Chapter 37
THE LOVE SHACK
ISLA
“Did my parents send us to a love shack?” I hold up a stop-sign hand. “Don’t answer that.”
“Yes,” Rowan says, disobeying me as he sets my suitcase down by the front door of the cottage a few blocks off Main Street.
The centerpiece of the living room is a comfy red sofa, home to a mountain of pink and white pillows.
Romance novels are scattered on the coffee table.
Artwork hangs on the walls—line drawings of couples in various states of embrace.
An electric fireplace waits for someone to flick it on.
Soft mood music plays from a speaker somewhere, and it sounds like John Legend, maybe.
I shake my head. “I know my mom wanted to set me up, but I didn’t know she wanted to sex me up.”
Rowan loops an arm around my waist. “Nah, you did that yourself, sweetheart. I’m just that irresistible.”
I turn around and give him a hard stare. “I see you’re still cocky,” I tease, but even as I say it, I’m keenly aware of why I’m teasing him.
Banter is our language.
One-upmanship is our game.
And I can’t speak for him, but it’s also my crutch when I feel…vulnerable. I’d like to think I’m as good at being open as I encourage my clients to be, but these last few weeks have exposed my own defenses to me.
Games protect me from my fears.
Right now, I have one big, beating fear.
What comes next?
We got a bite to eat after the train, popping into the Candy Cane Diner. Now it’s late, and it’s the natural time for a date to end. Will he say the place looks great, then goodnight?
And if not that, what do I want him to say?
Even as he returns the volley with, “And you like it that way.” I still don’t know the answer.
Instead of responding, I explore the little rental, checking out the bathroom with a simple stall shower, then the bedroom with a queen-size bed, and, of course, a heart-shaped headboard.
I groan. “I feel triggered.”
Rowan’s behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and whispering, “I think your parents are like my teammates. They like pranks.”
Maybe he’s right. I smile, thinking of the ways my parents joked with us when we were kids.
“They once pretended they bought a horse-drawn carriage for us to get around town, going so far as to bring home a brochure for one, and they even loaded us up in the car to go see it before they told us the truth. They also claimed Santa only came if kids made cookies for their parents. And of course, they started all the ‘build the best blanket fort’ challenges,” I say, recalling.
“Mia and I have joke contests,” Rowan says softly.
“Yeah?” I knew she liked jokes, but didn’t know they went so far as to have contests.
“She loves games. No surprise, right? She left out a trail of clues for her book Advent calendar idea,” he says, then talks about Mia and books and puzzles. I’m hearing the words, but also the feelings behind them.
And that’s when I know what I want him to say.
So I say it instead. I turn around, even though my stomach is flipping relentlessly. “Do you want to stay the night?”
I forgot how intimate it is, spending the night with someone.
It’s been a year since I was last with a man.
But I also made every effort to erase all interactions with JD from my mind—not only the hurt and shame I felt when I learned the truth, but also the day-to-day stuff.
How he took his coffee in the morning. What side of the bed he wanted.
Now I’m in the bathroom, having just brushed my teeth, and I’m staring into the mirror wondering: do I go through my elaborate skincare routine?
I have it with me—Mom packed it up. But do I use my night cream, serum, and under-eye moisturizer?
It takes a while, of course. One does not simply rush skincare.
My stomach twists. What was I thinking, inviting him over?
You weren’t. Your hormones were.
Fine, that’s true. But also, I didn’t want the night to end. Now I’m wondering if I thought this through. I stare longer, like I can find the answer in the mirror as I scrutinize my skin.
And I do find the answer.
Rowan’s not the only one with walls. I have mine too—my routine, my lists, my notebooks, my organization. My on-top-of-everything-ness, including skincare.
I don’t like to deviate from my routine either.
But maybe I should tonight.
Turning on the faucet, I scrub off my makeup quickly, pat my face dry, then apply night cream. My fingers itch to open the other lotions and potions, but I resist. Wearing my cami top, my snowflake lounge pants, and my matching fuzzy socks, I pad out of the bathroom.
I turn to the bedroom where I find Rowan stretched out in bed, reading one of the romance novels. He’s already in a pair of gray sweatpants—and nothing else.
