16. Isla
Chapter 16
Isla
“S o, what do you think of Frosthaven so far?” I ask my date.
My date, Eric Thornton, sits across from me at The Riverstone, looking like a Ken doll come to life. Sharp cheekbones, perfectly coiffed hair. Not a wrinkle in sight on his crisp button-down. I half expect to see a shiny plastic sheen when he moves.
This is what a perfect match looks like, according to Diane. On paper, at least. My fidgety hands reach for the water glass again, partly because my mouth feels like the Sahara and partly to keep from shredding my napkin into confetti.
He’s objectively handsome, the kind of face you’d see in a luxury watch advertisement, but my heart isn’t doing that annoying flutter thing it does when Asher walks into a room.
“I’ve been analyzing the local economic indicators,” he says, straightening his already perfect tie. “The housing market in Frosthaven shows promising growth potential.”
Eric adjusts his posture to exactly 90 degrees, hands folded perfectly at a 45-degree angle on the table. He reaches for his water glass, measuring the exact amount of liquid remaining before taking a precisely calculated sip. “The per capita income is 12% above the state average.”
Um. Okay.
I suppose I should’ve expected this kind of response from a senior financial analyst at Goldman Sachs. Diane had emphasized his impressive career trajectory and analytical mindset as perfect complements to my creative nature.
Maybe my brain’s just not built for high-level finance talk. Or maybe it’s still fried from the mystery number claiming to be my father. Blame my curiosity for making me reply.
A very on-brand reminder that I was abandoned by my own father.
“Right,” I say. “But I meant more like . . . have you tried cinnamon rolls at Fresh n’ Fluffy? They’re to die for.”
“I haven’t had the opportunity to sample the local cuisine,” Eric replies, adjusting his already perfect tie. “My nutritionist has me on a strict meal plan to optimize my macronutrients.”
That tracks.
I take another sip of water, wishing it was Asher’s lavender-chamomile tea. At least then, I’d have something comforting while my date recites the town’s financial report like it’s bedtime reading. Maybe I should’ve asked Diane if her algorithm accounts for the ability to discuss something other than economic indicators.
“So, what do you do for fun?”
“I enjoy activities that promote personal growth and career advancement,” he says. “Last weekend, I attended a seminar on blockchain technology and its applications in supply chain management.”
Sounds wildly productive. I should probably feel inspired.
“Cool,” I say, plastering on a smile. “I’m more of a binge-watch rom-coms in my pajamas kind of gal myself.”
Eric’s brow furrows. “I find such activities to be an inefficient use of time.”
I resist the urge to bang my head on the table. It sounds similar to what Kyle said before, except Kyle would’ve thrown in a lecture about how low-effort media was a sign of intellectual decay.
“Tell me about your matchmaking business.” Eric pulls out his phone, probably to take notes. “What’s your projected growth rate for the next fiscal quarter?”
“Um, I focus more on creating meaningful connections than quarterly projections.”
“But how do you measure your ROI? Your market penetration metrics?”
“I measure success in happy couples and wedding invitations,” I say, trying not to sound defensive.
“Interesting approach.” He types something into his phone. “Have you considered relocating to a major metropolitan area? The dating market in New York shows a 47% higher profit margin. Small-town operations typically demonstrate suboptimal scalability.”
“I prefer quality over quantity. Besides, I like knowing my clients personally.”
“Ah.” He nods sagely. “That’s why your business model is inefficient. Personal involvement creates emotional variables that compromise systematic optimization.”
I blink. Are we having a business consultation or a date?
The forks on our table have become fascinating specimens as Eric launches into his step count optimization manifesto. Come on, brain. Pay attention. He must know something I don’t know about running a business.
Maybe Diane’s algorithm has a glitch. Or maybe I’m just that unmatchable.
I could fake food poisoning. A sudden stomach cramp. Anything to escape Eric’s lecture. But before I can clutch my stomach in theatrical agony, the restaurant door opens, and my thoughts scatter like napkins in a windstorm.
