Chapter 9 #2
Her brow knits. With suspicion. Maybe concern. “I know. I’m from there.”
Right. Of course she knows how far away the town is.
“And, we’re playing all our home games there from mid-December up until a couple of days before Christmas.
So…” Another sigh, and damn, I deserve an Oscar for the way I’m Timothée Chalamet-ing this performance.
“I guess we’ll need to throw in the towel on this whole matchmaking thing since I’ll only be around for…
” I pause to make a show of looking at my watch, “two more weeks. We’ll need to be in Evergreen Falls by the fourteenth.
And I guess that’s really only twelve days, since tomorrow is the second.
Plus I’ve got practice during the day, plus some volunteer work, then a game Wednesday night.
It’s crazy busy.” I frown. “I’m sorry, Isla. ”
I add in a slump of my shoulders to sell it.
For a few seconds, Isla says nothing, just purses her lips.
I can’t tell if disappointment passes in her eyes or not.
But I can tell she’s doing matchmaker math in her head.
This woman is nothing if not calculating.
She shrugs and smiles. “No problem. I’ll just work faster.
I’ll pick you up at one p.m. on Tuesday.
Gives you time for your practice and volunteer work tomorrow.
I chatted with Mia briefly today, and she mentioned she doesn’t get out of school till three-thirty.
As long as you have no other plans, that time should work out fine for you.
And after our final session, we’ll have you going on some dates in no time.
So don’t even worry about the tight turnaround. Though, it’s sweet that you did.”
She checked with my daughter about my schedule? That must have been when Isla pulled Mia aside during Advent calendar negotiations. Talk about tenacious.
“Fine,” I grumble, beaten again. This is getting to be a habit.
And so’s the fact that I’m annoyingly looking forward to Tuesday’s get-to-know-you session. I remember how much it threw her off when I offhandedly teased her about wanting to date me. I have zero interest in dating, but I sure do like pushing her buttons. “See you on our date.”
Her expression goes stern. “Rowan. It’s not a date.”
“If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck.”
It feels a little like I got the last word, but then she squares her shoulders and waves, a far-too pleased look in her eyes. “Sleep well in your black boxer briefs.”
Then, she’s gone, and after I work on the book Advent calendar, I strip down to, yes, my black boxer briefs.
Since she got the last word after all.
On Tuesday morning, Isla’s waiting outside my house ten minutes early. I know this because my security cam alerts me that someone’s wandering along the street, so I check it.
I bet Isla wakes before the birds do.
She’s probably already matched some guy with a twenty-item checklist and sent him off to buy a ring. She’s that efficient. Scarily so.
Shaking my head, I sigh—maybe in reluctant admiration—as I watch her from the living room window, while listening to today’s episode of The Competitive Edge on managing your emotions under pressure.
My strategy? Put them in a fucking box during the game.
I turn off the podcast and watch Isla pace along the sidewalk.
She’s smiling and chattering on the phone, wearing a white knit cap with a ridiculous pom-pom on top, her chestnut hair spilling out beneath it in lush waves.
Of course she’s smiling. Of course she’s chattering.
I settle Wanda into her dog bed, then give her a stuffed frog and a squeaky banana. She pounces on one, then growls at the other as I turn on some tunes for her—a playlist I made of The Clash, The Rolling Stones, and The White Stripes, among others. All part of Wanda’s musical schooling.
With Wanda punishing the banana for existing, I head to the front door and grab my navy blue peacoat—San Francisco’s dipped into the thirties, which is unseasonably cold. I pocket my phone, then trot down the front steps.
When Isla spins around and spots me, her eyes widen, flickering in surprise.
Ha. Threw her off her game.
She wasn’t expecting me to be early either. But god bless Nest cams. It’s the small victories that make life worth living. If that makes me an asshole, so be it.
She holds up a finger, signaling she’s still on her call. “Of course. I have a fantastic plan. I’ll call you later. Thanks, Emily.”
Emily. Probably some other poor soul she’s roping into holiday matchmaking. Is Emily a match for me?
She hangs up and beams at me. “Hi, Rowan. How are you?”
