Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Wilder meets my eyes and holds my gaze for a long moment that tugs on my heart. His eyes are softer now. More earnest. Maybe even vulnerable as he looks at me while answering her. “Yes, they are.”
I can barely catch my breath as I try to process his words. Does he mean…?
No. I can’t let myself think that. That’s too risky. Too unlikely. Besides, he warned me that he doesn’t trust easily, if at all. Best that I resist reading something into nothing.
Instead, I smile cheerily. “Truer words,” I say as the smell of maple syrup fills the air, and I feel a pang of longing for a family breakfast like this.
Where did that come from? I had breakfasts like this with Mom and Charlotte growing up. Only, were they ever truly like this? Easy, carefree, fun? Weren’t we always tense back then, waiting for Dad to barrel in and steal the show?
Maybe that’s why my holiday pancake breakfast memories are tinged with stress. Even when we sat down at the table when we were younger, Christmas music playing, the scent of pancakes and lazy mornings filling the air, there was always some unease.
Right now, with Wilder and Mac, I don’t feel anything but relaxed as they join me at the counter and we tuck in.
“When did you arrive?” I ask Mac.
“About an hour ago. We left the city really early, but that’s okay because I didn’t want to miss the sledding competition. It’s in a couple hours. I’ve been practicing my sledding all year so I can win.”
This I need to know. “How do you practice sledding?”
“You do it in your backyard. We have a small hill, and there’s a section that doesn’t have any grass on it. So I hose it down, and it makes it muddy, and that’s a perfect way to practice. I worked on my sledding moves this fall, like going backward, sledding sidesaddle, and going down on my stomach,” she says, then stabs a forkful of pancake and eats it before she adds, “I mastered them all.”
“And my heart was beating outside my body the whole time,” Wilder says warmly, but with a father’s worry, too, as he ruffles her hair, then squeezes her shoulder.
That flutter? It’s more like a swoon as he hugs his daughter.
She leans into him, resting her head against his chest. “I was safe, Dad. I wore a helmet.”
“Doesn’t matter. I always worry about you,” he says.
“I worry about you too. That’s why we’re a good team,” she says, then gestures to my pancakes. “Do you like them?”
“No,” I say, then sit up straighter. “I love them.”
Mac smiles. “Good.” When she finishes hers, she says, “I almost forgot. I made something for you two.”
I freeze with the fork midair, then ask, “You did?”
“I did,” she says, then pops up and races to the adjoining living room, grabbing something from a bag next to the coffee table as I take the bite at last.
When she returns, she’s holding an ornament. It’s a ceramic cartoon fireplace with four stockings hanging from it. “For the tree,” she says, then hands it to me with a hopeful grin that says she’s eager for me to like it.
My heart melts. She’s written names on the four stockings.
Dad, Mac, Penguin, and…Fable.
My throat tightens with so many unexpected emotions. My eyes are wet. I run a finger to swipe away the hint of a tear. “I love it,” I say, then I hug her too.
This feels too much like the family pancake breakfast I longed for. But I’d better not get used to this warm, happy feeling too much since it’ll end when the tree is thrown out.
34
AMATEUR REAL MATCHMAKER
Wilder
After we clean up, Fable turns to me, holds up the ornament, and says, “Why don’t we all put it on the tree right now?”
Mac brightens but then takes a beat. “Actually…why don’t you two do it and I’ll take a picture?”
She gestures to the Nikon she brought that’s sitting on the living room table, by the tree. Like she has something up her sleeve, since she always does.
“If you insist,” I say.
Fable heads over to the living room tree that’s already decorated with department-store-style decor—red and gold balls, white icicle lights, and candy canes that must’ve been hung by the decorators here at the—fine, okay—chalets.
Fable tests the ornament in various spots, positioning it just so, looking for the perfect branch. My heart does a funny thud-thud as she scrutinizes each one carefully. I don’t know why I find this endearing, but I do. Maybe because she’s strategic in her own way.
After she tests a few options, she declares, “This should be three-quarters of the way up.”
I expect her to turn to me and ask my opinion, of which I have none, but she spins around and looks at Mac. “What do you think? Does that feel like the right spot for it?”