Slapshot & Sweet Potato Bonus Scene
Wendy
ONE MONTH LATER
If I could bottle the sound of my mother screaming over the turkey timer, I’d sell it as a holiday alarm.
“Wendy!” she hollers from the kitchen. “Where’s the sweet potatoes?”
“On the counter … next to the marshmallows!” I shout back, even though she’ll ignore me and ask again in ten seconds.
Behind me, Slapshot leans against the doorframe, arms folded over a chest that looks like it was carved by a hockey stick. He’s wearing a red sweater that says Let’s Get Lit with a string of blinking LED lights and an expression that could curdle eggnog.
“Your family’s … energetic,” he mutters.
“That’s one word for it.”
The chaos swirls around us. Kids running with candy canes, my uncle trying to fix the string lights by chewing on them (why, no one knows), my mom interrogating Wallace about his “career in violent ice ballet.”
He’s surviving. Barely.
But then my little cousin yells, “Wendy’s boyfriend’s a hockey hunk!” and everyone freezes.
Wallace blinks. “Hockey hunk?”
I elbow him. “Don’t look at me. You earned that nickname when you lifted a forty-pound turkey one-handed.”
“Wasn’t heavy.”
“You grunted.”
“I was stretching.”
I grin up at him, and for the first time all night, his mouth curves in that half smile that melts me faster than whipped cream on cocoa.
Later, after the house quiets…
The lights on the tree blink soft gold, casting shadows across the living room. Snow drifts against the window. Wallace sits beside me on the couch, arm around my shoulders, watching It’s a Wonderful Life like it’s a documentary about suffering.
“You’re doing great,” I whisper. “No visible twitching.”
“I survived the third retelling of your parents’ engagement story,” he says. “I can survive anything.”
“You say that now.” I tilt up to kiss his jaw. “Wait until tomorrow’s pajama breakfast.”
His laugh rumbles through me, low and rough. “That involve clothing?”
“Depends how naughty you’ve been.”
His gaze drops to my lips. “Then I’m doomed.”
Before I can reply, he slides me onto his lap, pulling me against him. The lights flicker, the fire pops, and his kiss steals the rest of my sentence.
When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, his grin turns wicked. “Think we can make Christmas even hotter than Thanksgiving, Sweet Potato?”
I trace a finger down his chest. “In my parents’ house?”
“Promise I’ll be quiet,” he growls.
“I can’t make that promise,” I giggle.
“Wanna head back to the cabin? Say we ‘forgot’ something?”
“Mmm,” I murmur. “Best idea all night.”
We kiss again, deep and slow, while snow falls and Bing Crosby croons.
“I can make more whipped cream,” I tease, palming his cheek.
“Don’t have to ask twice,” he says, jumping to his feet, me in his arms, and heading for the door.
I wrap my arms around his neck, resting my head against his chest. My heartbeat, my love, my hunky hockey player.
Cass & Liam
Turning thirty was supposed to be low-key … dinner, drinks, maybe a cupcake.
Not a wild night tangled up with Liam O’Connor, the NHL’s most sought-after rookie and every woman’s fantasy.
He’s gorgeous, cocky, and seven years younger than me. I should’ve known better than to indulge in a one-night stand with a man who plays just as hard off the ice as he does on it.
Because this hockey god isn’t satisfied with one night. He wants forever … and he’s skating straight for my heart.
Aiyana & Jean-Claude
The rink’s ice man and star figure skater? It’s laughable. But the most insatiable wildfires start where least expected…
Aiyana is a raven-haired goddess on figure skates who loves counting the ways she hates Jean-Claude.
But the rink’s silver-bladed sweetheart keeps dirty little secrets … the kind that she needs him to fuel.
Stolen kisses and ice rink hookups lead to a reckoning that could burn everything to the ground. But if Aiyana thinks he’s going to let her go rather than get burned, she’s got another thing coming.
Briony & Alaric
Women faint for the Desperadoes’ bad boy center, Alaric, so how does he still have his V-card, and why is he asking Briony for spicy lessons?
Alaric “Viking” Torvalds: A six-foot-five, 22-year-old, towering wall of Norwegian muscle and the Desperadoes’ flashy forward…
Briony “Cherry” Kirkpatrick: A five-foot-six, 30-year-old, curvy girl knitter, dog sitter, and owner of Alpha Ridge Creek’s only indie bookstore…
Maybe Briony slept through college chemistry, but it doesn’t take a genius to know these two things don’t mix, but try telling that to the Viking athlete.