Chapter 15 The Scene of My Matchmaking Subterfuge
THE SCENE OF MY MATCHMAKING SUBTERFUGE
ROWAN
I’m a little turned on by what an evil genius Isla is. No. Make that a lot. My mind is racing to filthier shores. I don’t even know why I find it so ridiculously arousing that she called me out, but I do.
Smart women are, evidently, my turn on. And her clever brain is surface-of-Mercury levels of hot. So molten it’s burned down my brick walls. That’s the only reason I can think of for the next words I say: “You’re right.”
A skeptical laugh bursts from her. “I’m right? You just said I’m right? Is this an alternate reality we’re living in?”
“Where I can admit you’re right?”
“Yes!”
I shrug, helpless to resist her charms. “Evidently. So, here you go. You’re right and I’m a saboteur.” I glance around at the coffee shop—with chairs pulled out, plates scattered on the table, linen napkins left next to them. “Let me help you clean to make it up to you.”
One eyebrow rises as suspicion rims her bright blue eyes. “You want to help me?”
It’s like I’ve offered to go holiday shopping or something equally hellscape-ish.
“We already established I’m helpful. Now I’m being…
nice,” I say, though it’s best I don’t fly the altruistic flag too high.
The reality is I’m caught up in her orbit, and if I can buy myself some extra time with her by helping out, I’ll do it.
She snorts. “Nice? You?”
I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “A little.” There’s no need to admit I have ulterior motives. Besides, it’s the right thing to do—help her. No way would I leave her with this mess.
She levels me with a skeptical stare for a long beat. Hell, it’s more like a death glare. The kind that would make lesser men cave. Make them say fine, I’m helping because you’re fucking irresistible.
I stay strong even when she scoffs out a “Doubtful.”
“Try me, sweetheart,” I counter, since her skepticism only makes me want to get closer to her. Seems I am a fucked-up sort of man when it comes to my best friend’s sister.
With an eye roll, she grabs an empty plate with only a few crumbs left on it. We were cookie monsters.
“I seriously can’t believe you tried to sabotage the cookie swap, Rowan. Who does that?”
A Christmas grump? A grump who knows love is a lie?
But I keep those thoughts to myself as she brushes off the crumbs into a trash can. “I’ve been working so hard on this event. So, you’re damn right you can make it up to me. Clean the plates.”
I fight off a smile. Yes, fucking yes. More time with her. “Yes, Miss Christmas.”
She huffs as I beeline behind the coffee counter to grab a washrag, then return to the table. “You have been working hard,” I admit as I pick up the other plates. “But hey, you tried to sabotage me.”
“You’re stopping the nice act already?” she asks as she marches to the counter.
“I’m still helping,” I say, wiping down the crumbs and catching them in the rag.
“Good. You should make it up to me,” she says as she rage-grabs a silver ornament from the garlands. Mad Isla is too sexy for my own good.
I focus on the task of cleaning, since even if I don’t believe in love, I do believe in enjoying these moments with her. She’s the candy cane I can’t resist.
When I’m done cleaning off the plates, I fold the penguin napkins. I set them both in a box labeled Isla’s Christmas Goodies, the sticker clearly made with a fancy label maker in a festive holiday font.
Because of course Isla owns a fancy label maker.
“Done,” I pronounce.
“Come help me do the lights now,” she instructs as she points to the lights strewn over the garlands. “These colored lights are mine.”
After I put the box of plates and napkins on the table, I join her, taking one strand from her and wrapping it around my forearm in a loop, elbow to palm.
She lets out a long exhale, then deals me a disappointed look. “You really hate this so much? All of this? Even the penguins in Santa caps?”
With her free hand she gestures to the scene of my matchmaking subterfuge, but she clearly means Christmas too. She knows the answer to all her questions, so I turn the questions back at her.
“You really don’t trust me that much? That you’d arrange for a plant on a cookie swap date? That’s like having a double agent.”
Defiant, she counters with, “Was I wrong?”
“Do two wrongs make a right?” I toss back as I twist the strand around my arm again.
“Emily actually is one of my clients. I’m legitimately trying to find her a match.”
Emily.
Wait a fucking minute.
How did I miss that name? I overheard Isla chatting with an Emily the other day on the phone, before we left for the Christmas tree farm. I narrow my eyes. “You were plotting this back on Tuesday afternoon? When you brought me that magic cinnamon nutmeg latte to trick me into liking Christmas?”
