Chapter 30 Pink Slip
PINK SLIP
ROWAN
Two minutes and thirty-nine seconds later, I’m trotting back down the cobbled alley, boots clomping, then I’m turning into Rudy’s back patio as Isla buttons her coat with a crisp finality.
Her forehead is pinched. Her eyes, wary.
But I’ve got a solution for that. I thrust out two cups of hot cocoa as I weave through the tables. I’ve also got a brilliant idea, but it’ll require a little show and tell. Hence, the drinks. “A date is more than just an orgasm, right?”
The doubt vanishes from her blue eyes. “A quickie and a quickie,” she says, taking one of the offered drinks.
We sit at one of the tables. “Did you think I was leaving?”
“No.” But she doesn’t sound like she believes that.
“I said I’d be right back,” I point out.
“I know,” she says, lifting the cup and sniffing it, then shaking her head like she’s trying to shake off those doubts. “It just threw me off. But that’s me, not you.”
“I wouldn’t want to do that,” I say, reassuring her—because even if it is her, I still don’t want her to worry about a single thing. “Throw you off or make you think I wouldn’t come back.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She takes a sip of the hot cocoa, then lets out an approving sigh. “This is the good stuff.”
“Orgasms and chocolate—how am I doing on the dating front?”
“Ten out of ten tonight,” she says.
I’m about to stretch my arms above my head and preen when it hits me.
If I ace these practice dates, she might think I’ve graduated from her school.
No way do I want the lessons with her to end.
I haven’t dated like this before—with someone who asks me to be honest. With someone who gives honesty.
“This is new to me, Isla,” I admit. “The whole talking openly like this part. Don’t let the hot cocoa fool you. ”
“It’s new to me too. Doing that.” She gestures back toward the bench where she fucked my fingers. “With a client.”
Yeah, I had a feeling that was sticking with her, like a pebble in a shoe. “I won’t tell,” I say.
“No kidding you won’t tell.” As she takes another sip, her gaze turns contemplative—guilty, even. “I feel…like I failed though.”
“Because I don’t want to date anyone else?”
“Yes.”
I take a fortifying drink of the sweet stuff, then set it on the table. “You didn’t fail. If anything, I failed. I’m no good at this romance stuff. I told you that. I’m just not sure it’s ever going to be my thing.”
Sadness flickers in her eyes. “You really believe that?”
I blow out a breath. I give her question some real thought. “What happened with my ex…it was pretty bad,” I say—and hell, that’s vulnerable, isn’t it? “For me. And for Mia.”
Isla reaches for my free hand and squeezes it. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”
My stomach twists. I don’t want to serve up the whole sad story of the way we were left. But I also want Isla to know where I’m coming from with romance, with dating, with lessons. I feel pulled and stretched in two different directions—do I keep the story to myself or share it?
I weigh the choices in my palms, and I’m honestly not sure which option is better.
When I’m on the ice though, I don’t have all day to wonder what to do.
Out there, you have to make split-second decisions.
Pass to a teammate for a scoring chance or keep possession.
Pressure the opponent to force a turnover or clear the crease for the goalie.
You don’t know what would happen if you made another choice. You make the best one you can in the moment, and you move the hell on. One of my strongest suits as a player is I don’t dwell on the past. Maybe I could learn a thing or two from the way I play hockey.
I blow out a breath, then tell the story I’ve only ever shared with my parents and Jason.
“I was going to propose to her on Christmas morning. I had the ring and everything. She loved Christmas so when I woke up early to head downstairs and make sure everything was in place for Mia, I wasn’t that worried that Regina wasn’t in bed.
Then I spotted an envelope poking out of my stocking.
Inside it was a goodbye letter,” I say, biting out the words.
The memory doesn’t sting like it used to.
It’s not raw and tender anymore. It’s a scar though, long and jagged.
“Oh Rowan,” Isla says, her eyes full of sympathy.
“We’d met shortly after college, started dating, then she got pregnant pretty quickly.
And she said in her letter that after four years of doing nothing but parenting, she was heading off to discover herself at last. It was her present to herself, she’d said.
It was what younger Regina would have wanted. ”
I can feel the crinkle of the paper, see the loopy ink of her handwriting, smell the pine from the tree she’d picked out.
I can hear, too, the terrified drumbeat of my heart as reality sank in with each terrible word I’d read.
