Chapter 11
MY LUMBERJACK KINK
ISLA
It’s not crowded today, so we’ve got the farm mostly to ourselves as we meander through the Douglas firs.
“You’re in trouble for that whole thing,” I say, gesturing behind me to the shop.
I still can’t believe he keeps saying this is some kind of date.
And that a part of me likes it. I need to put that part of me in time-out. For the rest of the holiday season.
Rowan smirks, the saw dangling from his fingers. “Does that mean you’re going to ground me? No dates, no social life?”
“You wish. For that comment, I’ll make you go on more dates.” I stare sharply at him. “With other people.”
“Not with you, Isla?” he teases, holding his arms out wide, like he’s making the point that I took him on a date to a Christmas tree farm. The thought makes my pulse speed up annoyingly. Pulses are so inconvenient.
“Not with me,” I emphasize.
“We’ll see about that,” he says with a closed-mouth smile. Does he ever not have the upper hand?
“Just know that when you goad me, it only makes me stronger. It’s like Gatorade—except the electrolytes replenish my matchmaking cells,” I tell him.
He shifts a little closer, his voice lower. “Isla Marlowe, everything makes you stronger.”
It’s said like a dig but lands like a compliment, so I decide to take it. “Thank you,” I say with a little lift of my chin.
As we walk, I run my fingers along a low-hanging fir branch, knocking off a dusting of snow from earlier. “Let’s go a little farther. I’ve learned the trees are better the deeper you go.”
“That’s what she said,” he says.
I roll my eyes but have to give credit where it’s due. “And I walked right into that.”
“You really did,” he says, then adopts a more serious tone. “Do you come here every year?”
“I do. They do a great job with sustainable tree farming.”
He arches a brow. “What’s that? I mean, I can guess, but how is a tree farm actually sustainable? If you’re cutting it down, doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose? Trees are good for the earth and all.”
“That’s a great question,” I say as we near a wooden sign staked into the ground. It reads White Firs with an arrow pointing deeper into the trees. I gesture for him to follow me.
The scent of pine thickens the farther we go, but I catch the faint hint of an ocean breeze too. Is that him? His soap or shampoo?
“I used to think artificial trees were better for the environment than cutting down a real one,” I say, focusing on the conversation. “But then I did some research. Turns out, they’re not as great as you’d think.”
“Why’s that?” He sounds genuinely interested.
“Artificial trees are mostly plastic, and around ten million are bought every season. You need to keep an artificial tree for at least ten years to make it environmentally worthwhile.”
“I had no idea. You really researched this.” He actually sounds impressed, which makes something warm settle in my chest.
“And hey, if someone keeps theirs that long, then it’s great! Totally worth it. But I wanted to find a place I felt good about recommending to clients. Christmas tree farms make great date spots.”
“So you were trying to get me in the mood,” he says, shooting me a flirty glance that makes my pulse kick up.
“Yes, you figured me out,” I retort.
“You and your love of trees. I had a feeling you were trying to lure me to the forest. Have your way with me.”
Images flash before my eyes. Rowan tugging me against him, a Christmas tree behind us, crisp air around us. Then, a new thought lands—him chasing me through the woods before he kisses me. Playfully, like a game, at twilight. Catching me, then having his way with me. Right here in the snow. Outside.
A gasp threatens to escape my lips.
“Or maybe I’m trying to kill you out here,” I say, but my teasing sounds too breathy to be believable.
“Nah. You’d lose the bet then,” he says with that lopsided smirk that wreaks havoc to my common sense. “You definitely wanted to date me in the trees.”
I swallow roughly. He’s playing me. Of course he is. It’s our game. But something about the way he’s teasing today feels different than at the café. Or even in my car earlier.
Like I’m shaking snowflakes off my hair, I shake off the thoughts, returning to the topic of trees. “And, I try to support local businesses when I can.”
“I do the same,” Rowan says. “It’s nice to know the money from the burger, the T-shirt, or the book you’re buying is going to a family, to a person you can actually see—not just some faceless corporation. Like An Open Book—that store’s owned by a woman who lives in the neighborhood.”
I duck under a thick branch, brushing stray needles off my coat as I explain. “Yes! I’m the same way. I think about it a lot—maybe because I’m from a small town, and it’s kind of a small-town thing.”
“You’re from Evergreen Falls,” he says.
I rack my brain, trying to remember where he’s from. I’ve gone to his hockey games. They often say where a player is from…
“And you’re from Vancouver!”
