Chapter 10
THE HONEST GRINCH
ISLA
Once inside the car, I hand Rowan a travel mug. Steam curls from the opening, carrying tendrils of cinnamon and nutmeg through the air.
But of course Rowan eyes the cup suspiciously even as he takes it. “What’s this?”
“A cinnamon nutmeg latte,” I say cheerily. “Picked it up for you from High Kick Coffee.”
He studies the cup, then me. “You got me a latte?”
“I did,” I say, unfazed by his skepticism.
“I had a feeling you might like something sweet, Mister Sweet Tooth. Plus, I know you’re not thrilled about this outing.
” I give that word particular emphasis. If I think of this time with Rowan as a date, which obviously he’s saying to get under my skin, my mind will wander in dangerous dating-ish directions.
I must stay professional. “So I figured I’d make it more… enjoyable.”
Now I’m even more glad I stopped by the coffee shop on my way over. Yes, he’s a certified grump, but he also went through hell with his ex, and I’m guessing it has something to do with Christmas. While a cinnamon nutmeg latte can’t erase the past, it can make the present taste better.
His brow arches, but instead of arguing, he sighs. A long-suffering, put-upon sigh. Then he takes a sip.
And moans.
The man moans.
The sound is nearly obscene.
“That’s fucking good,” he says just as I pull onto California Street, my smile settling in for the long haul.
“I’m glad you approve.”
“It’s like a sweet and spicy party in my mouth.”
I crack up. “If I’d known you were this easy, I would’ve been plying you with treats from the start.”
“You found my Achilles’ heel,” he admits, but then squints at me as I slow at a red light. “But this changes nothing. Your plans to manipulate me through sweets will fail.”
I roll my eyes. “Rowan Bishop, you are some kind of grinch,” I tease, but the words are softer than I’d expected.
Because the truth is, he earned his grinchiness the hard way.
When he saw the Christmas lights on my car earlier, something flickered in his eyes. He checked out for a moment, drifting somewhere he clearly didn’t want to go. He’s going to take work, and not just a little. But that’s why I want this matchmaking project to be as painless as possible for him.
Hence the latte. And the plan.
“Sooo.” He stretches out the word as I turn onto Lombard Street, heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going in Cozy Valley?”
I take a deep breath. He’s not going to love this. But we have a deal—he agreed to let me find him a date for the Christmas Eve gala, and that means he has to engage with the season, at least a little.
“We’re going to a Christmas tree farm.” I keep my voice casual.
The grumbling. Dear god, the grumbling. It rumbles through the car, echoes through the city, reverberates into the halls of time.
“Rowan,” I sigh, “it’s not that bad.”
“I don’t want a tree,” he says flatly.
“It’s not for you. It’s for me. I need a tree.” I pause, letting him absorb that before delivering the part I know will work. “And I thought you could help me.”
His head tilts slightly, wary. “Help you?”
“You know…that thing where you put your big, strapping muscles to good use?” I play up the tease as his jaw tightens—whether in amusement or resignation, I’m not sure yet.
He barely realizes it, but he likes to help. It’s in his nature, baked into him so deeply. “I figured you could carry it for me,” I say, all innocent smiles.
Rowan exhales like a man accepting his fate. “Fine,” he mutters. “But only because you clearly spiked this with some kind of kryptonite to weaken me.” He lifts the latte pointedly before taking another sip.
I grin. Hook, line, and sinker. “Of course I did.”
“What kind did you get?” he asks, eyeing my travel mug in the console.
“A gingerbread coffee. My favorite.”
He flubs his lips. “Mine’s better then.”
I laugh. “I’m sure it is. But I like gingerbread.”
“Of course you do,” he says.
“And I’m surprised you don’t, Mister Sweet Tooth,” I say.
He shrugs, takes another drink, then hums approvingly. He’s quiet as I cruise down a steep hill, the Golden Gate Bridge beckoning us closer. “Want a sip?” he offers.
I shoot him a look as I drive. “Is it as good as advertised?”
“Sure is.”
With one hand on the wheel, I take the cup from him, remembering the way he stole a sip of my Holly Jolly Martini.
I can’t quite line up the lip marks the way he did—there’s only one spot to drink from, of course.
Still, an unexpected spark of pleasure shoots through me from something as simple as touching where his lips had been.
When I hand the mug back to him, his fingers brush mine. His thumb slides across my palm, and I draw a sharp intake of breath.
Does he react though? Hitch his breath? Avert his gaze?
Steal a glance? I want to know so badly, but I keep my eyes on the road.