“She said she was going to backpack and make art—what she’d always wanted.
Marriage wasn’t part of her dream. And besides, Mia would always be taken care of with me, thanks to my career. ”
Those words taste bitter on my tongue as I say them out loud for the first time in a long time.
Isla hisses. “Like that makes it okay,” she mutters, then holds up a hand, backpedaling. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Actually, her protective streak is hot. “No apologies. I felt the same way. The implication that Mia would be fine because I made good money was fuck-all insulting,” I say, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck. “Like that’s the point of parenting.”
“You’re a good father regardless of your career,” Isla says, agreeing.
My heart softens a little. “Thanks. She’s a great kid,” I say, then heave a sigh.
“But she had a rough go of it for a while. It’s not as if Regina’s cards and gifts make up for her leaving.
For a long time Mia kept asking when Mommy was coming back.
” That pain is still raw. I’m not sure that wound will ever stop aching.
“Broke my heart over and over again every single day.”
“I’m so sorry,” Isla says gently. “Of course it would.” She pauses and takes a breath, like she’s gearing up to ask something hard. “Has she ever come back? Seen her at all?”
My chest tightens like a vise, but the pain’s not for me. It’s for Mia, whose mother doesn’t choose to see her. “Nope.”
Isla’s eyes shine as she covers my hand with hers. “I understand now why Christmas is hard for you. I’m sorry I pushed you to try to embrace it more.”
Ah, hell. I can’t let her shoulder an ounce of blame.
“Isla, I own my grump. It’s not on you. And you did nothing wrong by pushing me.
Hell, my own daughter pushes me every damn day for the month of Christmas,” I say, but there’s affection in my tone again.
How could there not be when I talk about the person who’s the center of my world?
“She does love it,” Isla says with affection for Mia too.
“She even likes pears,” I say with a scoff. “Don’t know how that happened.”
She holds my hand tighter but doesn’t take the sarcasm bait. “Thank you for telling me all that. For being open. I know that wasn’t easy.”
My stomach churns. It wasn’t easy. It was hard—borderline awful—to share the heartbreak.
But it sure feels like it qualifies as vulnerability homework after all.
I’m kind of surprised I had it in me. Then again, Isla has a habit of surprising me and motivating me to do things I didn’t think I’d do.
I grunt out a “You’re welcome,” since I don’t know what else to say.
We’re quiet for a beat in the chilly night air, the lights twinkling above us, the quiet wrapping around us.
In the distance, I hear faint sounds from the town—the rumble of cars.
The muted noise from patrons leaving bars.
The click of shoes far off. But here, it’s like we’re in our own secret date land, and that’s a good thing.
It’s also part of the problem. But maybe, just maybe, I have a solution.
First, a little more honesty. A little vulnerability. “I meant it when I said you didn’t fail. I’m honestly not sure you stood a chance of succeeding with me.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means…I’m difficult.”
Her mouth parts in feigned shock. “You? Difficult?”
But I keep going, practicing more honesty since she gives it and she deserves it. “And it means I’ve been a pain in the ass.”
“Noooo.”
“And it means I’ve tried to sabotage all your efforts.”
“I had no idea.”
“And some of that is because I meant it when I said I’ve been fighting this for more than a year.”
She freezes, her cup halfway to her mouth, maybe digesting that bit. “Really? That wasn’t just—”
“A line?”
“Well, yeah.”
I lean closer, catching a hint of her cherry scent that electrifies me.
“Trust me, snow angel, I’ve tried to ignore this…
crush. You’re my agent’s sister. He’s my best friend and he knows I’m damaged goods, but he also wants me to find romance again,” I say, shuddering at the thought of all the hope my buddy has for me in the love department.
“But I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want me to be…
testing that out with his sister. He knows you’ve been hurt too. ”
Isla nods, a sad smile coasting across her lips. “You’re right. He wants you to find someone again, but he also knows it might take time. Trying and failing. Meeting someone and then…it not working out. But trying again.”
I don’t want to hurt her either. I’d have to beat myself up if I so much as ever made her shed a tear.
But where there’s a will there’s a way. Or really, when there’s an opening on the ice, you take it. You just fucking take it.
Like I’m gearing up to protect the net, I steal the puck, then fly down the ice. “That’s why I need to fire you.”