Christmas in the Rink (5 page)

Annabelle held her end with a tight grip while Chaney stood right behind her. He dragged it out and tested it.

“Oh, pretty.” Annabelle clapped her hands.

“Ready to put them on the tree?”

They both nodded.

Somewhere in between hanging the lights and bulbs, Mrs. Mitchum slipped back into the room with a plate of chunky, white marshmallows and chocolate squares. She'd placed some long metal rods behind her along the wall and taken up residence on the couch, smiling as she watched them decorate.

“Here's the next one, Annabelle.” Sitting on the floor by the tree, he slipped the hanger through the loop and handed another pinecone ornament to her. “Hang it wherever you'd like.”

Annabelle inspected the tree and pointed to a bare spot. “Here?”

“Sure. That looks great.”

Chaney had helped him with the higher limbs. Had she disappeared and left him to do the work? He glanced around—

Something pinged him on the nose and dropped to his lap. What was that? He glanced down. A marshmallow?

His eyes narrowed as he scanned the room for the culprit. There. Cowering on the other end of the sofa, clutching a throw pillow, grinning.

He shoved off the floor in one lightning-fast move, but she was faster. Something soft and big landed square against his chest. The pillow.

He scooped it up before it dropped, holding it as a shield in front of Annabelle. “This is war, Annabelle! You're on my side.” He grabbed Annabelle's hand and tugged her to duck behind the armchair.

Reaching around the bulky chair, he snaked out a long arm and grabbed a handful of marshmallows from the plate. Back behind the refuge of the chair, he offered one to Annabelle. “You know what to do with it?”

Annabelle shook her head.

“Toss it very gently at your Aunt Chaney,” he whispered, smiling. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun.

“Won't I get in trouble?” The little girl's expression darkened with concern.

“Not this time.” He hoped. Not if Chaney's chuckle was any indication. He wasn't so sure about Mrs. Mitchum. He peeked around the chair, caught the smile on Carole's face, and then huddled next to Annabelle again. He nodded. “We're good for launch.”

“OK,” she whispered back conspiratorially, then stretched to her full height, her head just barely rising above the back of the chair. The toddler aimed and fired. The white chunk of fluff sailed through the air, missing Chaney by a foot. She crouched back down. “I missed. Your turn, Conner.”

Conner nodded and, armed with his weapon, leaned around the chair—

Ping. He blinked.

She didn't…she'd just beaned him with another marshmallow?

This time he stretched to his full height, dredging up his few years of baseball practice, his arm extended backwards, aiming—

Chaney's eyes widened, and Carole supplied her with another throw pillow for protection. Chaney shielded her face, her muffled chuckles coming from behind the pillow.

Obviously, she was expecting a marshmallow.

Instead, he put his index finger to his mouth, signaling silence, and reached for Annabelle's hand. Their stockinged feet moved silently across the wood floor, but then Annabelle giggled.

Chaney dropped the pillow, and her mouth gaped. “Ack!” She vaulted from the couch.

Too late. His arm snaked around her waist, and he tugged her backwards.

Not as buoyant on the rug as the ice, she spun around, her palms splaying against his chest for balance, her face shining with laughter as she gazed up at him.

He gulped, barely breathing, the air around them suddenly charged with electricity.

“You forgot the marshmallow, Conner.” A tiny hand tugged his, dragging his attention back to Annabelle.

He blinked, but neither the little girl nor the abandoned marshmallow was the image lodged in his brain. No, it was Chaney, her cheeks scrunched from laughing, her expressive eyes reflecting—

What? Had he really seen something else? Or was he just imagining it?

 

****

 

“Oops. Look at the time. It's already your bedtime, sweetie.” Chaney's mom broke the intimate moment.

Chaney peeled her palms from Conner's muscular chest and he stepped back, smashing his hands deep in his pockets. To keep from touching her?

“Aw!” Annabelle groaned.

“If you come now without fussing, we'll have time to read a book before bedtime. If you argue, no books.” Carole's brows rose, challenging her granddaughter to make the right choice.

