Chapter 15 The Scene of My Matchmaking Subterfuge #2
Good thing I did some research on mistletoe.
Any good grinch ought to be prepared for a Christmas counter-argument.
“Mistletoe is actually a semi-parasitic plant. It makes its food from photosynthesis, but the roots grow into the tree, sucking water and minerals out from the sap. Like a vampire piece of Christmas decor.” I put on a sad face. “Isn’t that terrible?”
“But we’re not in a forest.”
“But we were.”
“How is that even relevant?” she asks, with more exasperation than I’d expected.
But maybe it’s exactly the amount I want.
Because, for whatever fucking reason, her irritation is exciting.
It’s turning up the temperature on the furnace inside me.
My chest is crackling hot as I say, “It’s just good to know all the details for Christmas.
You wouldn’t want to see a vampire mistletoe growing out of your favorite tree, would you? ”
She points upward while staring right at me like she’s a lawyer who won’t back down. “Rowan Bishop. This mistletoe isn’t in a tree. It’s literally hanging from a brick archway. How is it a parasite now?”
“Right now it’s not. But you never know. You also don’t want mistletoe around any pets. Which is yet another reason why I can’t have mistletoe at my house. I have a pet,” I say, playing up my devastation over not being able to hang the offending decor in my home. “So sad.”
Isla purses her lips like she’s about to say something, but then her forehead crinkles again.
The cogs are clearly turning in that beautiful brain of hers.
She crosses her arms in a defiant gesture, and…
fuck me. That move diverts my attention to her pretty red V-neck sweater dress, and the silver necklace with the mistletoe charm nestled right above her breasts.
With my gaze firmly locked on the soft flesh of her chest, she says, “Rowan.”
My name comes out like she has a secret up her sleeve. I’d like to be up her sleeve.
“Yeah?” I ask, raspy, full of grit as distraction takes hold of me. But I manage to lift my gaze and meet her eyes.
She parts her lips, a sly smile whisking across them. Her mouth is entirely too distracting, especially with that shiny gloss.
My mind swims with inappropriate thoughts, including one lodged front and center in my skull—what would my best friend’s sister do if I reached out, touched that charm on her necklace, then brushed a finger across the bare skin of her chest?
Would she let out a low gasp? Would her eyes flare with desire?
Would she moan if I kissed her there, right there, then roamed my mouth up her collarbone to her neck, then to those soft, pretty lips?
“Tell me something,” she says.
“Sure,” I say, since I’m transfixed now.
“Is your dislike of mistletoe about its qualities as a plant, about your hatred for Christmas, or…” She takes her sweet time, licking her lips and scrambling my brain as she adds in a throaty purr, “Or is it about kissing?”
Wait. What? That doesn’t compute. “Hold on. What are you talking about?”
She shoots me the most challenging stare in the history of Christmas bets. “Be honest. You’re not any good at it.”
“Good at what?” I ask, but I think I know what she’s saying, and she’s poked the bear.
“This is a safe space.” She glances furtively left and right, playing up the secretive nature of this convo even though it’s only us here. “You can say it—kissing. You’re not any good at kissing, right? That’s also why you’re so afraid to date.”
Oh, those are fighting words. I square my shoulders. Stand taller. “Want to bet?”
“You don’t stick to your bets.”
“I’ll stick to this one,” I say, all hot and bothered under the collar.
“Fine. I’ll bet you’re not any good at it.”
“I bet I am.”
“Right. Prove it.”
It. Is. On.
I lift a hand and cup her cheek. Her breath hitches. For one short moment, we lock eyes. Searching for permission, perhaps? I slide a thumb down her soft skin. She shudders. “Ready, sweetheart?”
Her eyes flicker with unchecked excitement but also questions. I don’t move as she seems to war with herself, dragging her teeth along her bottom lip. The questions must vanish since her eyes flare with heat, and she whispers a needy, “Yes.”
With the gauntlet thrown, I dip my face to hers, but I don’t kiss her. Not yet. I wait, my mouth millimeters from hers, till I hear that tell-tale whoosh of her breath. A tiny gasp. I notice the rise and fall of her shoulders, and the subtle way she eases her body closer to mine.
Yes, fuck yes. Isla wants to be kissed as much as I want to kiss her.
I brush my thumb across her lower lip. A murmur escapes her, and that’s my cue. I drop my mouth to hers.
For the first time, I taste her sweetness—she tastes like cherries as I brush my lips to hers in a soft, chaste kiss.
The kind you’d give a first date when your friends catch you under the mistletoe at a holiday party.
It’s not a make-out kiss. It’s not a closed-door kiss.
It’s the kind of kiss you give somebody in public.
Except, the sounds she makes feel private and just for me.
Soft, sexy murmurs as I flick the tip of my tongue along the seam of her mouth.
Needy breaths as I coast my mouth against hers.
She parts her lips, then inches closer, her body pressed against my chest. Yes, that’s not subtle at all, and I love it.
I love the way she’s soft and pliant as my lips explore hers for a few mind-bending seconds.
I don’t want to let go.
Her fingers tiptoe up my shirt, curling around the collar of it.
That, right there, I will remember forever.
Her want. My tongue flicks against her mouth, and I catch her gasp.
I slide my fingers from her jaw, past her ear, to her lush hair.
I slide them through it while she grips harder, twists the fabric more fiercely.
