Chapter 12 #2
Shit. Now I’m the one daydreaming. And I really shouldn’t like the idea of spending time with Isla so much. She’s my best friend’s sister. My matchmaker. A believer in love. But I say yes anyway. Mia wants her with us as a friend. I’m doing this for my kid.
There’s one little issue. I have no idea how long our adventure will be, and after Isla went to all that effort at the farm, I don’t want her tree to die.
“But we should…” I begin, then pause because I can’t believe I’m about to say this to Isla, I truly can’t.
“Get your tree home and put it in water.”
She flashes a warm smile my way, then turns her attention back to the road. “That would be great. I’d love help bringing it inside, now that we both know you can lift trees,” Isla says, then glances in the rearview mirror and winks at Mia.
My daughter snickers over their inside joke. “Yeah, it’s great how strong you are, Dad.”
“Good thing I worked out this morning,” I say, digging my heels in on this front.
But also, I do want to visit Isla’s home.
Even though I’ve glimpsed bits and pieces on our video call, I’m surprised how eager I am to see it in person.
“I’ll carry your tree inside,” I add in a stoic tone, not letting on I have ulterior motives.
“And maybe,” Mia pipes in, “we can help you decorate it.”
Oh hell no. That’s not happening. No way are we going to hang shiny red baubles on the tree, all while listening to Mariah Carey and munching on gingerbread. “Mia,” I begin.
But Isla’s faster, since she’s answering at the same time. “I’m decorating it with my friends this weekend, but you can put the first ornament on, Mia. How does that sound?”
Like torture.
“That sounds great!”
And once again, I say yes.
It’s weird, though, the idea of walking into Isla’s home. She’s my best friend’s sister, so it shouldn’t be. But for a while there today at the Christmas tree farm, the lines felt a little blurred.
Fact is, they still do as I hoist the Christmas tree from her car onto my shoulder, then haul it inside her building, into the elevator, and up to her third-floor apartment. It’s boyfriend work, carting a tree.
I do my best to put that out of my head though and focus on the chore.
When we reach her place, I roll my eyes.
Of course a massive wreath hangs from the front door.
Of course it smells like pine and holidays.
Of course it looks like it came straight from a Hallmark movie. “What a surprise. You’ve decorated.”
“Like you’d expect anything less,” Isla says.
“It smells so good and so does the tree, Isla,” Mia remarks, lifting her nose toward the wreath while Isla unlocks the door.
Once she pushes it open, my pulse skitters.
Settle down, man. It’s just a home.
I cross the threshold, as Isla says to me, “Right over there.” She points to the corner of the living room, across from the lavender couch, that’s covered in silver-and-white snowflake throw pillows. “You can set it in the tree stand and we’ll fill it with water real quick.”
“I’ll do it!” Mia offers. “But can you show me how?”
“Of course,” Isla says, then scurries to the kitchen with Mia in tow.
For a second, maybe more, a sense of déjà vu flashes through me as I picture carrying a tree for Regina, setting it up, then hanging the stockings with her and our little girl.
My heart hollows out, but it’s not for Regina.
It’s for…my kid. Whose mom left both me and her.
Regina sends birthday gifts and cards, Christmas presents and short little notes.
But that’s all. She’s living her life in the other hemisphere, working somewhere in South America on her art.
My throat tightens, and I fight off the wave of emotions, turning my gaze to the kitchen where Mia’s standing on tiptoes at the sink, filling a red ceramic pitcher with mistletoe leaves inlaid along the side.
Well, if she can’t have a big, fluffy tree at our house, at least she can do this.
I carry the tree to the stand, line it up, then set it down, ensuring it’s centered. I kneel to tighten the clamps that hold the tree upright. Giving a gentle tug, I make sure everything’s stable.
It’s perfect, so I stand as Mia carefully clutches the pitcher and pads on quiet feet to the tree, sticking out the tip of her tongue in concentration.
“And then you add enough water to cover the bottom inch of the trunk,” Isla tells her.
“Got it,” Mia says, bending and taking her time pouring.
“Good job! That’s perfect,” Isla says encouragingly, and my damn chest tightens at the scene. She’s good with Mia.
Of course she is—she’s a fucking elf.
“Good job,” I say gruffly, since I don’t want it to seem as if I like this too much.
I walk away from them, heading straight to the kitchen to wash the sap off my hands. But I’m listening to Isla explain how much water a tree needs, and how to care for it as I squirt soap from a glass container with dancing Santas etched across it.