Annabelle complied. “Night, Conner.” She held up tiny arms. Hugs and kisses were part of Annabelle's nighttime routine, but that usually only consisted of Chaney's and her mother's.

Chaney held her breath. How would Conner feel about—

Conner scooped Annabelle up in his arms and hugged her tight. “‘Night, sweetheart. Thanks for all your help with the tree tonight. We couldn't have done it without you.”

Annabelle braced both palms on Conner's cheeks and squeezed. Puckering her lips, she planted a loud smooch on Conner's mouth. To his credit, he didn't even cringe at what had to be a slobbery, gooey kiss or the handprints that now lathered both his cheeks, remnants of the four or five marshmallows Annabelle had consumed.

No, instead, he murmured a sweet, “Mmmm. Thank you.”

Chaney dipped her head, hiding her grin behind a hand.

“You're next.” His deep rumble of amusement sounded near Chaney's ear, and she lifted her head.

Annabelle's arms extended towards her, and Chaney took her niece from Conner. Annabelle wrapped her sticky hands around the back of her neck and offered a similar loud smooch.

“Love you, sweetheart. Sleep tight. I'll come to check on you in a few minutes, OK?”

“OK. Love you, An Chaney.”

Chaney adored their nighttime routine. Baths and books, and hugs and declarations of love. She nuzzled her cheeks against her niece's downy soft hair then set her down gently.

“You guys continue having your fun. I think I'll head to bed for a little reading of my own after I tuck Annabelle in for the night,” Carole said, leading her granddaughter out of the room.

Chaney licked her lips. How was she supposed to respond to that blatant matchmaking attempt by her own mother?

Conner saved the night. He nodded towards the half-empty plate of goodies. “Want a s'more? I think a few marshmallows survived the battle.”

“Yeah. No thanks to you,” she teased, picking up the metal rods and handing him one.

“Woman, you started that business. Annabelle and I just ended it.”

Yeah. If it hadn't been for Annabelle's timely interruption, Chaney might have made a fool of herself by lifting her face for a kiss. Heat rushed up her neck.

He nudged her shoulder. “And when we run out of s'mores, I can always pull out my guitar. That is, if it won't wake—”

“You brought it?” She'd always loved to hear him play.

“In the truck.”

“Well, why didn't you say so? Go get it.” Give her time to compose herself. Fan her hot face.

“Be right back.” He set the rod down.

She stared at his broad shoulders, the cranberry Henley doing little to hide his bulky torso or the well-defined muscles in his arms, until he disappeared through the front door. Over the years, she'd managed to banish him from her day-to-day life, but he'd always lingered in her dreams. Now that he was back in town, her heart didn't stand a chance.

He was back before she had a chance to pop a marshmallow on both sticks, the guitar slung across his shoulder. He set it against the couch, and she handed him a stick.

She settled cross-legged on the wood floor while his long legs stretched out to the side, both their rods dangling over the glowing embers in the fireplace.

Annabelle's giggles floated in from the bathtub along with her mother's hushed tone.

Sizzles and crackles saturated the space with the scent of spruce and melting marshmallows. In the corner of the room, their new tree almost reached the ceiling. Draped with popcorn and cranberry strings, and loaded with pinecones and colorful bulbs, the limbs sagged with the extra weight of cotton candy blue, lemon yellow, and red striped canes.

“Your house feels so comfortable. Peaceful.” His voice broke the stillness.

She heard the words he didn't say, the pain wrapped up in longing in his tone. “Unlike yours?”

He nodded, his gaze focused on the dying embers while he swiveled his rod. “Yeah. I don't really ever remember a time living there that I didn't feel pressure.”

She angled her head to study his profile. “Pressure? About what?”

“Skating. Always skating.”

“But your mom was constantly—” Oh. Her lips rounded, and one hand fluttered to cover her open mouth. He'd left right after his mom died. She gulped.

Her marshmallow caught fire, and he tugged both sticks back to blow on them. His brows hiked as his gaze caught hers, the hardness to his jaw revealing that the line of conversation was closed. “Just the way you still like them, right?”