I twirl a few strands of her hair around my finger as our tongues skate together, as our murmurs fill the silence. She slides even closer to me, and I reach my other hand around her waist, pressing it gently to her back, eager to hold her against me all night long.
She arches into me, and the way she responds is frying my brain. It’s sending all my senses into overdrive as want—deep and powerful—floods my body.
Our lips coast together again, and again, and images of how this night might go snap temptingly before my eyes.
But I can’t give in. If I keep this up, I won’t just be kissing her all night. I’ll be asking to take her home. And I can’t do that. Not to this woman I’m starting to actually care for. Not when I’m destined to fail. She deserves better than a broken guy.
Somehow, I manage to let go, breaking contact at last.
My head’s a fog. It’s hazy with thoughts I’m trying to deny.
With the kiss broken, my gaze sweeps down her face. Her cheeks are flush. Her eyes are glossy.
And hell, I’d planned to taunt her post kiss. To say something smart-ass-y like “I guess you liked that kiss,” but I’m woozy and speechless. I can’t even stitch together words.
Blinking, she catches her breath, then says, “I suppose it’s safe to say you just hate Christmas.”
And like that, I find my bearings. Because Isla Marlowe liked our mistletoe kiss more than she wanted to.
I smile victoriously. “Yes. That’s safe to say.”
As I load the boxes into the trunk of her red car, I’m replaying that kiss. It’s on a goddamn loop in my mind. And I’ve no idea what to do with these insistent feelings growing stronger in my chest.
I close the trunk and walk her to the driver’s side door with that kiss still hanging over my head. Maybe her head too?
She turns my way, her gaze all serious. “So where do we go now, Rowan?”
She probably means with the matchmaking, but all I can think is I want to see you again. It’s like a clawing in my chest. A drumbeat in my head. “Give me another chance to make it up to you. What happened tonight.”
With a curious look in her eyes, she says, “Your sabotage? You’ll make it up to me by trying for real over the next few days?”
Maybe. Possibly. I don’t know. “Sure,” I say, since that’ll help my cause—my immediate cause.
“How? We don’t have much time left to find you a match,” she points out.
Like this is a play on the ice, I have to think fast and move faster. Evidently the kiss has knocked my brain loose, since I say, “I’ll go Christmas shopping with you. Tomorrow, in fact, if you’re free. Ideally before my game.”
But doubt is written all over her pretty face. “How does that help with matchmaking?”
I ferry the puck down the ice on fleet feet. “I’ll carry your shopping bags. And we can talk about dating as you shop. You can teach me about dating without sabotage,” I add, setting up the goal with my surprise offer. Hell, it’s surprised me.
She snort-laughs. “So you’ll shop with me to one, apologize? Two, help me out with heavy things? And three, learn how to not sabotage a date?”
If that gets me more time with you. I take a shot at the net, saying, “Think of it as my penance.”
She purses her lips. “It’s a working shopping trip then?”
“Sure. Let’s call it that.”
The look she lasers my way is full-strength stern. “Rowan, if you truly want to learn how to not sabotage a date that means you’ll be getting some dating 101 as I shop. No holds barred. No punches pulled.”
“Got it.”
But she’s not convinced, it seems, since she keeps going. “That means I’ll be giving you lessons straight up. And you need to shape up. Are we clear on that?”
If that’s what it takes to spend a little more time with her, then yes. “Crystal.”
“You’ll be present and engaged? Not plotting the downfall of the next few matches I make for you?”
I smirk. “Sweetheart, I’m a pro athlete. I’m always plotting.”
“Rowan,” she says with a growl, and that fierce sound only makes me want her more.
Still, I hold up my hands in surrender. I’m hearing her. “Fine, no plotting. No ploys. I’ll be good.” Well, I am plotting more time with her, but I’ll also be present for her dating 101. I can multitask like that.
She’s not quite buying it. “Can you even be good?”
“Course I can.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I swear.”
Isla seems to consider it, then says, “Don’t make me regret this.”
“I promise you won’t.”
“Then I accept your grovel.”
She can call it what she wants but it equates to this—he shoots, he scores!
She hops into the driver’s seat, turns on those flashing lights on the windshield, then stares ahead for a few seconds into space, like something is on her mind. At last, she turns back to me with a flirty look in her eyes this time. “By the way, I guess I like the law of mistletoe.”
“I’ll bite. What’s the law of mistletoe?”
Her smile is sly as she says, “That you have to kiss under it.”
With one arm on the side of the car, I lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek, catching her sweet scent once more. “Yeah, you do like that law, Isla.”
A quiet gust of breath crosses her lips. Can’t resist—I sweep my thumb along her top lip, then add, “A lot. You like it a lot.”
And since it’s best to know when to push your luck and when not to, I step back, shut the door, and send her off into the night, counting down the hours till tomorrow.
As I walk home, passing an inflatable Santa outside an apartment building with most of its windows illuminated in colorful, twinkling lights, I can’t quite believe I’m looking forward to Christmas shopping, of all things.
I tug up the collar on my coat, shake my head, and mutter bah, humbug at all the holiday cheer around me.
The lampposts with garlands, the window displays with snowflakes and mountains of wrapped gifts, and the wreaths on shop doors.
It’s so hard to take, this time of year, all the reminders of how a day can go wrong.
How can a guy like me enjoy a single thing about this wretched holiday? And of all the things I despise about this silly season, shopping has to be top of the list.
But evidently, I’m so damn eager to spend time with Isla that I’ve struck a deal to enter Christmas hell.