He was in the barn washing up when he heard the snowmobile.
Fuck. He’d figured with all the snow, Amber would wait until the roads had been cleared to come out for her weekly gossip session, but it looked like she just picked a method of transportation that didn’t require roads. And there was no way Devon was going to get inside before she did.
It was fifty-fifty on whether she came into the barn before she went into the house, probably depending on how much coffee she’d had this morning and how long ago.
He knew how it was going to go when, twenty seconds after the snowmobile’s engine cut out, he heard a short shriek and then a door slamming.
Ten seconds after that, Amber barreled into the barn, still in her full riding gear minus the helmet. She’d braided her hair into two short, fraying pigtails, and her eyes had narrowed into beady suspicion. “Devon. There’s a Muppet in your kitchen.”
Devon finished drying his hands and turned around, affecting innocence. “Hi, Amber. Good morning. Merry Christmas Eve. Nice to see you. Is the power back on at your place? How was the ride over?”
Amber ignored his attempts to derail her. “A Muppet, Devon.”
Oh well. He’d have to play her game. “Santa came early.”
It was worth it when she shrieked. “Augh!” She swatted at his elbow. “Why is there a Muppet in your kitchen?”
Devon hadn’t had this much fun since it had been his job to annoy people into drawing penalties. “His name is Noah.”
On the other hand, none of the guys he’d played against could make threats like Amber. “You have, like, seven pitchforks, and I’m not afraid to use them. There’s no other car here. No other tracks in the snow. Which means you picked that man up somewhere and brought him back to your house in the middle of nowhere like someone who wants to be murdered in his sleep!”
He loved her so much. He should tell his sister he was stealing her best friend. “By a Muppet?” What was it with everyone and the preoccupation with murder, anyway? Maybe they should cut back on those Netflix true-crime documentaries.
“Devon.” Amber shoved him playfully. “Come on. I just about shat myself, seeing someone in your kitchen. Did you pick up a man for sex or not?”
Okay, no, he wouldn’t let her think that. Amber had more reason to be nosy about his sex life than most, since if Devon fell off the wagon, he could take their business with him. “I picked up a stranded motorist,” he corrected. “No sexual favors were exchanged. We did trade traumatic hockey stories, though.”
Her eyes widened. “Wow. I’m a little rusty on my sports metaphors. What is that, a grand slam?”
Surely a grand slam involved some kind of nudity. “Maybe a shootout goal?”
She tilted her head from side to side as if considering. “Is it a grand slam if he gets up in the morning and makes you breakfast? Like, Denny’s style? Because that’s what’s happening.”
Devon stared at her. He glanced in the direction of the house. The entire barn was in the way; he couldn’t see shit. But he could imagine it. “I will give you a hundred dollars to leave right now.”
“Hell no. I smelled his pancakes. I will fight you in the street, Hughes. Now chop chop. We can’t keep the man waiting. Breakfast will get cold.”
Devon might not be a professional hockey player anymore, but the idea of food going cold still offended him. “You’re right, we’re being so rude.”
Nelson was disinclined to come back inside just yet, preferring to patrol the perimeter for anything dumb enough to try to eat a three-hundred-pound sheep covered in protective wool, so Devon and Amber went inside without him. The second he opened the side door, Devon understood why Amber hadn’t been persuaded. His kitchen had never smelled so good.
Not only did Noah have pancakes and eggs sizzling away on the stove, he had a tray of bacon in the oven too. Devon’s trusty coffee maker, which was incapable of brewing less than twelve cups in one go, was full with farm fuel.
And in the middle of it all was Noah, still wearing Devon’s clothes, hair flat on one side. He saw Devon before he saw Amber. “What, the sheep don’t get a good-morning song?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to spoil them.”
Amber poked her head around him in the doorway. “What did he play last night? They’re pretty into the Beatles.”
Devon resisted the urge to facepalm. “Noah, this is my nosy business partner, Amber. Amber, Noah Bell, former damsel in distress.”
Noah waved the spatula in acknowledgment. “It was ‘Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other.’ Are you hungry?”
Amber looked up at Devon. “We like this one.”
He shoved her into the kitchen. “Find us some damn plates, woman.”
They ate at the battle-scarred kitchen table, swapping tales of Michigan power outages past and near-misses skating on ponds that weren’t quite frozen over.
