Chapter 7 The Unmatchable
THE UNMATCHABLE
ISLA
Admittedly, I didn’t come to this impromptu meeting with Rowan expecting to learn so many juicy details about him. But I did. Oh Santa, did I ever.
“Someone is a fount of information,” I say as the burly, surly hockey player arrives at the table that’s decorated with a tiny tree covered in mini pine cones as a centerpiece.
With an arch of his brow, Rowan sets down a salted caramel latte for me and a drink for himself, all while balancing a very small dog, who’s now wearing a black jean jacket.
“Someone being a precocious nine-year-old who rivals a meddling grandmother?” Rowan asks as he sits, then adjusts the dog carefully in his lap, giving her a few strokes on her head and saying something to her in a voice too soft for me to hear.
“Yes, I learned so much about you in those few minutes with Mia,” I say, then lift the red and white mug and say thank you for the drinks he insisted on buying. I catch the sweet, minty scent of his beverage, my nose wrinkling in delight. “Is that a peppermint cocoa?”
Like a wary dog, he answers with a tentative, “Yes.”
“Rather Christmassy, isn’t it?”
“No,” he snaps.
“Aww, did I hit a nerve?”
“Nope,” he says, digging his heels in. “Just pointing out you’re wrong. Peppermint cocoa is good year round. Full stop.”
“I’m sure you down it during the summer months. While lounging in a hammock in your backyard as bees buzz in the nearby flowers.”
“Obviously I don’t drink peppermint cocoa in the summer. It’s a hot drink.”
“Right, of course. You probably drink iced peppermint cocoa in the summer,” I say, feigning seriousness.
With his chin held high, he says, “I do.”
“I can’t wait to have a drink with you in the summer then. And here I thought you were a—gasp—closet Christmas fan.”
“Hate to break it to you—you’re wrong,” he says. “And I will see you in the summer to prove it.”
This man takes stubborn to new heights. “I’ll put it in my calendar.”
After he drinks some of the cocoa with a purposeful appreciativeness, like he’s showing off how genuine his love for the drink is, he shoots me a hard stare that I bet he thinks scares me.
News flash: he’s wrong. “You were saying you learned something about me. What could you possibly have learned in that short time? Other than the fact that Mia’s too smart for my own good,” he says, but he’s clearly proud of his daughter.
Understandably so.
I sit taller and smile like a Cheshire cat. “Maybe I should keep everything I learned to myself,” I tease, then take a sip of the latte—it’s sweet and savory at the same time, and it reminds me of my favorite memories growing up.
“I think you should, Miss Christmas.” He leans forward, that stare darkening, hardening, almost turning into a midnight sort of glare. “I bet you’d like to do just that.”
Heat flashes through me, but I wash it down with a sip of my latte then roll my eyes.
He is a client. Not a crush. “I was only joking. How would hoarding details about you help me match you? I’ll be sharing these details with your future dream woman so you can find the love you deserve,” I say, then fasten on an even bigger, brighter smile. “And so I can win the bet.”
He laughs, then shakes his head. “You love to goad me.”
True, needling him is fun—especially since he’s so difficult about romance.
It’s such a stark contrast to how he is with kids.
I’ve seen him at events and get-togethers with my brother, sometimes with my niece and nephew in tow, and Rowan’s always been amazing with them.
Patient, playful, and surprisingly warm.
It’s a side of him that, frankly, is lovely to see.
But with me, when it comes to matchmaking? He’s a hard-ass.
And that’s intel too. Little does he know, everything he does gives me intel. I tap my pen against my notebook. As much as he winds me up, I have a mission here—to match this unmatchable man. And I will not fail.
Maybe I’ve failed at finding the right person for myself, but I won’t fail for my clients. Nope. I want only satisfied customers. The more I succeed at making matches, the less my own story will sting. The less I’ll dwell on how my ex deceived me.
As I adjust my scarf, Rowan’s eyes follow my moves for a few seconds. Does he like the way I look in it? But that’s a ridiculous thought, best dismissed, so I sweep it into a corner as I say, “Allow me to tell you what I see in you.”
