Chapter 2
THE PUNCH PLAN
ISLA
On the one hand, I can’t believe Jason’s best friend would say something so rude about a fantastic matchmaking package.
On the other hand, I won’t let irritation get the best of me. Especially since there’s a bigger problem—defiled Christmas punch. I can fix this mishap in no time.
With my hand on his strong, toned forearm, I flash Rowan my brightest crisis-management smile. “It’s no big deal. We’ll just—”
I break off, noticing Rowan’s white-knuckled grip on the ladle, like it’s a hockey stick he won’t relinquish.
“You need to drop the candy cane, Rowan. Then we’ll toss the whole thing and get a fresh bowl of punch.
” My tone is cheery but reassuring. He’s my brother’s top-earning client, not just his best friend. “Easy-peasy.”
The burly hockey star peers at me like I have antlers, then tightens his hold on the ladle. “But we’re not punch makers.”
“Well, we can’t just leave it like this,” I say.
His jaw works like he’s biting back some sarcastic comment—or maybe the rest of the candy cane. His green eyes narrow. “So your plan is what, Miss Christmas?”
I smile, knowing you catch more flies with honey. “Thank you. I wear that title with pride.”
“Of course you do.”
I ignore his dry tone and the strong set of his jaw. I ignore, too, how his stubble makes me wonder if it’s soft to the touch, and how his eyes sparkle with mischief even when his expression is stern. Deliciously stern, if you want to know.
“Step two,” I say, “we fix this. Quick, discreet, and with as little public embarrassment as possible.”
He raises a skeptical brow, the scar cutting across one eyebrow arching too. “Because nothing screams subtle like launching a candy cane into a bowl of Christmas-red punch in a room full of guests.”
“Oh, please. No one saw you,” I counter with a breezy wave. One projectile candy won’t ruin the party. Not when my burgeoning business is offering a fabulous item for auction. “I’ve been watching this table, and luck is shining on us. Trust me. I’m a former party planner.”
Rowan holds up a finger. “Or, hear me out. We’ll put up a sign that says No punch. You’re screwed.”
“Absolutely not! And,” I remind him, “your agent would be very mad at you for that.”
Rowan simply shrugs. “Might be fun to see him riled up.”
Men. “Rowan, this is a holiday party. For a holiday auction. And punch is festive.”
“We’ll use red and green pens. Would that make the sign festive too?”
“The longer you argue, the more attention you draw,” I point out. I grab a napkin with my free hand and hold it out. “Let go of the ladle, Rowan.”
With a sigh, he finally gives in, lowering the ladle and tipping the candy cane into my offered napkin. “Fine. What’s your punch replacement plan?”
I straighten, summoning all my sunny determination. “Lucky for you, I know how to make a fresh batch. Grab the bowl and prepare to be dazzled by my recipe.”
“Dazzle me, Isla,” he says. For a flicker of a second, I wonder how I might dazzle him in a different scenario. Then Rowan pulls me back to the moment. “But first, tell me where to dump this so we can move on.”
I blink at his sudden decisiveness, appreciating his willingness to step up. “The prep area for the servers,” I say. “Down the hall, third door on the left. Then we’ll go to the bar, and I’ll convince the bartender to whip up a fresh batch with a fix-it recipe I’ve got in my head.”
“Got it.” With the bowl balanced in his steady hands—and the cuffs on his charcoal gray dress shirt rolled up, thank you very much—he scans for the nearest exit. It’s thirty feet from here.
Clutching the candy-cane-filled napkin, I whisper, team-leader-style, “Go! I’ll cover you!”
“You do that,” he says dryly.
Everyone’s mingling, so we should be able to quietly handle this little problem. But as I step away from the table, a pack of just-arriving guests heads toward me. Or us, really. A flare of tension races down my back. This is not a good look—tampering with the food and drink at a party.
Think fast, you problem-solving genius.
I peer around the ballroom, hunting for a faster exit, but Rowan has already changed directions with the confidence of, well, a pro athlete. He’s heading straight for…the poinsettias in the corner?
“What are you doing?” I whisper, too late to stop him, then turn back to the table. A woman in pearls and a red, faux-fur bolero jacket makes her way along the buffet, chatting animatedly with a dapper older man in a plaid suit.
Rowan is behind me, doing whatever horrifying thing he’s doing to the plant, so I guess I’ll do what he does on the ice—block.
Grabbing the list of auction items, I widen my eyes with an exaggerated gasp.