Besides, I shouldn’t want to know. He’s my client—not my date.
Not a real date, or a fake date. And I don’t have room for romance in my life right now.
Not when I have so many chances to bring love to other people—people who need it and deserve it.
We zip across the bridge, the choppy ocean on one side, the sparkling bay on the other, and we wind through the hills of Sausalito next.
“So, a Christmas tree?” he asks. “I would think a half dozen for you. One for every room.”
“Yes, I live in San Francisco in a six-room home,” I say dryly.
“Fine. How many trees will you get?”
“One, Rowan. One,” I say.
“I’d think you’d need one alone for all the woodland creatures and songbirds that gather near your home.”
I smile. “Please. The woodland creatures live in my home.”
“Of course they do.”
A little while later, as we close in on Cozy Valley, we pass some rolling hills lightly draped in white.
It flurried here last night, and the rest of this powdered sugar dusting will probably melt away soon.
But for now, the little bit of snow makes me happy.
“Look! It’s so picturesque,” I say with a wistful sigh.
“Yeah, if you like dirty, brown snow covering your lawn.”
“It’s not dirty. It’s lovely,” I say, defending the freaking snowfall against this man.
“All in due time.”
I sigh. “Doesn’t the Grinch like snow, Rowan? Ergo, shouldn’t you like it?”
“Because ice, cold, and snow suit me?” he asks with an evil smile.
“You said it.”
“Love it when it falls. But then, like all Christmassy things, it turns into a mess.”
“So it’s a love-hate relationship for you then?”
“Seems that way,” he says.
A mile later, a wooden sign for Cozy Valley appears over the hill. It’s pastel yellow with white scripted letters. An illustrated squirrel is curled up asleep in the V. Cozy, indeed. “You probably hate that squirrel,” I say.
He barks out a laugh. “We’ve already established I like animals. They’re exempt from grinchiness.”
“I wasn’t sure if that extended to woodland creatures,” I say as I flick on the turn signal, exiting the highway and heading into the town.
“Course it does.” He pauses, humming doubtfully. “But why don’t they name this place…Squirrel Town? I’ve always wondered that every time I’m here,” he says, stroking his bearded jawline in contemplation.
“You hang out in Cozy Valley?” My voice pitches up. I wasn’t expecting that. He’s such a city guy.
“A couple times a month. Bunch of my dad friends live here,” he says, then rattles off the names of a hockey player from the Foxes, the quarterback from the Renegades, the shortstop from the Cougars, and so on.
“We play bocce ball or cornhole when we get together every couple of weeks. Along with Tyler, even though he lives in the city, of course.”
“Like a single dad’s club? Except Tyler’s no longer single, of course.”
Rowan seems to give that some thought, then almost reluctantly says, “I guess it is a club.”
“It sounds exactly like a club,” I say with a laugh—a challenging laugh. “Why is that so hard to admit? Because you don’t want to belong to any club that’d have you?”
He shoots me a searing look. “I’m on a hockey team—isn’t that a club?”
“You’re admitting it then? You do like clubs, since you’re a member of two.
” As I drive along the outskirts of town toward the tree farm, I adopt a courtroom-like voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, may I present the case of Rowan Bishop? The man who pretends to hate everything, but secretly—gasp—likes a number of things.”
He growls. “I don’t like things.”
“You do. You like cinnamon nutmeg lattes, bocce ball, cornhole, falling snow, squirrels, sharing your drinks, and beating me in every possible game you’ve decided we’re playing,” I say as we reach the tree farm.
As I slow to a stop in the gravel lot, he tosses me a gotcha look, his lips curving in a smirk. “I don’t like Christmas trees though. Or pear trees.”
I laugh. “Pear trees? Really? Or just the partridges in them?”
“The pears. They’re sandy and mushy. Can’t stand them.”
“Noted. I will not set you up with a pear enthusiast.”
“Thank you. It’s a deal breaker.”
“Understood.” I pause, then vie right back with him, saying, “Rowan Bishop, there’s one more thing you like—being difficult.”
As I waggle my phone out of the holder, he pushes open his door.
Like he’s The Flash, he’s at my side of the car seconds later.
I’ve barely even reached for the handle when he swings the door open and offers a hand.
“The gravel’s uneven,” he mutters, like he needs the justification for his display of manners.
I take his offered hand, a little surprised. “Thanks,” I say, and when our fingers touch once more, a spark shoots through me, fast and unexpected but leaving tingles in its wake.
It’s the third time he’s touched me since I picked him up, and I’ve liked each one more than the last.