“Great. What’s the plan for our”—I stop to sketch air quotes—“get-to-know-me date today?”
She rolls her eyes. “Still not a date.”
“Someday you’ll admit this is all a ruse to get close to me. For now, I’ll compromise and call it a fake date.” I’m not even sure why I’m goading her on the topic so much. But I am sure of this—teasing her is fucking fun.
“I’ll call it a working outing.”
“Right. Sure. So, today’s agenda.” I rub my hands together. “Are we going to hack into the city’s sound system so Christmas music plays year-round?”
“Yes. You’ve figured me out,” she says, deadpan.
“I had a feeling. First, the nonstop music. Then, we’ll put wreaths on every street corner. Next thing I know, I’ll be trapped in a city-wide compulsory Christmas-cookie-decorating contest.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
“Truer words,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “All right, Miss Snow Angel, what holiday torture have you actually devised for me today, then?”
She just smiles, too serenely. “I’d tell you, but…”
“Then you’d have to kill me?”
She scoffs. “If you’re dead, I can’t win our bet.”
Ouch. She’s got a mean streak. Too bad I find it hot. “So if I was dying from the aural torture of listening to Christmas music, you’d save me to win the bet? Just want to make sure I’m clear on your motives.”
She pretends to give that dilemma some thought. “Yes. I would. I’m nothing if not fair.”
“That’s so fair. But death by Christmas music comes on quickly. I’m not sure you’d be able to resuscitate me.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll find something else to play the entire drive up to Cozy Valley. Since you’ve been so…accommodating.”
“Don’t make me regret saying yes to this…date.”
“Oh, you won’t regret it.” Evidently, she likes to poke the bear too. “Since you like to be helpful.”
I furrow my brow. “Is that on your list about me too?”
“Maybe it is.” She nods to her car, which is, of course, red and decked out with Christmas lights wrapped around the windshield.
A flash of remembered pain lances through me.
Regina loved Christmas. Regina used to wrap lights around her car too.
It was lit up and flashing festively as we hopped into her car with little Mia, off to pick out a tree every Christmas season.
Our home was decorated in those incessant lights from the staircase to the mantel to the goddamn bedroom doorway.
That was why my Christmas plan for Regina had seemed so damn perfect.
The perfect gift in a stocking just for her. A diamond ring to make her my wife.
Clenching my jaw, I can see that last Christmas unfolding again before my eyes. The blindsiding way she sliced my heart like a vandal slashing car tires. How she left us both, all at once, heartbroken. The pain I felt for months.
No, pain is too gentle a word for what she did when she left. It was hell.
My chest burns. My fists ball at my sides.
“Rowan?”
Isla’s voice is gentle and full of concern.
Blinking, I scrub a hand across my beard, like I can erase the thoughts of a horrible Christmas years ago.
When I woke up planning to spend it with the two people I loved most in the world only to find an empty bed and a break-up note in my stocking.
I’m over my ex, but that doesn’t mean I want to stick my finger in the flames of memories. Or to make new ones.
“Are you okay?” Isla asks.
I must have frozen there for a bit. Stuck in the past. “Totally fine,” I say gruffly, ripping my gaze away from the lights.
“I don’t usually turn them on during the daytime,” she says, in a reassuring tone, and…shit. She’s astute.
I shake my head. “Whatever works for you. I’m all good.” Really, I am. I manage a small, sarcastic smile just for her. “Besides, the torture is good for me. Keeps me strong for the bet.”
She arches a brow in a way that says I call bullshit, but she doesn’t toss out a reply. She simply nods, and after a few seconds, she heads to the driver’s door. I beat her to it. I might be a grump, but I’m still a gentleman.
I hold her door open, but a car speeds by behind us.
I inch closer, which forces her to squeeze past me.
Her back brushes against my chest, and suddenly, I catch the scent of her hair, or maybe her perfume.
Something sweet and tart, like cherries.
It drifts into my nose, lingering just enough to be dangerous.
I sneak another hit, inhaling her and enjoying it.
The scent is entirely too tempting, but I’m no longer thinking about why I don’t like Christmas lights.