“A life-size nutcracker? And his nutcracker friends! That would be so perfect for a front porch display.” I wave the card, catching the pearl-and-faux-fur woman’s eyes. “Don’t you think?”
She tilts her head and looks at me askance.
Oh, crud. She thinks I’ve lost my mind. Why didn’t I pick something more universally beloved? I scan the list again, not panicking at all. “But maybe I should bid on this…gift basket of jams.”
The man harrumphs. “In my day, we didn’t have jam.”
I struggle to think of a reply to this unlikely claim. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a stream of red punch cascading into a large pot of poinsettias and choke back a horrified laugh at Rowan’s predicament. Must keep my attention on the faux-fur woman and the auction excitement.
“There’s also an afternoon at this brand-new restaurant with fire pits where you can roast your own chestnuts.” I beam at the woman. “Who doesn’t want chestnuts roasting on an open fire?”
The woman adjusts her bolero with a dramatic flick. “Darling, who wants little nuts when you can have a life-size nutcracker? Is it a proper forty-eight inches though?”
She actually wants a life-size nutcracker? My eyes dart to the item, quickly finding the number. “It’s your lucky night! It is exactly four feet tall. And the accompanying nutcracker friends are thirty-six inches tall, from the toes of their shoes to the top of their hats.”
She snaps her gaze to her companion. “Arthur, be a dear and bid on that for me. And I don’t want to hear a word about how they didn’t have nutcrackers back in your day.”
“They didn’t, though,” he mutters.
She rolls her eyes and turns back to me. “Next thing you know, he’ll be telling me they didn’t have punch then either.” She looks at the table and frowns in confusion at the large, crystal-bowl-size space next to the punch glasses and ladle. “Speaking of punch…”
“We were just about to top it off.” I gesture vaguely in the direction of the bar.
The woman eyes me up and down, perhaps wondering why I’m dressed like a guest and not a server, but then she shrugs.
“I appreciate that, but I’d rather mine be self-spiked.
” She reaches into her little vintage handbag and takes out the tiniest silver flask I’ve ever seen, waggling it and winking at me.
“I’ll be back to handle that part myself. ”
She sashays off with her husband in tow, and a moment later, the ruggedly handsome hockey star returns with the now-empty crystal bowl.
“I saw the opponent barreling down my forward, I had to improvise,” he explains in hockey terms. “Couldn’t be seen lugging punch around. Now we’re just helpfully bringing an empty bowl to the bartender.”
“Let’s do it,” I say brightly, relieved to have pulled off that distraction. But what if he consigned the poinsettias to an early death? “I hope you don’t kill them with your tainted punch.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “No one likes poinsettias.”
“I like poinsettias,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Really?”
“Yes! They’re pretty!”
He rubs the back of his neck, looking more sheepish than smug now. “Plants like water. Punch is mostly water.”
But while he gets an A for effort, it’ll be easier if I handle the rest myself. I reach for the punch bowl. “I’ll take it from here.” I keep my tone light since I don’t want to let on I’m a little peeved.
He holds tight though. “Nope. My fuck-up. My fix. I’m in it till the bitter end.”
“Killing a plant is hardly a fix,” I say.
“It’s all good.” Rowan gestures to the poinsettia, which looks healthier than it did before, as if mocking me. “See?” he points out. “Also, you’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”
His full lips curve again into a cocky grin, while his green-eyed gaze holds mine for longer than necessary.
Why do frustrating men need to be so sexy?
It’s unfair the way his tailored slacks define his muscular thighs, not to mention the snug fit of his custom dress shirt.
The net effect makes my stomach do a traitorous flip.
I fight off the wave of tingles and raise my chin. “Fine, but let me take the lead this time.”
He sweeps out an arm. “Lead the way, Miss Christmas.” He sounds like he’s having too much fun. It’s best for me to be all business though.
We head to the bar, where I’m prepared to beg the bartender in the nicest, sweetest way for copious amounts of cranberry juice and Sprite.
When we arrive, there’s no line. Hurray for small miracles. But there is a gleaming silver tip jar that might be an obstacle in my sweet-talk plan.
Rowan sets down the bowl, grabs his wallet, and fishes out a big bill, speaking before I even get a chance.
“Hey, man. How you doing?” he asks, sliding into bro-banter friendliness.
“Good. And you?” the man asks.
“We’ll be real excellent if you can mix us some new punch, stat? And, ideally, don’t say a word about why we need it.” Rowan tips his chin my way. “My friend will give you an amazing recipe.”
The stoic beanpole of a barman, decked out in a white shirt and red vest, gives Rowan a crisp nod and an “Of course.”