He huffs, but when he says, “Fine, have at it,” there’s a note of…interest in his tone. Real interest. Well, that’s not surprising. Most people like it when you talk about them.
“You’re protective,” I announce, then write it down, capping the i with a fun, frothy dot and taking a sip of my latte to punctuate my point.
When I look up, his I-can’t-be-bothered attitude is gone, replaced by curiosity. He leans closer to me. “Where’d you get that?”
I wave my hand. “Oh, that was easy.”
“Tell me then.”
“You want your daughter to eat only organic food,” I begin.
“That means I’m protective?” he asks, more intrigued than I’ve seen before.
“Yes. It’s a form of protecting her—in this case, from toxins. But I bet it applies to the broader world.”
He narrows his eyes, then hums. “Seems a stretch.”
Slowly, deliberately, my gaze drifts down to the little cutie in his lap. “And you held your dog the entire time we were in the store. Keeping her safe.”
“She’s seven pounds. Didn’t want her to get stepped on.”
“Hence, protective.”
“What dad isn’t concerned about his kid’s welfare?”
I smile, shaking my head with amusement.
“Oh, Rowan. You can say that, but I think we both know you’re very protective.
Of her and the dog, and I bet of your whole family.
I suspect you’re that way with all the people you love,” I say.
Am I going out on a limb with my conclusion about him?
Maybe. But it’s a sturdy limb. “I’ve noticed, too, the way you hold Mia’s hand, look around to make sure she’s safe at all times.
It wasn’t hard to connect the dots…” I screw up the corner of my lips, then throw down with, “But if I’m wrong, I can just cross this out? ”
It’s a challenge. A dare, really. I hold the pen over the word in my notebook, poised to scratch it.
With a sigh, he relents. “Fine. Maybe you’re right. It’s not like I think about it that much. You only get one chance to take care of them, you know?” He owns it at last, but in a way that kind of warms my heart.
“Exactly. It’s a good thing,” I say.
“Glad you think so,” he says, the gruffness gone from his tone for a brief second, replaced by warmth.
“I do. And I’ll make sure it’s part of your profile…Protective,” I say, underlining it.
“Fair enough,” he says, and those two words embolden me—partly because of how he says them. Simply. Without irritation about this whole matchmaking thing. I’ll take it as a good sign, a tiny crack in his grumpy armor, that maybe, eventually, he’ll come around and see the benefits of what I do.
Since he’s just given a little, I decide to go for something easy next. “And presumably, you love sports? All sports, right? You have an open mind about them,” I ask, keeping the momentum going.
“Fuck yes,” he says.
“You did bid on the women’s hockey tickets,” I add, since I want him to know I didn’t just figure that out from him being an athlete. I observed him.
For a few seconds, as a pair of latte drinkers weaves past our table, Rowan shoots me a quizzical stare, either amazed I remembered or that I’ve put it together.
“The women’s team plays hard. I love playing hockey and watching hockey.”
“So, we want to find you a match who loves sports and who doesn’t mind a protective man? Just for starters.”
His sigh is so long it could inflate a fifty-foot inflatable yard Santa. His jaw ticks like he’s weighing something—likely concession. “Fine. You’re right there too.”
I nearly squeal. Possibly, I preen. I channel all my victorious energy into writing a fantastically large and unnecessarily bubble-sized checkmark next to the words in my Rowan profile.
“What is that exactly?” he asks, gesturing to the notepad.
“It’s the book of you,” I chirp. “Where I keep track of who you are so I can pick the best matches and dates for you over the next few weeks. Dates where you’re guaranteed to have success.”
“What kind of dates?” he asks.
“I have some things in mind,” I say, then swing my gaze to the clock above the wreath on the wall.
It’s ticking closer to the top of the hour, reminding me of what a busy schedule this man has.
That’s also one of the challenges in matching him, but there’s no way around it.
He travels for work. “Rowan, I’ve checked the hockey schedule, and I know you have a pretty busy month, but is there anything else I need to know about your availability?
Anything you have going on with Mia or otherwise for Christmastime that would preclude dates?
” Then I smile. “And tell the truth. We do have a bet going on.”
He meets my gaze, but he’s quiet and stony-faced.
