Chapter 24 A Moose in My Heart #2
He steps back and I nearly grab his arm to steady myself. But I manage to stand through the fog of lust.
Rowan gestures to a booth. “I asked for a booth in the corner. Seemed date-like,” he says.
He has no idea. “Perfect,” I say, but it comes out feathery.
Get it together.
But when he sets a hand on my back and guides me through the diner, decked out with garlands and wreaths, I’m not sure I can get it together.
We sit in the booth. My hands feel light, airy. My chest is fizzy. Rowan’s looking at me with something in his eyes I can’t quite make out, but it’s almost a game day kind of intensity.
“Should we order?” I ask, desperately focusing on something other than butterflies.
“Yes, but I know what I want.”
My stomach flips again. I shouldn’t look up. Really, I shouldn’t. Just because I want him to say me. But I look up anyway. “And what’s that?”
He holds my gaze, long and lingering, no signs of breaking it. Then he says, “A chicken sandwich and fries. Can’t beat ’em.”
I laugh. That wasn’t what I’d expected, but something about the normalcy of it delights me. Am I in that wanting to know everything about him phase?
“I’ll do a veggie burger and fries.”
“Want to split a milkshake?”
That sounds romantic. “I do,” I blurt out before thinking the better of it. “Chocolate. Would chocolate work? I’m craving that.”
“What do you know? I like to satisfy your cravings,” he says.
A flush races up my chest and spreads across my neck. My face is hot. “Great,” I say, or maybe I mumble it, since I’m wondering how obvious it is to Rowan where my thoughts are.
When the server arrives a few seconds later, I’m relieved for the distraction. She wears slacks and a red polo, with her hair pulled back in a white scrunchie—on brand for the diner. “How’s your day, Phillipa?”
“I can’t complain,” she says. “I’ve got a great coach for the competition.”
“Fable’s amazing,” I say.
After she takes our order, Rowan turns to me, his green eyes holding my gaze for a long beat. “So you’re going to teach me everything I need to know to date. Where do we start?”
Good question. My head is blank. I’m nothing but a skittering heart and flipping chest, thanks to his hot gaze. “Nice sweater,” I say, since I need to say something. “But it doesn’t seem like something you’d own.”
He glances down at it. “It’s not. But it seemed like something you’d like, so I got it today. What do you think?”
I stifle my gasp. I like it far too much that he bought it for me. “It looks good,” I say, as evenly as I can.
He leans closer. “Just good?”
I draw a shuddery breath. “Just good,” I say, getting my bearings.
“I like to aim a little higher than just good on my dates—practice or not. Let’s see if I can finish with a better than good,” he says, then lifts a hand and reaches for my necklace, touching it gently, grazing his fingers across the mistletoe charm, then meeting my eyes. “This is very, very pretty.”
I’m not sure who’s coaching who anymore. When he lets go, my head is a fog. My chest is buzzing. I try to clear my mind of anything but the competition. “What did you think of your team?”
He tilts his head. “Isla, are you fishing for intel?”
“Me? No. Of course not.”
“You’d never do that.”
“Never,” I say, primly.
He blows out a breath, shooting me a doubtful look. “But this raises a new issue.”
Is he going to nix these practice dates? Say they’re a conflict of interest since we’re technically competing? My pulse spikes in worry. “What is it?”
“Can you still be my Christmas advisor?”
My shoulders relax. Then it hits me—I was freaking out that he didn’t want to fake date me.
I’m so screwed.
“Fair point. I probably can’t,” I say, fighting to return to the way we were—colleagues, in a way. Client and matchmaker. “Since we’re competing against each other now.”
He lifts his chin, giving me a cocky smile. “C’mon. Just a little hand here and there.”
It’s said in a low, smoky voice. A rasp, nearly.
“Rowan,” I say, taking the napkin and spreading it in my lap. “That hardly seems fair.”
“Just a tip,” he says, but I hear just the tip.
Or…shit. Is that what my dirty brain is thinking? Must ignore it. “That feels like insider trading. You’ll have to win on your own merits.” Then the full-blown competitive monster inside me comes roaring to life. “Let’s see how you do against a true Christmas elf like me.”
Rowan tosses his head back and laughs, deep and throaty.
He seems like a new Rowan tonight. I’m not sure what to make of this side of him—the charming, flirting, playful side.
But it’s time for me to take control of this practice date.
“In fact, I bet my team will win.” There.
A bet will return us to familiar territory.
He scoffs. “That so?”
I sit straighter. “You might have a moose on your sweater, but I have a Christmas moose in my heart.”