“How often do you water it?” Mia asks, apparently transfixed with all things trees.
“Every day. It gets very thirsty,” she tells her. “Sometimes I even mist the branches.”
Of course she does.
“You take care of it,” Mia observes.
“It’s important to take care of things,” she says, “and people. Now, would you like to hang the first ornament? My favorite one is a Christmas moose, made out of felt. My niece and nephew made it for me.”
And I was wrong with the red ornament. She’s choosing a homemade one to hang first. That feeling in my chest tightens again. I’m not supposed to like this—them hanging out. I was supposed to avoid it. But here I am, not daydreaming about time together, but indulging in it.
What the fuck is going on with me?
Get it together, man.
As Isla tracks down the ornament, I turn off the faucet and reach for a towel. It’s white and embroidered with nutcrackers. I’ve got to get out of here. It’s like Christmas has thrown up all over.
And really, with the tree standing and Mia hanging a moose, our work here is done.
Twenty minutes later, I’m walking up the steps to my home, an uncomfortable knot of nerves swimming in me. Will Isla be noting every detail of my home like I did hers? And do I even want her to? So much for my get it together warning.
I gird myself to stay strong.
The second I unlock the front door, Wanda flies over to her. Not me. Not Mia. But Isla.
My little dog bounces on her back legs, showing off for Isla.
“Look at this cutie. She’s a dancing dog,” Isla says, petting the happily whimpering Wanda, who’s pogoing in front of her.
It’s the most adorable greeting in the history of dogs, and it’s one of the ways Wanda melted our hearts the day Mia and I met her at a rescue event the team hosted.
Mia fell madly in love with Wanda that day, and fine, I did too.
She’s the tiny dog I never knew I needed.
Wanda dances a little more then leaps into Isla’s outstretched arms.
Isla strokes her head, and Wanda responds with several face licks—gold in dog currency. “Aren’t you a charmer?” Isla says to the pup.
“Traitor,” I mutter to Wanda.
Isla laughs. “Always trust a dog. They know who the good people are,” she says, then drops another kiss to Wanda’s head.
She’s right. Dogs make it clear who to trust and who not to trust. I almost wish Wanda disliked her, so I could have another reason to dislike Isla. I harness my dog who’s due for a bathroom break. “I’ll take her for a walk,” I say. Besides, it’ll be good for me to clear my head.
“Have fun, Dad. Isla will help me pick my books to donate,” Mia says, and my daughter is clearly in charge.
Of everything.
Including her new friend. Friend. That’s a relief at least. I don’t have to entertain those worries anymore. Mia sees Isla as a friend. If only I could.
I take Wanda down the steps toward the sidewalk, where my dog shoots me a look like she can’t believe I was played that easily.
“I know, but what can I do?” I say to her.
She tosses me a dog look that says You’re a sucker, Dad.
“I’m not,” I protest.
“You kind of are,” she’s saying as she trots, tail wagging grandly.
“Nope. I’m not letting myself be charmed,” I tell Wanda as she sniffs a bush.
Besides, how could I be charmed? Isla and I don’t want the same things in life.
Just look at her home. It’s not only a shrine to Christmas, but also to what it means to her—real love.
That’s what she wants. Hell, that’s what she strives to give others.
She said as much to me earlier today at the tree farm.
And I’ve got zero plans to let that kind of love ever happen to me again.
Been there, done that, and my heart’s on ice.
Best for me to keep some distance. I need to stick to business and fake interest in this matchmaking project.
I don’t need to feed a crush that’s going nowhere.
Besides, Jason would never forgive me if I messed with his sister’s heart. Whether the dog or my daughter likes the matchmaker or not is irrelevant.
At the library, where a Christmas tree made of paperbacks adorns the entryway, alongside a menorah crafted from hardcovers, Isla helps Mia with her donations. They sort the books by genre, then thank Josie for running the fundraiser.
“Thank you for giving me your book friends,” Josie tells Mia, patting the stack of stories Mia’s given her. “I’ve no doubt these will find good homes.”
“That’s awesome,” Mia says.
When we’re done, we hop into my car this time, heading back to Pacific Heights. Once I park in the garage, I tell Isla I’ll walk her to her car. It’s evening now, and the sun has set.
“But don’t you want to invite her to stay for dinner?” Mia asks, innocently, so innocently that I’m sure she means it. Mia’s not making this easy for me—getting some space. I don’t want to be a dick, and if I uninvite Isla, I’ll seem like one.
What are the chances, though, that Isla will say yes anyway after spending the afternoon with us?