Asher.
What is he doing here?
He looks unfairly handsome in a dark blue button-down, the kind that makes his turquoise eyes smolder like a summer thunderstorm. His long legs eat up the room in dark fitted pants, stretching him into some kind of tall, smirking fever dream.
And on his arm is a stunning redhead who looks a lot like Samantha.
Wait. She is Samantha.
She’s everything I’m not—tall, graceful, with that kind of effortless beauty that belongs in magazines. Her red hair falls in perfect waves, not a strand out of place, unlike my eternally rebellious curls. She practically glows with the kind of confidence that comes from being a corporate lawyer specializing in mergers and acquisitions. The kind of woman who walks into a room, and everyone just knows she has it all together.
The kind of woman who would make perfect sense for Asher.
My stomach twists. I should be happy about this. This is exactly what I wanted. Find him his perfect match.
Wait. Wait, wait, wait.
This isn’t the restaurant I set up for his date. And isn’t that supposed to be tomorrow night?
Asher’s eyes scan the room, and I duck my head, pretending to be fascinated by my napkin. I’ve been avoiding him since that training session. Trying to shove those dangerous butterflies back into the box where they belong.
Asher’s voice cuts through the din of the restaurant. “Isla? Is that you?”
I look up, plastering on my best oh-what-a-surprise face. “Asher! What are you doing here?”
He saunters over. “Just thought we’d try out The Riverstone for our date. Great minds think alike, huh?”
Yeah, right. He definitely changed the location and time of his date. But why? I narrow my eyes at him, but he just grins wider.
“Eric, right?” Asher extends his hand to Eric. “I believe we met at the Chamber of Commerce meeting last month.”
Eric straightens in his chair. “Ah, yes. Your presentation on small business growth metrics was quite illuminating.”
“Actually,” Asher glances between Eric and Samantha with that dimpled smile, “since we’re all here, why don’t we make this a table for four? Eric’s got the inside scoop on the business side of things, and I figured Samantha might enjoy talking shop with someone who speaks fluent finance. Plus, group settings take the pressure off, right?”
Samantha’s eyes light up. “Oh, that’s perfect! I was just telling Asher how I’d love to get a better sense of the economic landscape around here.”
Eric perks up like someone just offered him a spreadsheet of compound interest rates. “Certainly! A broader networking opportunity would optimize this social engagement.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Asher says, sliding into the seat next to Eric with a wink in my direction.
I resist the urge to kick him under the table. “Sure, why not? The more, the merrier.”
Samantha slides into the seat next to me with a dazzling smile. “What a lovely surprise running into you here, Isla! Asher’s told me so much about his matchmaker.”
“Oh, yes. It’s very rewarding work.” I force a smile, but I want to scream. This is not how this was supposed to go.
I sneak out my phone and fire off a quick message to Conner while everyone’s busy figuring out appetizers.
ISLA
Are you the traitor who told Asher about my date???
CONNER
What kind of brother would I be if I DIDN’T tell your future husband about your date?
ISLA
I hate you. I’m getting a new brother on Amazon. Also, he’s NOT my future husband.
Eric launches into a monologue about the statistical improbabilities of successful business mergers in the current market. I nod along, my mind wandering. But Samantha leans forward, her eyes lighting up. Every few seconds, she nods enthusiastically or hums in agreement.
ISLA
WHY are you here? What are you doing?
ASHER
Just being a good client. Letting you see your matchmaking magic in action.
His eyes meet mine across the table, his lips curve into a smile.
ISLA
This isn’t funny! We’re not 12 anymore. You can’t just crash my professional dates for fun!
“Actually, I just finished a case study on how probability modeling can improve decision-making in corporate mergers,” Samantha says, her whole face brightening.
Eric perks up. “Did you use algorithmic forecasting? I’ve been working on a risk assessment framework that uses predictive variables to flag volatility in M&A deals.”