Rowan arches a dubious brow. “You have a moose in your heart, Isla?”
Well, that does sound a little silly, but I lean into it. “I do.”
“We should get you to the hospital.”
“You’re assuming it’s a bad thing to have a moose in your heart.”
“How could it be good?”
I double down. “Are you saying there’s something wrong with me?”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Never.”
“Then my heart moose is just fine,” I say.
He spreads an arm across the back of the booth, inching his hand toward my shoulder. “Yeah, I’d say so too.”
He leans closer and swipes a strand of hair from my cheek.
Oh.
That’s not hair. That’s…an eyelash.
“Make a wish, Isla.” He holds out his finger with a tiny eyelash on it. That fizzy feeling returns to my chest as I cycle through wishes and wants.
I want to stop being so attracted to my client.
I want to win the competition.
I want to match him.
I want him to be happy.
But as he waits for me, patiently, his green eyes full of intrigue—and maybe hope—I want something else entirely.
A kiss.
Deeper than the one under the mistletoe.
Longer too.
And…real. So real.
Only I have to stop wanting that.
I blow on the eyelash. I wish to stop feeling so much.
As the lash floats through the air, the server arrives with our dinner.
“Here you go,” Phillipa says, setting plates and glasses down, along with a soda fountain–style glass filled with chocolaty goodness and two straws. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
A pill to resist my client?
“I’m all good,” I say.
When she leaves, Rowan says, “This bet—what are the stakes?”
My heart.
I shake some ketchup onto the plate, grab a fry, and swipe it through the condiment, then give his question some thought. But before I can answer, he says, “Salted caramels.”
I stop with the fry midway to my mouth. “Those are the stakes?”
“They’re your favorite. If you win, I’ll buy you a box of the best salted caramels in town.”
The stakes are simple and real. They aren’t showy or trash-talky. “I do love salted caramel,” I say, then finish the fry.
“I know. You had a hard time not stealing Leighton’s.”
“You remembered?”
“I did,” he says, then takes a bite of his chicken sandwich.
And I’m touched. Surprised too. But am I really surprised? He seems to be remembering things left and right.
“You have a good memory, Rowan,” I say, then let the food distract me.
“I do, but I also remember things that are important to me,” he says—and my stomach flips. “Like you want to go to Kauai on New Year’s.”
Color me impressed. “So I can melt onto the beach and do nothing,” I say.
“You deserve that. And how you like to go to the farmers’ market and that Wild Ginger vegetarian restaurant in the Ferry Building.”
“Yes. Wow.”
“Like I said, I remember things that are important. Like salted caramels.”
“Which brings us back to what are the stakes if you win?”
“Oh, salted caramels satisfy me too,” he says.
“It’s a bet, then,” I say.
He offers a hand to shake and I take it, trying to ignore the tingles that rush down my chest from the feel of his hand touching mine.
When he lets go he reaches for the milkshake glass. “Want the first sip?”
“Sure,” I say, then lean closer and sip from the metal straw, hoping he somehow leans in and drinks at the same time.
Great. Now I’m having some kind of Lady and the Tramp fantasies. This is getting to be a problem.
As we eat and drink—no Lady and the Tramp sharing after all—we talk more about the competition, our next practice date, scheduled for two nights’ time, Evergreen Falls, and what Mia’s up to tonight.
She’s spending the evening with some friends in town, making wreaths and paper snowflakes.
It’s only when we’re halfway through dinner that I say, “You know, I had this whole plan about how we should make sure you’re real and authentic on a date, but honestly, I’m pretty sure you are tonight. ”
“I am,” he says. “I’m definitely being real.”
I don’t even pretend to argue with him. I just agree, because my pulse is kicking up again, and this time I don’t want it to stop. “You are. This is how you should be.”
“It’s easy with you.”
My stomach flips again. “Because I’m a matchmaker? Because you know me?”
He takes his time. Locks eyes with me. Holds my gaze. “Yeah, but also because you’re you.”
The sparks are everywhere in me. Pretty sure I’m all sparks.
I take another drink of the milkshake, then offer it to him, furtively staring at his lips. How do they taste right now? Like chocolate and a cool winter night made warm from all my unchecked desire?
As we finish, a band sets up in the corner of the diner. I tense—it’s the tension you feel from hope—the hope that a date won’t end.
I want it to keep going.
Maybe he senses that. Or maybe he just wants the same thing I do, because he glances at the band—three strong guys in T-shirts that say The Mistle Bros.
He turns back to me. “You want real?”
“I do.”
“Then we should dance.”