She shoots me a withering look. “Rowan, I brought you the latte to be nice.”
“And I’m helping to be nice.”
“Accusing me of colluding isn’t nice.”
“If the shoe fits,” I say, holding my ground.
But she stares me down silently, hauling in a breath through her nostrils, then letting it out slowly, like she needs to cool her head.
“I was calling her then about a plan for a date,” she says, biting out the word.
“One I’m sending her on tomorrow night with a restaurant owner.
I hadn’t even planned the cookie swap till Tuesday night at your house. ”
And…fuck. I’m an ass. “Okay, but can you blame me? You did say you coached her on what to say tonight. The evidence added up.”
She releases another frustrated breath. “I had another woman coming tonight originally. A funny single mom named Kana. But she had to back out at the last minute this morning, so I called Emily to fill in. As for how to handle you, yes, I coached her because I had to know if you were actually trying,” she insists, but there’s a touch of sadness in her voice now too.
“Rowan, if you were truly trying to make this matchmaking work, you wouldn’t have picked her. ”
Dammit. She said that before, but the way she says it this time, so simply, tugs on my cold heart. A morsel of guilt wedges in there too. Sure, we tried to one-up each other, but Isla was still trying to find a love match for me. I was sabotaging her, having fun deliberately fucking up her play.
Well, I’m a defenseman. My job is to stop shit.
“I’m sorry I accused you of colluding,” I say sincerely.
Isla accepts it with a thoughtful nod. “I appreciate you saying that.”
Trouble is, arguing with her is too fun. I’m not sure I want to stop. Not when I catch her gaze drifting to my forearm as I loop the strands. Interesting.
Come to think of it, she was checking me out during the cookie swap as I was raising those sugary treats to my mouth. Does Isla Marlowe have a thing for forearms?
I bet she does, and I’m going to test it.
Ignoring the million reasons why I should walk out that door, I take one more offered loop of lights and wrap it around my forearm in tantalizingly slow motion.
With avid eyes, she stares at me, like you’d stare at someone through a shop window as they make taffy in a vat—transfixed.
When I’ve looped all the lights, I take the woven strand off my arm and hand it to her. “Here you go, Miss Christmas.”
She utters a shaky, “Thank you.”
That breathy note is a real good sound, coming from her. It sends a jolt of lust down my spine. I shouldn’t like it so much, considering she’s mad as a viper at me.
Even if she likes my arms.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. I’m aware that while I apologized for the accusation, I also should say I’m sorry for the sabotage. This would be the right time to say it. But something stops me again.
Maybe because I like all that intense emotion from her directed at me?
I’m not ready to unpack that thought, so I pack the rest of the extra ornaments, then lift the box from the table. “Where should I put this?”
She nods toward the archway and the room beyond. “Back of the shop. I’ll load it in my car when we’re all set.”
I head there, set the box by the back door, and turn around to grab more of the items. I’m passing under the archway with that infernal mistletoe hanging from it right as Isla sails past me.
Our gazes land on the sprig at the same time and stay for a beat or two. But she’s the first to look away, with her jaw set hard. “This is ridiculous.”
Well, I can’t argue with her. “You’re right. Mistletoe is one hundred percent ridiculous. Could you say that on the record though?”
Her stare is icy. “The mistletoe isn’t ridiculous,” she says. “Bumping into you under it is.”
But her eyes give her away once more—since she stares right at my mouth.
Well, well, well.
I’ll just tuck that data point into my pocket, thank you very much.
With a smug smile I try to fight off, I grab the box of lights next and carry it to the back. She’s right behind me with the tablecloth tucked under her arm. We set them down at the same time by the back door.
“No one likes mistletoe anyway. It’s a pain in the ass,” I say as we make our way back to the front of the shop.
Fine, my job as a defenseman isn’t simply to stop things. Sometimes it’s to stir things up.
“Surprise, surprise. You don’t like mistletoe,” Isla says, stopping under the archway and flapping her hand toward the sprig with the red berries on it. “It’s beautiful, fun, and festive. Of course you hate it.”
“Of course I do because it deserves disdain.”
Her sigh is longer than The Lord of the Rings trilogy. “I know I’m going to regret this, but why is mistletoe a pain in the ass?”
“It’s actually poisonous. And did you know it’s bad for your friends—the trees?”
A tiny crease digs in between her eyebrows. “What do you mean?” she asks with real concern.