“Yeah.” She tried to squelch the tiny bud of satisfaction that after all these years, he still remembered a little thing like that, but couldn't. Tried to ignore the lonely ache she heard in his tone, but couldn't do that, either.

She layered the graham crackers and the chocolate on paper plates and they built their s'mores. They ate, the only noise in the room the occasional pop from the simmering wood.

“Mmmm.” She finished hers and before she could reach for a napkin, Conner nudged her chin up.

“You have chocolate right…” His thumb brushed her cheek, but his gaze settled on her lips. “…here.” His tone came out husky, and his eyes darkened. His face moved closer, one palm braced against the floor, while his thumb continued to wreak havoc with her heartbeat.

“Do I?” she barely breathed the words. Her palm reached up to cover the hand cradling her cheek.

He edged nearer, his chocolate-y marshmallow breath inviting her closer. She complied, definitely not breathing now. Her lids fluttered shut and her lips parted, anticipation popping in her pulse like the embers burning in the fireplace…

“An Chaney! An Chaney! Grandma said I could get another goodnight kiss.” Pajama padded feet scampered across the hardwood and skidded to a stop at the entrance to the family room.

Chaney lurched back, her lids zapping up just in time to see Conner's lips curve in amusement.

Her gaze flitted to her mother.

Carole's arms were folded across her chest, her shoulder resting against the doorframe, a smile lighting her face.

Willing her heart rate to slow to its normal tempo, Chaney shot her mother a fake glare and cleared her throat. “Sure thing, sweetie. Come here.” She opened her arms, and Annabelle scurried across the floor for another hug. Chaney kissed the top of her head, the fresh, clean toddler scent removing the vestige of their almost kiss, the moment broken. She patted the diapered bottom. “Goodnight this time, all right?”

“All right.” The girl agreed, breaking free to give Conner another hug.

Chaney sighed. Just where she'd hoped to be. In Conner's arms. But she could hardly be jealous of her niece, could she? She gave her head a little shake, banishing that emotion, silently scolding herself. She was grateful that he didn't seem to mind Annabelle barging in on them. He was so good with kids—

She gasped. He was great with kids. And couldn't she use a hand preparing her students for their upcoming recital? Why hadn't she thought of this before? She tucked that tidbit away to discuss with him later.

“Night, sweetheart.” Conner released the little girl, and Annabelle scurried back over to take Carole's hand.

“Sorry,” her mother mouthed, before turning her attention to Annabelle.

Chaney smiled, acknowledging her mother's apology.

Conner had moved to sit on the rug, his back reclined against the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him. The guitar hung against his chest, and his left hand moved up and down the neck while his right strummed the strings with a gentle touch, the soft tunes covering the sound of the padded footsteps headed to Annabelle's bedroom.

So much for the romantic moment. But it was for the best, especially if Conner wasn't sure about staying in Evergreen Peak. Her heart would only survive if she put a little distance between them. She scooted to the other end of the couch and plucked a pillow to cradle against her chest. Ha! Like that would offer any protection.

Could she ask him for help with the recital? If he agreed, how would she possibly protect her heart?

 

 

 

 

6

 

Conner closed his eyes, strumming familiar music, the combination of chords he'd created rolling off his fingertips by rote. Since leaving home without his skates, his guitar had become his traveling companion. It had kept him sane during all those lonely nights while deployed overseas, when the dreams and the memories of Chaney in his arms had kept him awake well into the morning. He plucked the last note and glanced over at Chaney.

She reclined against the couch with a pillow clutched to her chest. Had she fallen asleep?

He glanced at the clock above the mantel. Eleven. How had the time slipped away so fast? A sigh slipped from his chest, and he carefully set the guitar next to the couch. He could at least cover Chaney before he left. With one palm on the rug, he hoisted himself to his feet.

Chaney's lids popped open. “That was beautiful.”

He gave her a hand up, scrounging every ounce of self-control not to tug her into his arms, but he kept her smooth fingers grasped in his for a couple seconds longer than necessary, not allowing her to wander too far away. “I thought you were asleep.”

“No. Just thoroughly enjoying the music. Who is it by?” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind an ear, her sleepy eyes creating all sorts of havoc with his heart rate.