Chapter 9
THE LIST OF YOU
ROWAN
Before I play my ace, though, I’ve got a homework assignment to finish.
A little later, I’m lying in bed, fiddling with the Notes app on my phone, The Clash playing on my bedroom speakers and Wanda snoozing on the pillows next to me.
I’m trying to boil down Isla Marlowe into a few traits—to prove I can play her game.
The first one, I laid down in the café, when I said she had a memory like a steel trap. She sure does, and she’s also persistent. But that word—persistent—could be twisted the wrong way, so I won’t use it. She’s positive. Relentlessly so.
Ah, I’ve got it.
I tap out the second list item in my notes and keep rolling through the things I know about her.
She’s a voracious collector of planners and notebooks—pretty, shiny ones.
She’s always gathering info, always organizing, as if the world makes more sense if it’s tied up in something decorative. I write that down.
I think about how she outsmarted me at the bookstore, and the next trait comes to me immediately. She’s a formidable competitor.
I write that down, too, but I expand on it a little, giving it some color.
Then, I study my notes, wanting to put them in just the right order and win this game with her.
Hmm. One more thing will make a list of five.
She’s sexy as hell. Her hair is shiny. Her lips are too damn pretty. But this game isn’t about her appearance. She’s too brilliant for me to get away with that, so I don’t try.
I decide to come back to the fifth item in a few minutes. For now, I clean up the note, smooth it out, and finish the draft as “London Calling” winds down. For good measure, I run it through Grammarly to catch any mistakes.
Just as I’m about to finalize it, a message pops up from Isla.
Isla: Hi, Rowan! I made plans for our next get-together. Are you ready?
Oh, Isla, just you wait.
Rowan: The question is, are you ready?
Isla: For the get-together? Of course.
Rowan: Nope. For my homework assignment. I’m ready to turn it in—the list of YOU.
Isla: Oh well, by all means. Bring it on.
I drop my note into a text, still hunting for that perfect final item. Maybe something about her podcast? But she doesn’t do that anymore, so it’s not quite right. I read over my list one more time, then read it out loud to triple-check. To win with her, I need to be one step ahead.
Rowan: Here you go. Five things I know about you.
1. Your memory is a steel trap.
2. Kristen Bell would play you in the Webflix movie of your Christmas matchmaking life.
3. You want the world to make sense, so you try to decipher it with your planners.
4. You’re a formidable competitor and would absolutely destroy me on game night—then gift-wrap my defeat and put it under the tree, tied up neatly with a red ribbon.
I let it marinate for another minute. My thoughts keep returning to her pink scarf and how pretty she looked in it today. More than that, how it simply suited her. Somehow, it just made sense that she’d wear a pink scarf. That’s not an observation worthy of her, though…
Until…
I smile and add the final item on my list.
5. You have that scarf in every shade of Christmas—and to you, that’s red, green, white, pink, and midnight blue.
I add it to the draft and hit send. Let’s see what she does with that. The bubbles dance, but she doesn’t reply right away. As I’m waiting, a message from Jason pops up.
Jason: How’s it going? Has she found the future Mrs. Bishop yet?
Rowan: Yes. I got married tonight.
Jason: Congrats! Want some candlesticks?
Rowan: Does anyone want candlesticks?
Jason: What even are candlesticks for?
Rowan: Fuck if I know.
Jason: Bet Isla would say they’re for Christmas.
Rowan: No doubt.
“No one loves Christmas like Isla does. Right, Wanda?” I say to the sleeping dog.
My little pup lets out a soft sigh and tucks herself into a tighter dog ball, her flag tail thumping against the down-alternative pillow. She’s such a little princess. I scratch her chin.
Seconds later, Isla replies with a photo of four Christmas scarves, neatly laid out on…
is that her bed? Yes, yes, it is. A fluffy white duvet covers it, with an artfully folded—no, messily folded and deliberately so—coral blanket on the end of the mattress.
There’s a cushioned bench at the foot of it, all blush pink and feminine.
The photo is a secret window into her world.
Her bedroom is so pretty and suits her so well.
I pull my gaze away from the photo to read the text.
Isla: Four scarves, actually. Pink, white, red, and mint green.
Rowan: So, I was right.
Isla: I don’t know, Rowan. Are you?
I roll my eyes, then write back.
Rowan: Isla, I came damn close.
Isla: Is this horseshoes?
Rowan: No, it’s life, sweetheart, and I nailed it.
Isla: Maybe…but you said I had five scarves, and your colors were slightly off. Don’t worry. I know how we can resolve this.
