Chapter 25 Be More Real
BE MORE REAL
ROWAN
I hold out a hand across the booth, ready and eager for the next part of the night.
Playing dirty, so to speak.
But Isla nibbles on the corner of her lips. She’s torn—clearly. She glances around the diner. Is she weighing how it might look if she’s dancing with a client in public?
But I anticipated that. And, like a good D-man, I’ve got a plan to defend my turf. A little competition, if you will. I lower my hand, resting it on the table as I arch a brow. “Are you worried you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?”
That earns me the eye roll I expected as she snaps her gaze back to mine. “Please, Rowan.”
“You have nothing to worry about. You have excellent self-restraint,” I say dryly. “But if it makes you feel better, I promise I’ll behave too.”
She heaves a sigh. “I thought you were being real on this practice date.”
The thing is—I am. Being real means listening to your date, and I’ve listened to her in all sorts of ways. Isla has always loved a challenge. That’s her real and I want to give it to her. “Oh, I’m being real all right. It’ll be hard, but I’ll be so good.”
Maybe. It’s debatable if I can be good. But I keep that thought to myself as one of The Mistle Bros tunes his guitar while another tests the mic.
Isla squares her shoulders. “I bet it’ll be no problem for me to behave.”
“Isla, I thought we were keeping it real.”
She stares at me like she wants to punch me. It’s ridiculously hot. Hotter even when she says, “Rowan, you’re infuriating.”
“And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Need I remind you of the fourth item on the list of five things I know about you?
” I clear my throat and quote it back to her.
“You’re a formidable competitor and would absolutely destroy me on game night—then gift-wrap my defeat and put it under the tree, tied up neatly with a red ribbon. ”
“I remember that,” she says, a little wary, but a lot intrigued. “Why are you mentioning it?”
“Show me. Show me how damn good you are at resisting,” I say, goading her, offering her my hand once more like it’s a fait accompli.
As the guitar-playing lumberjack strums a chord, Isla takes my hand. “I’m the best at resisting,” she says with a stubborn lift of her pretty chin.
Yup, this is her real.
“Then this will be as easy as hanging an ornament on a low branch,” I say, tugging her out of the booth.
I guide her over to a corner of the diner reserved for dancing. We join the other couples as the band plays the opening notes of a Christmas tune I didn’t know existed until this afternoon. I do hate Christmas music.
Correction.
Hated.
It’s possible Christmas music might have its uses.
I wrap my hands around her hips, savoring the feel of her beneath my palms even through all these layers. She drapes hers over my shoulders, tilting her head and listening to the music. “Oh! This is Luther Vandross’s ‘A Kiss for Christmas,’” she adds, quickly, her eyes sparkling.
I act as if I just learned that detail. “Ah. And I take it you approve of the tune?”
“It’s on one of my Christmas playlists.”
I had a feeling.
I fight off a smirk—there’s no need for smugness now—as we sway.
The song is smooth, sensual, a holiday seduction.
But I don’t listen closely for very long.
Holding her is far more interesting. My hands fit perfectly around her hips.
Her fingers on my shoulders heat my skin.
I catch a hint of that cherry scent that drives me wild.
When the couple next to us moves closer to each other, I think fuck it. That’s my cue to do the same.
I ease closer, curling one hand tighter around her. She rolls her lips together.
I rub my thumb in a small, lazy circle along her hip bone. Her eyes float closed for a second—a delicious second where I want to high-five myself.
Yes, Isla likes sexy holiday music and the way I touch her.
When she opens her eyes, they flicker with heat.
And Isla likes winning, too, so I lean into that. “You’re doing such a good job,” I say, praising her as the lead singer does his best Luther Vandross impression, crooning about pouring another glass of wine and lighting up the fireplace.
“At dancing?” she asks, sounding breathy, feathery.
“Yes, but resisting too,” I say, holding her close.
“Told you so.”
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t tempt her. I should back off. Say goodnight. But if anyone’s dating Isla here in Evergreen Falls—fake, real, or practice—it damn well better be me.
Which is why I played dirty tonight.
Or really, I played to win.
“Isla,” I begin, taking my time saying her name.
“Yes?” She sounds a little dreamy.
“Remember that time at the Ferry Building when you told me you had playlists of Christmas music?”
A curious line digs into her forehead. “I do.”
“And one of them was top ten sexy holiday songs, right?”
“Yes. That’s one of them.”
