Chapter 33
THE DATING WINGMEN
ROWAN
This isn’t foreboding at all.
I haven’t had a chance to text my friend and let him in on the ruse when a message arrives in the morning as I’m brushing my teeth.
Jason: Meet me a few minutes early? At Rudy’s. Something I want to discuss.
The back of my neck prickles uncomfortably.
Does he know what we did there last night?
Is he going to chew me out? I try to shake it off—this dumb idea that Jason somehow knows the full truth of what happened—but it sticks in my gut like a bad meal all morning, then as I head downtown with Mia while Wanda lounges back at the cabin.
We’re debating what might happen next in The Peppermint Patrol, but my brain is running two trains at once: the conversation with my daughter and this gnawing sense of dread.
“And that’s how I think they’ll solve the mystery of the missing Christmas stocking,” Mia declares, certain in her assessment. “What do you think?”
I’ve barely paid attention. I’m a bad, bad dad. But I muster an upbeat, “Sounds reasonable to me,” as I push open the door and find Jason waiting for me at the counter by the window.
I steel myself for whatever’s coming my way.
Like the other day, his kids are upstairs, so Mia joins them, and he pats the seat next to him.
“Bagel and a smoothie?” he asks. Is that maybe a prelude to why did you touch my sister?
“Sure.”
“Cool. Ordered it for you.”
“You trying to impress me?” I ask, playing things cool and casual.
“Maybe. Because…” He twists around and pulls up a bag next to him, fighting off a laugh as he hands it to me.
Tyler, Miles, and Wesley appear out of nowhere, circling us. What the hell? Where did they come from?
My stomach sinks. No way can I tell him now.
“Where the hell did you come from?”
“Great reflexes, Bishop,” Wesley says, then nods to a red couch in the far corner of the shop. “We were over there, but glad to see you missed us.”
“Makes it even more satisfying to give you this,” Tyler says, snagging the gift from Jason.
I groan when I see it. This time the wrapping paper is covered in crude illustrations of snow people. The catch? Each snowman’s getting his other carrot blown by another snow person. And the words in the thought bubble above him are: “Now that’s what I call a snowball fight.”
“Seriously?”
“Very serious,” Miles says.
“You made me come down here for a gag gift?” But then, this gift reinforces my fake-dating plan. One good prank deserves another.
You’re not fake-dating Isla for the sake of a prank. You’re fake-dating her because you can’t stop thinking about her.
“Who said it was a gag gift?” Jason replies.
I rip open the paper, then groan again. They gave me a T-shirt—a picture of Jim Carrey as The Grinch with a quote from the movie: “I guess I could use a little social interaction.”
“Wear it today, man,” Tyler tells me, “at the competition.”
Jason nods. “You better. Because that pic of you and your team winning the snowman fashion contest? Fucking gold.”
Call me skeptical. “Gold in what way?”
“People like it, Rowan,” Jason says, completely serious. “The team likes it.”
“They like it?” I ask, like that’s a brand-new concept.
“Yeah, it’s that thing where other people enjoy things,” Wesley deadpans.
“Try it sometime,” Miles puts in.
I smile like a canary-eating cat. I’m this close to telling them right now that I plan to enjoy the hell out of the gala. That I won’t be ruining their good time. But I swallow down the words. I have to do this in the right order.
As a server arrives with the food and my smoothie, Wesley, Miles, and Tyler place bets on who can win a snowball fight, then take off to take their chances, leaving me with Jason.
“Can’t believe you brought me down here for that,” I say, nodding to the shirt, figuring it’s the perfect segue.
“I didn’t,” Jason says.
“What do you mean?”
“How’s it going? The whole practice-dating thing with Isla?”
Your sister’s fucking incredible, and I can’t stop thinking about her.
I hate lying to him, and I didn’t realize how much until now. But at least I can give her the credit she deserves for having put up with me. “I’m not an easy client,” I begin.
Jason snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’ve been a pain in her ass from day one. I’ve put up roadblocks, devised excuses, and argued.”
“I’m shocked.”
“And even though I’ve tried to sabotage pretty much everything, she keeps trying harder to help. I’m learning dating stuff. Like how to open up. Be real.”