“Exactly!” Samantha leans in, visibly excited. “Have you tried incorporating game theory, like Nash equilibrium, to anticipate competitor behavior during merger negotiations?”
I blink. Did I just stumble into a parallel universe where merger statistics and market analysis count as flirting? They’re speaking a language that might as well be Klingon, but the way they’re beaming at each other . . . huh.
I think I just watched a match click into place.
I’m thrilled that Eric and Samantha are hitting it off so well. But maybe I shouldn’t be, considering I’m failing at my own date and failing at finding Asher a match again . Which doesn’t exactly help my case when I still need to pitch to the event committee.
But the part that actually stings a little is watching two people click so easily and feeling like I’m the kind of person no one ever picks. I should be used to that by now. Ten failed relationships and a lifetime of silence from a father who walked out. I should’ve figured it out already.
I’m just not the kind of person people stay for.
Asher leans back in his chair. His fingers drift to that second button on his shirt, working it free slowly. The crisp blue fabric parts, revealing a strip of tanned skin that steals the air from my lungs.
Eyes. Close. Now.
When did his skin get so golden? That hint of tan peeks through his collar, down to where his shirt parts. The strong line of his throat is begging to be touched, the dip of his collarbone is like an invitation I shouldn’t want to accept. Heat crawls up my neck.
Look away. Look anywhere else. Professional matchmakers do not ogle their clients. Or their best friends. Especially not with his date right here. Bad, inappropriate brain.
“The quarterly projections for tech startup mergers are fascinating,” Eric’s voice drifts through my consciousness like background noise.
Asher’s eyes catch mine, a slow smile spreading across his face like sin itself. Those turquoise eyes have gone midnight dark, holding mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“Don’t you agree, Isla?” Samantha’s question floats somewhere in the distance.
I jerk my leg, knocking my knee against the table. The water glasses rattle, and everyone turns to look at me.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Leg cramp.”
Asher raises an eyebrow at me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He can’t know where my thoughts are heading. I narrow my eyes at him, silently willing him to behave.
“Are you alright, Isla?” Samantha asks.
“Totally fine. Just a bit worn out today. No worries.”
“What do you think about diversifying investment portfolios in this economic climate?” Eric asks Samantha.
Asher unbuttons his cuff, fingers moving with precision. Then he rolls up his sleeves slowly, revealing tanned, muscular forearms. Each fold reveals another inch of sun-kissed skin.
One fold.
Two fold.
Three fold.
The sleeve strains around his elbow. My throat closes up as those powerful forearms come into view. Corded muscle rippling beneath warm skin, veins tracing paths I want to follow with my fingertips.
Can he lift someone with one arm? Probably. Well, half the town voted him Frosthaven’s Best Forearms.
Can I touch it? Absolutely not. I’m supposed to be working on not falling for him harder.
That tiny scar near his wrist catches the light. It was from fourth grade. When Tommy Rogers laughed at me for not having a dad. And Asher—well. Let’s just say he earned it.
He stretches his arms, pulling his dress shirt snugly across his chest. Then his hand drifts up, sweeping through his hair in that casual, devastating way he does when he’s half-listening and entirely too relaxed.
It looks even better than the romance novel I’m reading. Chapter 12. I know exactly where that scene is. Wait—is he doing this on purpose? He did say he read that book. I narrow my eyes at him, but he just lifts his glass, throat working as he swallows, forearms on full display like he’s auditioning for the cover of “Burning For You.”
My fork slips from my fingers, clattering to the table.
“You okay there, Isla?” Asher asks, his voice low and amused.
I nod and focus very hard on the salt shaker. Anywhere but his eyes.
Why is it always so hard not to feel something for Asher? He’s already made it clear. We’re just friends.
“You’re amazing. You’ll find someone who sees that.”
How he wouldn’t meet my eyes, how his jaw clenched like the words cost him something.