“Impressive memory.”
I blow on my fingernails. “I’m all about the details.”
We resume our pace. I scan the trees again, assessing their branches, their fullness as I hunt for the perfect specimen.
One has a perfect conical shape, but its needles look a little sparse.
Another is thicker and well-rounded, but the top is a bit lopsided.
I run my fingers along the soft needles, then out of the corner of my eye, I catch Rowan watching me.
Really watching me.
I swipe at my cheek, self-conscious, like something is on my face. “What is it?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“You study trees. You research the places where you shop. You know the business owners,” he says, but his tone is even, hard to read.
“I do,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure where he’s going. “All of that is important to me.”
He gives me a slow, knowing smile. “I had a feeling.”
I tilt my head, trying to figure him out. “What’s that for?”
“Because look at you, just sharing all this stuff, and now I’m actually getting to know you better,” he says, a little triumphant.
Deservedly so, since he did just slide in that little Isla assessment when I wasn’t expecting it. “You’re so sneaky,” I say, since his gamesmanship is on point.
“Yeah. Who knew I could actually be your matchmaker? I mean, isn’t that part of our original bet? I get to find a date for you for the matchmaking showcase.”
I hold up a finger. “If I lose.”
“When I win,” he corrects smoothly. “So now I’ll just have to make sure you find a guy who’s into all the same things you are.”
“I thought you were going to set me up with some guy who can’t even drive. Or, like, a dude bro who only talks about fantasy football. Now you’re actually going to find someone perfect for me? I’m excited.” I challenge him with a bright, wide grin.
He growls. Not in a jokey way. In a deep, frustrated, primal kind of way.
It’s the sound he made the first night at the bar. The same one at the bookstore.
And—I realize, as my pulse speeds—I like the sound. A lot.
The only solution is to toss a barb back at him. “It’ll be tough though, since you don’t even know what I want in a date.”
“Tell me then,” he says, surprising me.
I didn’t expect him to actually ask. Or really, demand.
While I could give him a flippant answer, like I want someone tall, ripped, and opinionated, I opt for the unvarnished truth.
It’ll make it easier for him to be truthful with me if I am with him.
“I’m not looking for romance right now, but if I were, my big three are…
someone who makes time for me, listens to me, and isn’t afraid to say he’s sorry. ”
Basically, the opposite of my ex. I keep that part to myself though. I’m not sure I’m ready to be that vulnerable, with Rowan or anyone.
He nods thoughtfully, seeming to take that in. “You deserve that,” he says, a plain and simple answer.
“Thanks,” I say, and he holds my gaze for a few more seconds, his eyes pensive.
Until, an evil smile takes over. “If he’s all those things, plus he reeks of old sneakers and chews like a cow, and clips his toenails on planes, you’d still want him?”
I narrow my eyes. “You really are going to make me pay if you have to find a date for me, aren’t you?”
He steps closer and runs a fingertip down my nose—light, teasing, but somehow devastating. My stomach flips from that simple touch, and I roll my lips together to seal in a soft sigh. “But I thought there wasn’t a chance you would lose,” he murmurs, his voice a low, smoky whisper.
A shiver races through me. Again. Images of him pinning me against a tree touch down. Then against the snow.
Shake it off, Isla. Shake it off.
I square my shoulders, trying to steady my racing heart. “Oh, I’m going to win, Rowan. I’m so going to win.”
And if I’m going to win, I need more data—which is exactly why I’m here with him at this tree farm.
To get to know him better and then ace the matchmaking.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to pick the tree across from me—with its lush branches and proud height—but I need a few key details about Rowan to make my matches fast. So rather than grabbing the tree and going, I say, “But don’t try to trick me again.
I want to get to know you more. Have you ever thought about life after hockey? ”
He shudders, like he’s in a horror movie. “Why would you say such an awful thing? Life after hockey? You’re mean.”
I smile. “You really love what you do, don’t you?”
“Don’t you?”
“Absolutely addicted to it.”
“Same here,” he says.
“But don’t you have to think about it?” I press. “What comes next?”
“Woman, have you ever met a topic you can leave alone?”
“No. Especially when I see that it’s kind of a sore spot for you,” I say, sensing something there—something worth exploring. Sore spots often cover up our raw emotions. And if I want to find this man everlasting love, it’s best if I know the good, the bad, and the sore spots.
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t have sore spots.”