “Because I think…” She swallows hard, gaze fixed on the ring that suddenly seems too heavy for her finger. “…he might still have feelings for you.”
20
Penn
“If I’d known that this is what you meant by catch up with you later, I might have made myself scarce.”
She nudges me from beside the roaring fire. “Oh, come on. You’re having fun. Admit it.”
I glance at the stack of letters before us. “This is going to take all night.”
“Come on, Santa. This is your job.”
“I think Santa’s job is delivering the gifts, not responding to Santa letters.” I wink at her. “And I believe Mrs. Claus’ job is lap dances.”
“Well, that’s not on the table right now, because Mrs. Claus’ job is to put the final touches on this application.” She bites her lip nervously as she glances at the laptop she has balanced on her thighs. She finished the application the other day. I read through it for her, but she keeps going over it. I think she’s too nervous to send it. Too nervous of failure. But hey, she already said she hit rock bottom and there’s nowhere to go but up.
Jesus, who am I to talk? I’m terrified of failure myself because if I try and fail, I won’t be going up, I’ll be going down…right back to the Grizzlies.
“You’ll get it,” I whisper, and give her arm a little squeeze.
She smiles, and then it turns playful, like she’s trying to hide her insecurities. “Once I’m done, I’ll help you with the letters, and then we’ll see about putting that lap dance back on the table.”
The bell over the inn’s door chimes as the door opens and as people file in, I lean in close to Jay. “As long as it’s not on this table.” I am so not sharing her with anyone. “Unless, of course, you’re into that kind of thing,” I add, knowing she’s not.
She chuckles playfully. “No, I’m not. Now get to work. This is going to take forever.”
“Fine,” I grumble, and tear open the next letter. I read the scribbling and write back with warmest greetings from the North Pole. I mention the elves are working hard for all the boys and girls then remind them to be kind and to leave cookies and carrots. Jay told me not to mention anything about the wish list because there’s no guarantee they can get it.