He brushes a hand over his shoulder. “Douchebag isn’t the only one with clout.”
My brain races. “Belinda. You charmed Belinda, didn’t you?”
“What happens at the check-in desk at Snowberry Inn,” he says solemnly, “Stays at the check-in desk at Snowberry Inn.”
“Penn!” I half laugh, half yell.
“I may have told her I wanted to give him a welcome gift.”
My eyes narrow. “And?”
“And… she’ll be getting signed jerseys for her nephews.” He presses a finger to his lips. “But it’s a secret, so shhh…”
I laugh so hard I fling my arms around him. “Oh my God, Penn, I love you.”
His hands pause mid-stride around my back. My breath stalls. Did I really just?—
“I mean—I love that you did that.” My voice wobbles. “Who knew you were so naughty.”
He leans close, his breath hot against my ear. “You knew,” he murmurs, and those two words promise all kinds of wicked.
Heat floods me, stealing my composure. “Yeah. Guess I did.” I glance at the clock, fighting the urge to drag him back to bed. “You’d better get going before the guys start wondering what’s making you late. I don’t even want them imagining…” I cringe.
“Right.” He straightens, grabs his phone. “Let me check if Jaxon is ready. I’m catching a ride with him.”
I grin, warmed by how much more comfortable he seems with his teammate. They’re even planning ice time together after Christmas, before heading back to Boston. As he fires off a text, I blow him a kiss and slip into the hall.
I’m seconds from the lobby when Dylan turns the corner and I slam right into him. I’m about to apologize when the mistletoe alarm shrieks. Oh, hell no. Belinda’s head pops up. Of course. I swear I’m dismantling that damn thing tonight.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I mutter, trying to sidestep.
But before I realize what’s happening, Dylan’s hand clamps around my back and his mouth crashes onto mine. His tongue slides into my mouth, and I shove him hard, swipe my sleeve across my mouth, sputtering. “What the hell, Dylan?”
He only grins, brushing off my disgust like it’s nothing. “We had no choice.” He points at the mistletoe just as the alarm dies down.
“We absolutely had a choice. Don’t you ever do that again.” Fury propels me past him.
I stop at the desk where Belinda is watching with wide eyes. “I’m heading to Rutledge,” I say briskly. “Going to hit The Memory Chest. Want me to stop at that candle shop you love?”
Her face brightens. “Oh, you’re a lifesaver. I’ve been too swamped to get there.” She scribbles a list, hands it over. “Thank you, sweetie.”
“My pleasure.”
I tuck the note in my bag and escape outside. The winter sun beams down, glittering off the snow. No need to borrow Penn’s SUV. My old car will do just fine today.
Sliding behind the wheel, I yank off my mittens and crank the radio. Christmas music floods the car, sweeping away the sour taste Dylan left behind. The day is gorgeous, the festival is on track, and I have a hot fiancé who plays tricks with elves, teaches hockey to kids, is bonding with my family, and warms my bed every night.
And that thought makes me smile all the way to Rutledge.
The sun is already slipping low on the horizon by the time I reach town square. The streets glow with holiday lights, strings of gold and red zigzagging overhead, storefront windows dressed in evergreen garlands and frosted displays. The air smells faintly of cinnamon and wood smoke, carried on the crisp bite of evening. Main Street is bustling, couples with linked arms, kids darting between parents, last-minute shoppers hurrying from one store to the next. I blend right in, another face in the holiday rush.
First stop is the candle shop. Belinda’s list is short, but the line isn’t. The place is warm, heady with vanilla, balsam, and cranberry spice. I shoulder my way through the crowd, juggling armfuls of jars, and grin when I finally manage to snag everything she wanted. Errand complete.
But it’s the next stop that sends my pulse skittering. Just weeks ago, I never would have imagined picking out a gift for Penn Radford. Radman. Madman. Now the thought alone makes me a little dizzy, a little giddy.
The Memory Chest is quieter, a different kind of busy. The moment I step through the door, the scent of old paper and cedar hits me, and the hum of nostalgia wraps around me. Rows of shelves stretch deep, crammed with everything from antique toys to vinyl records to delicate glass figurines. I wander slowly, letting myself get lost in the aisles. Bits and pieces tug me back to my own childhood—a worn teddy bear, a stack of Nancy Drew mysteries, a puzzle missing one piece. But I’m not here for me.
I’m here for him.