Chapter 22 Special Christmas Advisor
SPECIAL CHRISTMAS ADVISOR
ISLA
The next day I’m heading down Main Street on my way to the Sugar Plum Bakery for a planning meeting for this year’s competition, which I always love to help with.
With my phone pressed to my ear, I’m chatting with Mabel about my mother’s idea for me to go on a date with Oliver Abernathy.
I’m weighing it like I would consider matches for a client.
Professionally.
With his horn-rimmed glasses and floppy hair, Oliver has a bit of a bookish British charm about him, and I’ve bumped into him before at the bookstore, at holiday parties my parents’ friends have thrown, and while watching caroling in the gazebo at the Best in Snow Winter Games Competition.
A few years back, he leaned in close in the town square and said, “My money’s on the woman singing ‘Blue Christmas.’ Never bet against an Elvis impersonator.”
“Are they taking bets? How exciting.”
“They aren’t, but we could start our own gambling ring.”
“I’m in,” I’d said, and then we high-fived when our horse won.
It was a fun interaction. A friendly one. So why the hell am I not jumping at the chance to go on a date with him?
Probably because I’m so busy. Yes! That has to be it. “If he were a client, I’d rate him an excellent catch,” I tell Mabel, who’s still in San Francisco. “But I just have so much going on that I don’t have the time to date him.”
She scoffs. “Right.”
“The holidays are my busiest season and with the Rowan project, I’m even busier than usual,” I insist, becoming more adamant by the second.
“Isla.” Her tone brooks no argument. “You know the golden rule of dating.”
“Always have an escape plan?”
“Yes.” She laughs, but it fades quickly. “But the real golden rule is—we make time for the people we want to see. It’s the golden rule of life. We usually think we don’t have time, but you can always make time for something you want. Isn’t that true?”
She has me there. I make time for my friends, for my StairMaster, for face masks, for creating Christmas music playlists, for reading, for notebook shopping. “Yes,” I admit.
“If this guy’s so great, why aren’t you making time to date him?”
My stomach twists as I pass the Mistletoe Emporium where I check out the carved ornaments and handmade decor in the window, made by local artists, the sign says. It makes me think of that time at the Christmas tree farm with Rowan—when we talked about why we loved small towns and local businesses.
That’s it! He’s why I’m busy, of course. “I need to focus on Rowan while I’m here. My job is to find him a date,” I say in my best businesslike tone as I resume my pace, navigating my way through the throngs of Christmas shoppers on Main Street.
“Right. Sure.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No. I think you’re feeling this way because you’re interested in your client.”
I nearly walk into a garland-wrapped streetlamp.
I mean, I know that. But it’s another thing to hear someone else say it—especially when Mabel wasn’t even there when I recounted the kiss for Sabrina and Leighton at the kitten adoption event. “Why do you say that?”
“Because of the way you looked at him when he walked into your cookie swap,” Mabel answers.
She picked up on the attraction from that? “Fine, fine,” I concede. “Maybe my eyes were a little glued to him.”
“Oh, you eye-fucked him, friend. You eye-fucked him hard,” she says.
“Mabel!”
“Stop acting innocent. You know what you did.”
I sigh, annoyed, but mostly because I can’t deny she’s right. “Fine. But he’s hot. Do you blame me?”
“Of course not. Also, Sabrina and Leighton told me he kissed you under the mistletoe. It was like church tongue, they said.”
“Mabel! Why didn’t you just tell me you knew that then?”
She cracks up. “Because it was too fun to make you second-guess your ogling. But seriously—ogling plus church tongue equals hot for client.”
I grimace. This is bad. So bad. “But I can’t.
It’s such a terrible idea. For so many reasons.
” I glance around, making sure no one’s in earshot, then duck down a side street, away from the crowd, pressing the phone even closer to my ear and covering my mouth with my hand.
“It would look bad. The matchmaker falling for a client. Let alone one who’s completely emotionally unavailable. ”
“But if he’s emotionally unavailable, nothing’s actually going to happen,” she reasons. “So what you’re worried about is public perception. And if he’s not emotionally available, you’re not actually going to date him for real, let alone fall for him. Right?”
“Exactly. Especially since he’s Jason’s client. He’s been with Jason for over ten years. They’re best friends. I don’t want things to be weird. For anyone.”
She’s quiet for a few seconds. “You sound like you’re trying to convince me.”