His furrowed brow a frustratingly good look—the stern, dark-haired, bearded man staring me down.
Would he be stern in other ways? Like, after dark.
Like after winning that bar fight I imagined the other night.
Like, one where he’d defend his woman against a handsy stranger.
“I’m mostly free,” he concedes.
“Perfect. Because I don’t want you to be late. For the suit walk or the game. You’ll do the suit walk with Wanda, of course, right?”
He hugs the dog closer, more protectively than before. “Yes,” he admits, like it costs him something.
I smile at the image of this big, burly man cradling that small, pretty dog in his strong arms. “And that’s another thing in your favor. A man who loves dogs. I need to find an animal lover for you. I mean, Wanda’s the cutest thing ever.” I gesture to the pup, who perks up her head.
“Yeah, she is. Been attached to me since Mia begged me to adopt her.” He admits this easily, naturally, as he strokes between the dog’s fluffy ears. Wanda leans into him, clearly loving the dog-dad affection.
“Seems Wanda adopted you,” I observe.
He shoots me a look that translates to don’t push it.
But we both know I nailed it. I make two more notes in my planner as “Let It Snow” plays overhead and a pack of girlfriends at a nearby table croon the chorus.
Rowan eyes me suspiciously, trying to read my handwriting upside down. “What’d you write?”
“Loves punk rock and his little dog too,” I say.
His expression shifts into surprise—maybe admiration. “You read all her pins?”
“Yes, but you also said as much,” I point out, not unkindly.
He takes a beat, then nods. “Right. I have to remember you remember everything,” he says, tapping his temple.
“I try.”
He pauses, scrunches his brow. “I guess I’ll have to make a similar list about you.”
Game on. “I would love to see that.”
“You would?”
“Of course,” I say, partly because I’m curious what he’d list but also because the more he leans into this matchmaking mission, the better it’ll go. If that means applying the same treatment to me, so be it.
“I’ll consider that my homework then. And it’ll start with…
memory like a steel trap.” Funny how the words are sharp, almost damning, but I can hear the admiration in his tone.
He pushes back in the chair. “So the next thing will be…a date…with someone?” he asks, like the words are a sour lemon on his tongue.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Oh no. We’re not there yet.
I have more data to gather. We’ve hardly spent enough time together.
We’ll need another get-to-know-you session,” I say, a little zing rushing through me at the thought—this kind of deep work is why I moved on from podcasting.
The show was fun, but this? It feels like I can make a real difference.
“Sounds like a date,” he grumbles.
A shocked laugh bursts from me. “A date?”
“You did say a get-to-know-you session. That’s kind of a date.” He smirks. “Maybe you’re trying to date me.”
I sputter, shaking my head. “No. Not at all. I’m not.”
His smile rockets up the cocky levels. “You sure about that?”
“I can’t date a client,” I say, completely serious.
He scans the café, like he’s making sure no one’s eavesdropping, then leans in closer. “Fine. A fake date,” he whispers, sketching air quotes.
“Rowan,” I whisper, a little imploringly.
“It’s cool. In time, you’ll admit you want it. For now, consider this my yes.”
He’s messing with me. He has to be messing with me. That’s the only explanation. Best for me to just laugh it off and move on. “You’re confirmed then,” I say, all sunshine and business. “I’ll text you to set it up. And I’ll know if it’s you by the number of exclamation points.”
“Zero for me,” he says.
“I know, Rowan. I know.”
He looks toward the door of the busy bookstore café, then back at me, and there’s some reluctance in his eyes, I swear. Like he doesn’t want to go. As he stands, his phone buzzes and he gives me a look of apology. “Might be Mia.”
“Check it,” I urge.
He does, then smiles, and says sheepishly, “She likes to send me dog and cat jokes.”
“Read it to me,” I say.
“Why did the cat sit on the computer?” He pauses before delivering the punchline. “It wanted to keep an eye on the mouse.”
I smile. “Cute.”
“Yeah,” he says, and there’s this sweet affection in his voice. Then, with a small, almost begrudging smile, he adds, “Well, I can’t believe we have to keep doing this, but I’ll see you again.”
He doesn’t make it sound like the worst punishment in the world.
I’ll take that as progress.