Rowan: Do tell.
Isla: Let me have one guess at another trait of yours for my list. If I win, you’ll award me this round.
Rowan: And if you don’t?
Isla: You can have bragging rights, of course.
I can’t seem to stop texting her, so I type out a reply. Besides, I like bragging rights.
Rowan: Have at it.
I can picture her on that fancy bed, lounging in matching PJs and fuzzy socks, with a face mask and her hair pulled back in a neat headband. In my imagination, she rubs her palms as she prepares to zing me.
Isla: One more thing I know about you. All your boxer briefs are black.
My jaw falls open. Holy shit. She is good. Too good. She fucking nailed me. It’s one thing for me to observe her, to pick up on the things she collects, the way she organizes the world—but this? This means she’s been paying attention enough to make a scarily well-educated guess.
That should be unsettling, but it makes me want to push back harder. Except…hold on. Did she really win?
With a wicked smile, I hop out of bed, hoof it downstairs, and grab the bag with the candy cane boxers my teammates gave me. I snap a pic of them and send her proof that I win this round.
Rowan: Close, sweetheart. They are all black. Except, what do you say about this new pair I got today?
And seconds later, she replies.
Isla: Those are boxers. I said boxer briefs.
I stop on my way back upstairs. Stare at the design. Shake my head. And concede victory.
Rowan: I know when to back down. You won this battle, Isla.
Isla: Pumps fist! Also, you’d look cute in those candy cane boxers. And I’ll add that to my list of things I know about you: Isn’t afraid to wear festive underwear.
Rowan: Who said I’ll wear them?
Isla: Oh, you will. You will.
This woman. She’s fucking unstoppable. And…why didn’t I think of that word as a synonym for persistent?
Back in bed, I click over to the word-a-day app and enter persistent to check other options.
Tenacious is one, and irrepressible is another.
I add both words to my intel about Isla—but this one I’ll keep in my Notes app, just for me.
A dossier on the opposition. If more than a decade in the pros has taught me anything, it’s to study my opponent.
To learn their weaknesses, but also their strengths.
I know a lot more about Isla, thanks to our exchange tonight.
I learned some things about myself too. I can be a tenacious motherfucker.
Which brings me back to the ace that’s been up my sleeve since I ran into Wilder and Fable.
Does Isla even know about the upcoming games in Evergreen Falls, or what it might mean for her matchmaking mission? Doubtful.
Well, there’s nothing like a sneak attack.
I hit her name and do something I bet she’s not expecting.
I call her.
It barely rings. She picks up instantly…on video. And holy fuck. I was right. Her face is covered in green goop. A white fluffy robe is cinched tight around her waist. She’s reaching for a wineglass on the counter, her face turned away from the phone.
“The black dress. My answer is still the black—”
She turns back to me, and her lips part, her eyes pop, Oh shit is written all over her face. “I thought…I thought you were Mabel!”
“I’m not, but thanks for the fashion tip,” I say dryly. “Should I wear a face mask too?”
A second later, the phone is showing me a view of…the hallway. She’s clearly moving through it. “What can I do for you?”
She’s all crisp and maybe a little embarrassed. Ah, hell, I don’t want her to feel bad. “Isla, your mask is cute.”
“It’s not,” she says.
“It is. I swear.”
She’s quiet.
“I can hear you rolling your eyes,” I add.
“But you can’t see them,” she says proudly, as the sound of water running patters on her end. Her camera now shows me a red towel with a white border and mistletoe embroidery in the corner. She has Christmas towels in her bathroom.
“Would it make you feel better if I put one on? A mask?”
“Do you even have one?”
“No. But there are these things called stores. I can have one delivered,” I say as the water grows louder.
A second later, she pops up, turns the camera around. “There.”
Her face is scrubbed clean. Like a skin-care ad. “You look dewy as fuck right now,” I say.
I swear she tries to fight off a smile as she asks, “Anyway, you were calling because…?”
Well, I do have a reason but now I’m curious. “Why didn’t you just turn off the video once you realized it was me?”
As she moves through her home again, she shoots me a sharp-eyed stare. “Do I look like someone who backs down?”
Fair point. “See item four in my text. You’re a formidable competitor.”
“Exactly.”
“Which is why I hate to bring you this bad news.”
Her brow knits as she sinks down on her lavender linen couch, shifting a silver snowflake cushion to the side. “What bad news?”
Time to go for the kill. I blow out a long breath, like I’m so saddened by this development. “The thing is—we’ve got a new minor-league affiliate in Evergreen Falls. Which is three and a half hours from here.”