“You’re not the only one who has a memory like a steel trap,” I say, as the song nears its end. “This afternoon I did a little googling. Looked up sexy holiday songs. Something I’d never done before.”
“That does sound like new territory for you.”
“Very new. I did some date research too. Learned The Mistle Bros were coming here tonight to play. I talked to the diner owners, and they said I could ask the band to play some sexy Christmas music. For you.”
Her lips part. Something like wonder crosses her eyes. “You…did?”
“You said you wanted me to be real. To show up when we practiced. This is me—showing up.”
There’s no sarcasm to cloak me, no frown to cover for me. It’s like putting on a pair of shoes that don’t quite fit yet. I’m not sure I can walk in them, but I’m trying.
Isla purses her lips, like she’s unsure what to say. For several seconds, I feel suspended in uncertainty until she tries and fails to fight off a sexy smile curving her pretty mouth.
“I like it when you’re real,” she says softly, and it sounds like an admission of something more from her.
Pride spreads in me, along with some other feeling, warm and bright. Something I can’t quite name. But for now, I don’t need to name it. I just need to dance with my matchmaker under the twinkling lights of the Candy Cane Diner.
The Mistle Bros slide into the next song: Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me.”
People come and go on the dance floor around us.
I barely notice them. Pretty sure Isla’s in this bubble too.
As I clasp her tighter, the electricity between us cracks and pops.
The air is charged. I lift a hand and sweep a strand of hair off her neck, cataloguing her shivery reaction as we sway to an Elvis-esque rendition of “Santa Claus is Back in Town.”
This is merely a practice date, I tell myself.
But it feels thoroughly real at the end of the tune when the singer pumps his hips to the line about coming down the chimney, and Isla whispers my name in a throaty voice, “Rowan.”
It’s full of heat and longing. Yes, fucking yes. Playing dirty worked. If she didn’t drive, maybe I can drive her home and kiss the fuck out of her in the name of practice dating. Let her feel the imprint of my lips when she goes out with that other guy.
“Yes, Isla?” I ask.
But her hands fly off my shoulders and she wrenches back, all businesslike and clinical. “You did great tonight,” Isla says cheerfully. “Good job. Amazing job. Incredible practice.” She swings her gaze to the door. “I should…go.”
It’s like an icy-cold bucket of reality poured over my head. “All right. Practice date is over,” I bite out as the song warbles on, and I stand stupidly on the dance floor wondering what the hell just happened.
“Yes. It is,” she says, her voice tight.
No clue why she’s brushing me off but she clearly is. She turns, and we shuffle through tables on the way to our booth. She grabs her scarf and coat.
I’m chilled to the bone, and I say nothing as I pay the bill, snag my jacket, and walk her out of the diner.
It’s as cold as an ice rink tonight. Fitting.
I scan the street, hunting for those infernal Christmas lights on her red car.
I’m sure it’s somewhere nearby—then I can put her in it and say goodbye.
“Where’s your car?” I ask, but it comes out gruff.
“I didn’t drive.” She sounds…nervous? Upset?
Oh, shit. I can’t be that guy—the one who ends a date pissed off because she didn’t kiss him. The one who thinks she owes him something for a dance. That’s not me. That’s never been me.
“I can get a Lyft, though,” she adds quickly, apologetically.
I snap out of my very momentary funk. “No. Don’t. Let me drive you.” I sound borderline desperate, but…I am.
“That would be great,” she says, seeming relieved. “The Lyft sometimes takes forever.”
We head to my car, and I open the passenger door, wanting to kick myself for having been so curt. Inside, I’m quiet. I don’t know what to say. I feel like an ass for thinking we were going to kiss—for being annoyed, even for a second, that we didn’t. Who the fuck am I?
I chew on my irritation as I wind my way up the hills to her family’s house. Jason’s not here—there wasn’t enough room for him, Natalie, and the kids, so they rented a cabin.
When we reach her parents’ home, I cut the engine.
The porch light’s on, but the house seems quiet and still.
Festive, though, since colored lights flicker on the bushes.
Blue and white icicles blink on and off along the roof, and a white and silver decorative reindeer stands tall in the front yard.
“I can see where you get it,” I say.
Moonlight casts a soft glow across her face and her faint smile. “My parents are festive. And very much in love,” she says, then winces. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”
I don’t either, but she sounds…thrown off. I really need to try harder. Not to seduce her. But to listen. “That’s good though. That they’re happy.”
“Is it?”
“Well, yeah,” I say, emphatic since she seems so…uncertain.