I wince. That means I’m probably trying to convince myself. I take a steadying breath. “I’m just saying there are lots of reasons why nothing can happen. No messing around. We’re merely practice-dating. We have a lesson tonight in fact.”
“That doesn’t sound tempting at all,” she deadpans.
“I am a dating coach!”
“To clients you crush on?”
My stomach swirls with nerves. “Shoot. What do I do?”
“First, let me ask you a question—is it maybe a little more than a crush?”
I pause, giving her question the attention it deserves.
Rowan’s gorgeous—heartbreakingly so. He’s an amazing father.
He’s a caring man. He’s grumpy, and prickly, and difficult, yet he’s let me see what’s underneath that grouchy exterior.
I feel like I understand him more than I did before.
I understand him, too, as someone who’s also been hurt by love.
But this crush is going nowhere. Rowan’s made his feelings clear. “Nothing’s going to come of it. So it really doesn’t matter.”
“That may be true, but at least we know now why you’re not interested in this very eligible bachelor,” she says.
Her words are a gut punch. She’s right…on every account. Even though he’d be a fantastic addition to my roster, I’m not interested in Oliver for me.
“Yeah. I suppose we do know,” I say, admitting that much to Mabel. “And I’ll let my mother know later today.”
“Good plan,” she says, but I don’t feel entirely relieved. There’s still that little matter of this inappropriate crush on my client, who’s also my brother’s friend. There aren’t enough notebooks in Evergreen Falls—and this town has a banging stationery shop—for me to make sense of this conundrum.
Maybe some things just don’t make sense.
For now, I say goodbye to my friend and head straight for the bakery, where I have a mission: the Christmas competition.
As I near the shop, I’m grateful for the distraction this event will bring.
Maybe I won’t think about Rowan too much.
Or these dating lessons that start tonight.
Back at the Ferry Building, I asked him to be real.
Authentic. We’ll go on a simple date then.
That would be for the best. Just a meal, some conversation, and a chat about hopes and dreams. There.
Easy-peasy. I’ll let him know the plan soon enough.
I arrive at the bakery a few minutes early, and when I push open the door, my gaze lands immediately on a man seated at a white wooden table.
A man with floppy hair, the kind that makes him look like a European poet.
His glasses add to the academic look, and the dimple makes him look friendly.
His head’s bent over a book. Points for that too.
If he were a client, I could set him up just like that.
It’s a game I play with myself, but as I imagine options for him, my gaze snaps to another man with a beard, haunting green eyes, and arms I want to feel wrapped around me.
I’m not surprised he’s here—with the team wanting players involved in the festivities, it just makes sense. What surprises me is the intensity of my reaction. My stomach swoops. My chest flutters. My pulse spikes.
The second his gaze lands on me, Rowan’s up and out of his chair, striding to the door with that same fire in his eyes I’ve seen on the ice. That laser focus, that winning determination—he’s channeling it now, and for some reason, it’s aimed at me.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks, already reaching for my elbow to guide me out of the bakery.
Okay.
This shouldn’t be hot.
Really, it shouldn’t.
And yet—it very much is.
“What’s going on?” I ask once we’re outside.
“I’ve got secret intel,” he says, his eyes imploring now, his tone passionate. “And I need your help.”
A plea for help? That’s so unlike him. “Sure. What is it? Want me to hang some lights at your house? Decorate a tree? Make gingerbread? I’m your gal.”
“I knew you’d be the right person. It’s about the competition. They’re changing the rules,” he says in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone.
“Okay…but how does that affect us? I’m not competing,” I say, starting to get wary.
“Is the mayor going to ask me to? Because if so, I’m going to need to practice my snowball throwing.
Probably also snowman decorating. Maybe even cookie baking,” I ramble, already psyching myself up.
“But I can do this. I can totally do this.”
A rare smile shifts his lips. “Of course you can. But actually, I was wondering if you could help me with the competition. I was asked to help coach a team. Evidently, the organizers are adding coaches for each team to make the event an even bigger deal or something.” Normally, I’d expect Rowan to snort out a bah humbug with a side of Christmas derision.
Instead, he says, “And I was wondering if I could enlist you to be my…special Christmas advisor.”
Something inside me lights up. There’s never been a better title in all the land. “I’d love to.”
“Thank you. I definitely need the help,” he adds, but when I come down from the holiday high, something still isn’t quite sitting right with me.
I narrow my eyes his way. “Where is Rowan, and what have you done with him?”
He taps his chest. “I’m right here.”