There. That felt intensely fucking vulnerable to admit too.
Jason smiles, then claps me on the back. “That’s great. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, then drink some of the smoothie.
Liquid courage and all for the next thing I need to say.
When I set it down, I dive right in. “And since I haven’t met anyone I’ve clicked with, and since we get along well, I figured I’d take her to the gala.
” I glance around, making sure the pranksters are completely out of earshot.
“Sort of like another practice-date. But I’m going to tell all those jackasses that we’re dating.
” I drop my voice another notch. “It’s really fake though, like one of your parents’ Tinsel Takes top picks. That’s only for you to know.”
His eyes pop. “Damn, I didn’t see that coming, but that’s a brilliant solution.” His approving grin disappears though, and his eyes flicker with real concern. “How the hell are you going to find something real then?”
And that went south fast. But I’ve got to be as honest as I can. “Dude, you and the guys got me a matchmaking package. I used it. I don’t want a relationship. Isla and I are friends though. That’s got to count for something. This is the best I can do. Take the win, okay?”
He sighs in defeat. “Seriously? I thought you were opening up to finding the one.”
Have I opened up? Maybe every now and then I start to think love might not suck so bad.
Maybe occasionally I catch a glimpse of what it means to trust someone again.
Possibly, I can see what it’s like to share a bit of my life with someone who has a big, open heart.
I’m also starting to tolerate Christmas a little.
But none of those are the same as wanting a big love. “Love isn’t for everyone, Jason. Some of us are just fine with hockey and family.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then he holds up his hands in surrender. “All right. I hear you. No more pushing.”
My gut twists. He made such an effort. But at least I’m not going to grinch my way through anyone’s gala now. I have to give him something though. “And I’m going to get a tree for Mia. Isla’s going with me.”
“Well,” Jason says, approval twinkling in his eyes, “I guess a little social interaction is doing you some good.”
I wish there were something I could do for Jason to make up for…well, my lies of omission. But then, my putting effort into the competition is something he’s wanted. “Tell you what—I’ll wear this shirt to the competition today.”
“Damn right you will,” he says, then his eyes narrow, and I can tell his big brain is putting pieces of a puzzle together. “You know what? Natalie’s coming by to get the kids. Let’s tell the guys now. I can’t wait to see their faces.”
Funny thing—I can’t wait either. Once his wife pops in, I say hi, then glance toward the back of the shop, imagining the patio beyond.
I didn’t defile it last night, but I did use it after hours. A little minor trespassing.
“I’ll meet you outside,” I say to Jason, then head to the counter and stuff a hundred-dollar bill in the tip jar.
“Thanks for…everything,” I tell the grandmotherly woman behind the counter.
She beams. “You’re welcome…Santa.”
I’m hardly the good guy in this Christmas story. But even so, I nod, and say, “Thanks.”
There are many places in town to have a snowball fight, but the town square is top among them. Along the way, we pass the mayor, walking her dog, who’s wearing antlers. She must be planning to go to the competition right after since she has that megaphone.
I stop her with a: “Good morning, Mayor Bumblefritz. Nick is looking festive today. Any chance I can borrow that to share a little Christmas cheer with my teammates?”
I deserve a gold star for buttering her up.
She gives me a quizzical look, then stares longingly down at the megaphone. “If you hurt it, you buy me ten new ones.”
“Deal,” I say, then take it and head to the town square where the clowns I play hockey with are pelting each other. A few other townsfolk are giving them a wide berth, probably trying to avoid getting hit by a stray missile.
Jason and I stand at the edge of the square. I lift the megaphone. “Listen up, trolls,” I say with all the affection the term entails.
Wesley stops with his arm cocked. Miles lowers his bomb. Tyler nails me with a snowball to the shoulder, and it smarts for a second. I don’t let on. Max is here too. So are Asher and Ford.
“I want to thank you all for your generous gift of a matchmaker. Good news—it worked so well in fact that I’m now dating my matchmaker and taking her to the gala. You’re welcome.”
I expect raised eyebrows. Scoffs. Trash talk. What do I get?
A fucking pile-on. They rush over to me, rubbing my hair, patting my back, high-fiving me.