My confused heart is making everything harder than it needs to be. Why does it have to be like this? If love is just going to wilt every time it gets close, why does it have to drag my friendship down with it?
“Oh, dearies! You simply must try the Cherries Jubilee flambé. It’s to die for!”
I whip my head around to see Betty, our beloved neighbor, waving enthusiastically from a nearby table.
“That does sound intriguing,” Eric perks up. “The combination of cherries and alcohol creates a fascinating chemical reaction during the flambé process.”
A waiter appears with an elaborate dessert cart. It’s like a miniature Mardi Gras float, complete with dramatic lighting that makes the crystal bowls sparkle.
“Ooh, make the flames extra big!” Betty calls out, practically bouncing in her seat.
The waiter, bless his heart, looks torn between following Betty’s instructions and not burning down the restaurant.
“You know,” Connie’s voice rings out from across the room, “Fred once singed his eyebrows doing this at home. Smelled like a burnt caterpillar for weeks!”
Connie and Fred are here? I’ve been so caught up in my own awkward situation that I hadn’t even noticed who else was in the restaurant.
The waiter lights the brandy, and suddenly, it’s like the Fourth of July decided to make an early appearance. The flames shoot up, way higher than they should.
“Oh my!” Betty exclaims, gesturing wildly. Her hand catches the edge of the cart, and suddenly, it’s dessert Armageddon.
The Cherries Jubilee slides one way, the profiteroles another, and a trifle wobbles like it’s auditioning for a disaster movie. And is that . . . smoke coming from Mrs. Henderson’s wig?
“The insurance implications of this scenario are quite intriguing.” Eric’s completely unfazed by the chaos.
Samantha says evenly. “This would make an excellent case study for my risk management class.”
“Isla, duck!” Asher’s voice snaps me back to reality just as a wayward crêpe suzette sails over my head.
Without thinking, I grab a pitcher of water and toss it at the flames. Bad move. The fire roars higher, and I stumble back. In an instant, Asher’s out of his seat and behind me, one arm wrapping around my waist to steady me. His other arm reaches past me to grab the tablecloth, and oh my goodness—those forearms. His rolled-up sleeves have slipped even higher, and my hand somehow ends up gripping his bare forearm for balance.
The muscles flex under my fingers. His skin is fever-hot against mine, all rough-velvet texture and coiled strength. My fingers tingle where they meet the slight rasp of hair against his forearm. Somewhere in my brain, all coherent thought dissolves into a puddle of goo.
“Nice moves, Peachie,” he murmurs, his breath fanning hot against my ear. His chest is solid against my back, radiating heat that seeps straight through my clothes. Every nerve ending lights up where his arm brackets my waist.
Why does it feel so natural, so right, like his arms were made to hold me just like this?
Eric has abandoned his seat to move closer to Samantha, the clipboard materializing from nowhere as they huddle together.
“We should help,” I say to Asher, trying to sound steady while being hyper-aware of his arm still around me.
He nods, already moving to grab a tablecloth to smother the flames. I follow his lead, and soon we’re tag-teaming the dessert inferno.
“And it’s Ennis with the water, but Collymore makes the save!” Connie’s voice booms out. “What a play, folks!”
I turn to see Connie and Fred providing enthusiastic commentary like they’re at a hockey game. And Mrs. Henderson’s knitting circle is taking bets on which dessert will hit the floor first.
The elderly pianist starts playing dramatic music, adding a surreal soundtrack to the mayhem. It’s like being in the world’s most ridiculous disaster movie.
“I’m helping!” Betty’s voice rings out, followed by the sound of shattering glass.
The doors burst open. In rushes Frosthaven’s volunteer fire department and heads straight for the flambé cart.
As the room fills with the scent of singed sugar and hairspray, I turn and catch Asher’s eye. Even in the middle of all this chaos, we burst into laughter.
This might be the most chaotic date I’ve ever had. Or the worst. Hard to say. But somehow, with Asher next to me, it doesn’t feel all that bad.