The line stretched forever with exhausted holiday shoppers slouching toward the relief of caffeine and the empty promise of a chair to sit on and a place to rest their purchases. Dante patiently waited his turn and ordered just as a table opened up; he shoved a fifty in the tip jar and passed over another hundred and told the barista to cover the next few orders. Then,assuaged, he sat, nursing a tooth-rottingly sweet hot chocolate that soothed his general grump.
Dante wasn’t built for grumping.
“Excusez-moi.”
He looked up, hoping he hadn’t been caught bitchfacing in public. That’d be terrible for his rep.
“Do you mind if I sit?” the woman continued in French. “The other tables are full, but my feet are killing me.”
Dante’s French had come a long way in the past six years, but his pronunciation still sucked. “Comme vous voulez,” he said. “Please.” He gestured at the chair across from him.
“Thank you,” she answered in English, obviously having deduced his accent. That or she’d recognized him. “And thanks for the drink.” She lifted something hot and sweet-smelling—the cider, he thought, in a travel mug bearing the logo from that place Gabe liked in Ottawa. She looked like she needed it; her eyes had dark circles, and she was twisting and stretching like she really needed to take a load off.
“My pleasure,” he said automatically. “Kind of feel like I should’ve done my shopping online.”
She half smiled. “It isn’t the same, is it?”
“No. It makes my ass hurt instead of everything else.” His legs, his eyes, his feet. And he was sweating in his nice coat. That made her laugh, and some of the exhaustion left her face. “But I’ve never gotten the hang of window-shopping online. My husband is difficult to buy for.”
If she recognized him, she didn’t mention it. “My mother is the same. She has everything, and what she doesn’t have, she buys herself before anyone can make a thoughtful gesture.”
Dante made a commiserating noise. “He’ll buy things December 20.” He shook his head and she laughed.
“Ouch. What’s he thinking?”
“No confidence in my gift-giving abilities, obviously.” He shrugged self-deprecatingly and reached out his hand. “I’m Dante, by the way.”
“Oh—Michelle.” She shook it, smiling. “Did you have any luck with your shopping?”
“Eh.” He waggled his hand back and forth. “Parents are easy—we just get them a cruise, you know, a yearly ‘thanks for all that hockey gear as a kid’ kind of deal. The world’s a big place. Haven’t run out of destinations yet.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Then friends—they mostly don’t need anything, so it’s just gag gifts and spoiling their kids. Though my husband nixed the idea of getting my step-granddaughter a pony.”
Michelle blinked at him, and Dante realized that if she didn’t know he was a pro athlete, he probably sounded kind of… eccentric. “Oh,” she said belatedly. “You have kids?”
Right, yeah, Dante did not look old enough to have grandkids. She probably thought Gabe was a cradle-robber.
Dante couldn’t wait to tell him.
“My husband has a former teammate who knocked up his girlfriend his first year playing pro hockey. Gabe was kind of his mentor.” He smiled. “So, grandchild by marriage and adult adoption, I guess.” But he didn’t want to monopolize the conversation. He gestured to her drink. “What about you? What has you looking like you need a double shot of rum in your apple cider?”
She looked at her drink, then at Dante. “How long do you have?”
He made a show of checking the time. “I have practice tomorrow at nine.” Then he waggled his eyebrows. “But I can’t actually stay out overnight.”
She grinned, taking the bait. “Jealous husband?”
“No, his feet get cold, he needs me to be his space heater.” When Michelle laughed, he took it as a sign that maybe he couldlighten her load a little more. “So, seriously, come on. I gave you a seat. Entertain me for a while.”
She heaved a gusty sigh. “Well, first of all, screw you for restoring my faith in true love.”
Oh shit. “Should I see if I can get us some donuts or something?” He raised his phone. “I can use the app.”
“No,” she started to say, but then she straightened her shoulders. “Actually, you know what? Donuts sound amazing. Especially since there’s no one to criticize me for making unhealthy choices.”
Dante whistled under his breath as he placed the order. Wait time, fifteen minutes. Still probably faster than standing in line again. “So where’d you hide the body?”
There was a beat, and then he realized with dawning horror that she wasn’t laughing—she was staring, pale and wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open.
Fuuuuuck.