“Know what this means?” Miles asks when we break apart.
“What does it mean?”
He turns to the other guys, a wicked smile on his face. “It means we’re going to help you,” he says. “Right boys?”
Wesley pumps a fist. Tyler shouts a hell yes. The other guys hoot their approval. “We’re not going to let you fuck this up,” Wesley adds, giving me a most serious look, like we’re going into battle on the ice together.
“That’s right. We’re going to make sure you romance Isla like no man has romanced a woman before,” Tyler says.
Miles snags the megaphone from me, and booms, “You just got yourself a team full of dating wingmen.”
Jason smothers a shit-eating grin.
What the hell have I done?
And the answer is…I’ve become a dating experiment.
I’m here at the sledding hill with Wesley, Miles, Tyler, Max, Asher, and Ford before the day’s contest begins.
“First,” Wesley says, rubbing his palms together, “no matter how her team does, you’re going to go up to Isla and say, ‘You did great, sweetie-pie.’”
I sneer. “That is not my nickname for her.”
“Well, you have one, don’t you?” Miles asks, hands on hips, staring at me like I damn well better have a nickname.
Snow angel. “Yes. And I’m not telling you guys what it is.”
As he turns to the others, Miles makes a show of rubbing his fingers together. “Told you he did. Pay up.”
I heave a sigh. “You bet on me having one?”
Miles grins. “Course we did. They said you wouldn’t. I had faith in you.”
“Assholes,” I mutter as the others press bills into Miles’s outstretched hand.
Once he’s collected, Tyler says, “Then you’re going to want to give her a kiss on the cheek.”
I roll my eyes. “No shit.”
Tyler snorts. “Don’t act like you knew that.”
“I’m not a rookie when it comes to dating,” I argue.
The sounds they make in response is like a horse laughing. Why did I think I was getting the last laugh? These guys are going to have a field day with me.
Like a coach prepping a boxer, Miles squeezes my shoulder. “Kiss on the cheek. Cute nickname. Squeeze her hand. Support her. You’ve got this.”
“And don’t forget,” Ford adds, “women love a little public affection.”
I picture Isla last night on the patio. That’s not the kind of PDA Ford means, but he’s not wrong. She’s got a bit of a danger kink. A let’s-get-it-on-where-we-might-get-caught kind of streak. Is that public affection? Technically. And I’ll take it. Oh yes, I will.
“Check, check, check, check,” I say, then take a breath. So far, Isla and I have been a private thing—stolen kisses and red-hot encounters. Now we’re leveling up with a public show.
But it’s no big deal. I just have to fake-kiss my fake girlfriend in front of my very real teammates and half the town like I mean it.
When Isla arrives with the other Sugar Plum Ladies, I stride over to her at the bottom of the hill, clear my throat, and say, “Hey, you,” with the utmost affection. I say it so warmly, so sweetly, and so clearly besotted that she tilts her head, perhaps a little thrown.
“Rowan?”
Was that too sweet? Too ungrumpy? Well, she’ll have to get used to the new public me.
“Just wanted to wish you luck,” I say, then I drop a kiss to her cheek.
She flinches for a second, but it’s fleeting. Then her breath catches. “Oh,” she whispers, clearly caught off guard—but liking it.
I linger for a beat. Or two. Or three. Savoring the cherry scent of her, the crisp air, and, most of all—the freedom. The fucking fake-dating freedom.
I should have thought of this sooner. But I’m so glad I have now. This is great. The chance to enjoy as much of her as I can while we’re playing this faking-it game.
When we break apart, I say, “You’re going to do great today.”
“Thanks. Good luck to you too.”
I’m about to walk away when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Miles miming holding hands—by clasping his own hands together like an idiot.
I scratch my cheek with my middle finger, then turn back to Isla, reach for her hand, and give it a squeeze. “Rooting for you,” I say. And I’m about to say snow angel, but that feels too private. So I improvise. “Sunshine.”
Because that’s her. That’s my fake girlfriend.
“You too…grinch,” she says, getting into the act.
I walk back to our spot, and the guys are giving quiet fist pumps.
Fine. They might be right with their advice. But I’m still going to kill them when the gala is over. That’s a promise.