Page 5
As he opens the rear door, I spot a black hockey bag with STRATTON printed across the side in white letters. Two sticks are strapped beside the bag.
“Christmas tree farmer and hockey player?” I ask. “You’re really committed to the small-town fantasy, aren't you?”
He chuckles and pulls out a heavy tow strap. “I play a little.”
"A little? That is not a little bag. That bag has sponsorships."
His laugh travels across the snow. “I might have moved around a few professional teams.”
“That explains the thighs,” I say.
He looks over his shoulder. “What?”
“The sticks. I said that explains the hockey sticks.”
His gaze drops toward his legs before returning to mine with unmistakable amusement. “I’m reporting for the Wildcards after I deliver the tree. That hockey tournament I mentioned at the resort? Well, the billionaire behind it is putting together some kind of misfits team.”
I watch him for a moment, because for a man of his build and stature, this should be an exciting thing.
This man looks anything but excited.
“Then why do you look about as excited to join them as I was to get married tonight?”
His hands pause on the tow strap. For one second, those sharp blue eyes search mine as if he’s trying to decide whether my self-depreciating joke is an invitation to ask what the hell happened to me.
Instead, he sighs and realizes sitting on the side of a mountain probably isn't the right time.
“My brothers want me to play.” He starts toward my car, gathering the strap into one large hand. “Apparently one more high-profile tournament is exactly what my career needs.”
For a moment, the confidence in his face turns into tiredness. He looks off into the distance of the small town below, and slowly, his easy grin returns to hide whatever that was.
"So, yeah. Christmas tournament here we come."
The quiet answer warns me not to push. Since he hasn’t asked why I abandoned a wedding, I grant him the same mercy.
Miles walks around my car, assessing the angle of the buried wheel. When he reaches the open rear door, he stops and looks inside. The wedding dress covers most of the seat, surrounded by wrapped gifts, my discarded veil and one high heel.
“So,” he says slowly. “Did you steal a bride?”
I fold my arms inside his enormous sleeves. “Technically, yes.”
“Anybody searching for her?”
“Probably everybody.”
He chuckles that deep laugh again. “Any chance the groom is armed?”
“Only with an inflated opinion of himself.”
His grin arrives slowly, transforming his rugged face into something considerably more dangerous.
The snow begins falling harder, thick flakes catching in his hair and across the shoulders of his flannel.
Miles hooks the tow strap over one broad shoulder and nods toward his truck. “Go wait in my cab. The engine is running so you can stay warm while I hook this up. I’ll come get you when I need you behind the wheel.”
I watch him walk into the falling snow, Christmas lights sparkling below us and his coat wrapped around my body.
Running from my wedding is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done.
