Page 46
Story: Scoring with My Dirty Dare (Ice Chronicles Hockey #3)
46
Piper
The Ice family kitchen looks like Martha Stewart collided with a rodeo clown—frosting bowls, hay-bale–print tablecloths, and one inflatable unicorn head inexplicably stuck to the fridge with a magnet.
Violet’s second birthday theme? “Glitter Rodeo.” Emma is ringmaster, and I’m the uncredited stage crew determined to earn my keep.
“Ganache or buttercream swirl?” I call, piping pink rosettes onto lemon cupcakes.
Emma, hair in a messy braid dusted with powdered sugar, glances up from her clipboard. “Is the swirl faster?”
“Depends if you want wrist tendinitis.” I grin. “But swirl it is.”
Sadie swings through the doorway carrying two dozen favor bags. “I vote swirl; kids inhale frosting. More is more.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Look who’s channeling positivity instead of pot-stirring.”
She smirks but bumps my shoulder. “Keep talking, camera girl, I’ll hide your piping tips.”
It’s banter, but underneath there’s an ease—two ex-adversaries now tag-teaming a tiny tornado’s birthday.
Emma sets down her clipboard, draws a deep breath. “Piper—thanks for doing so much.” Her eyes flick to mine, pale blue still wary but less brittle. “You didn’t have to.”
“I did,” I answer simply. No more disclaimers.
By noon the ranch yard is a kaleidoscope of streamers, pony rides, and a bounce house shaped like a barn. I shoot candid photos—kids in cowboy hats, Violet testing out a lasso Sadie made from pool noodles. Jake’s around somewhere wrangling hay-bale seating; I catch flashes of his broad shoulders but keep my distance—our parameter of mutual caution.
Guests trickle in. Local preschool parents. A few of Jake’s teammates. Marnie is a wild card everyone’s pretending not to mention. The custody hearing is in forty-eight hours; tension rides under each laugh like a thin wire.
I stick to the sidelines: refilling lemonade, straightening the gift table, coaxing toddlers away from the corral gate. No speeches, no attempts to corner Jake. Just action, the only language I trust right now.
*
“Cupcake o’clock!” Emma announces at 2 P.M. Kids swarm the picnic table where I’ve lined up two towering stands of glitter-dusted sweets. Violet climbs onto the bench, eyes shining.
Jake appears behind her, cowboy hat tipped back, grin wide—God help me. He lifts Violet so she can blow out her two sparkler candles. “Big breath, spark plug.”
She inhales, then blows—sparklers fizz out, applause erupts. Violet turns, scanning the crowd, and spots me holding the serving tongs.
“Pie-puh first!” she declares, pointing.
A hush shivers through the adults. My heart skids. I step forward, offer a cautious smile. “Birthday girl gets first pick, then I’ll grab one, okay?”
She shakes her head vigorously, curls bouncing. “You fiiirst . Daddy said guests first.” She beams like it’s foolproof birthday logic.
Jake’s gaze cuts to me— unreadable, but not cold. “If that’s the birthday decree,” he says.
My hand trembles as I pluck a cupcake. Violet claps. “Now blow kiss!” she instructs. She puckers; I blow a silly air-kiss; she giggles. The tension melts a notch.
Then the sugar high kicks in.
Kids disperse to the bounce barn. I shadow them, camera ready, capturing blur shots of Violet’s pink helmet bouncing beneath the netting. When she tumbles out, cheeks flushed, she barrels straight into me.
“Flower Wady!” She wraps her arms around my legs. “You be my second mom, ’kay?”
Time freezes. Parents go silent. Emma’s hand flies to her mouth. Jake, mid-conversation with Blaze, whips around. My pulse booms in my ears.
I crouch to Violet’s eye level. “Sweetheart, you already have a mommy and a daddy who love you lots.”
“Love you too,” she says with toddler certainty. “Two moms good.”
Emotion throttles me. Carefully I hug her back, aware of every eye. “I love you, Vi. And I’ll always be here to cheer you on.” I kiss her forehead, then redirect. “Now show Auntie Sadie your lasso trick, okay?”
She scampers off. The watchers exhale. My cheeks burn, but I keep my focus on Violet’s retreating form—safe, carefree.
Ten minutes later, the ranch gate creaks. A sleek black SUV rolls in. Marnie steps out in a tailored ivory jumpsuit and snakeskin boots—less ranch chic, more runway. Conversations dip; subtle stares follow her path toward the party. Jake notices, shoulders tensing. Emma intercepts Marnie with polite stiffness, steering her toward adult refreshments.
I hover by the lemonade table, breath tight. My only direct interaction with Marnie was peeking in court transcripts—and those were uglier than TMZ comment sections. Now she’s thirty feet away, scanning the party like a hawk.
She zeroes in on me. Of course she does.
I steel myself and approach, hands visible, voice calm. “Hi, Marnie. Piper Reed.” I add a gentle smile. “We haven’t met yet—I take photos for some of the community events.”
Her eyes—hazel, sharp—flick over me, assessing. “Yes. The blogger.”
“Former blogger,” I correct softly. “Now volunteer photographer.” I gesture toward Violet spinning with Sadie. “She’s having a great day.”
A ghost of a smile touches Marnie’s lips. “Always did love parties.” She sips sparkling water. “So… second mom?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not trying to take your place,” I say, meeting her gaze. “Violet adores you. I respect that. I’m just another grown-up who cares about her.”
Marnie’s expression remains guarded, but her shoulders relax a fraction. “She loves easily. Just don’t forget who got her here first.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
We stand in uneasy truce. She moves off to hand Violet a gift bag. Violet hugs her, pure joy. Something in Marnie’s eyes softens—and for a flicker, I see the mother behind the custody war headlines.
I exhale, heart hammering. When I turn, Jake’s there by the drink barrels—arms crossed, face unreadable. Great.
He walks up, gaze flicking to Marnie, then to me. I brace for impact, but he just says, “Lemonade’s low,” as if we’re coworkers mid-shift.
“I’ll mix another batch,” I reply, matching his quiet.
He nods, lifts the empty jug, brushes past me—his sleeve skimming mine. Electricity zings like a static shock. Subtle, but undeniable.
Party wraps at dusk. Parents collect sugar-buzzed kids; the ranch yard empties. Sadie wrangles volunteers for trash duty; Emma herds leftover ponies back to the paddock. I stack folding chairs near the barn, sweat-sticky and exhausted.
A shadow falls across mine. Jake. Without a word he grabs the next chair, folds it, stacks it on mine. We work in silent rhythm until the last chair clanks on the pile.
I wipe my palms on my jeans. “Thanks for—”
Jake’s hand finds mine. Warm, calloused, steady. He doesn’t squeeze; just holds, thumb brushing the outside of my knuckles. My breath catches.
He looks straight ahead at the sunset, not at me. Like we’re both absorbing a horizon only we can see.
No apology. No speech. Just his hand around mine, the simplest, bravest acknowledgment that maybe—just maybe—this story isn’t over.
I hold back tears, but a smile slips free. One small hand-hold. One giant turning point.
And for tonight, that’s enough.
Table of Contents
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