I stop in the doorway, questions flinging themselves against my skull. How did he get down to sweatpants? And where did they come from? But before I can ask, I…stare.
I’ve never seen him shirtless before, and the view is outrageously sexy.
First, I laser in on two tattoos, one on his chest, the other on the front of his shoulder.
There’s so much more to see—from the firm pecs to the sinewy biceps to the abs.
Dear god, the abs. They go on forever and ever and ever, and they’re covered in just the right dusting of dark hair.
I want to lick a path from his chest down his stomach and to the waistband of those sweats.
“What? How?” I sputter. “Your clothes. Did you…teleport?”
He sets the book down, spine cracked, and I wince for the book’s pain. “Yes. I teleported to my car.”
“You had lounge pants in your car?” I sound like I’m on helium from the shock.
He sits up. “Isla, I bought out an entire Christmas train seven days before Christmas for our date. You think I didn’t stash something in my car to sleep in?”
“But you didn’t know about the cottage rental, did you?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “They didn’t tell me. But what if, for instance, you said, Rowan, I need you to fuck me right now, and I needed to get you and your horny ass to a hotel right away? My cabin is fifteen, twenty minutes from here. We may not have had that kind of time.”
“My horny ass? Your horny ass.”
He’s dead serious as he nods. “Yes, Isla. My horny ass too.”
I try to say something more, but words are trapped on the way to my mouth. He planned for this night, down to the little details. “But you didn’t invite yourself to spend the night?” I ask, like the logic of who asked who matters.
His smile is smug. “What’s the fun in that? It was better to wait for it. Now come over here. I’ve been telling you you’re worth waiting for—and I only get six more days. Let’s make the most of them.”
My heart plummets from the reminder. Six more days. That’s not many.
I wish I’d stopped fighting this attraction sooner. Wish I’d given in to the obvious earlier. Then I could have had more time with him before this ends. And it will end.
But the clock is ticking now, so I shrug off whatever was holding me back before.
After I pick up the paperback and close it properly, then set it on the nightstand, I flop down onto the love-shack bed.
He offers me an arm, and I snuggle in the crook of it.
But when I get close to him, my senses are knocked out of whack again. “Your breath is minty. Your face is…”
“Dewy as fuck?”
I laugh, patting his cheek. “Yes.”
“Skincare matters, Isla,” he says, completely serious.
I smack his abs. “You brought skincare products too? And toothpaste?”
“Like I said, I prepared.”
“Where did you wash your face?”
“Kitchen sink. You were in the bathroom. And besides, I knew you’d want to climb me again like a raccoon when you got in bed, so I wanted to make it more enjoyable for you.”
I slug his arm. “How thoughtful.”
It’s said deadpan, but it’s also the truth. The man is surprisingly thoughtful. He planned for possibilities but let me take the lead on whether I wanted them or not. That’s gentlemanly in its own way.
“But you want to know what I really want?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Me?”
“I want to know about these tattoos,” I say, then smile. “Even though I kind of already know about them.”
His ink is a stick figure drawing of two people—the one of him and Mia I saw on the corkboard in their cabin. The other is the grumpy cat, the design his artist mom did.
“Ask away,” he says, his voice warm and open, a difference from the Rowan at the start of the matchmaking, and I relish the shift.
I run my fingers over the ink on his right pec, tracing the tiny stick figures with the kind of reverence they deserve. It’s his daughter’s artwork, after all. “So…this one is Mia, right?”
“She drew it one afternoon after we moved into a new place.”
“In the city?”
“Yeah. Once it was clear Regina wasn’t coming back, we moved into the place we live now and settled in, and one night she sat down and drew this. She said, ‘This is us now.’”
Tears prick the back of my eyes. “That’s beautiful,” I say, my voice wobbly.
“Thanks,” he says, a little hoarsely, like the memory tightens his throat too.
“I don’t usually…share that.” His voice is soft, with a note of reverence underneath it.
But he looks away, like he’s trying to recall something.
He must find it, because he turns back to me.
“Actually, I don’t think I’ve told anyone. ”
That tracks with him. He keeps things close to the vest.
“You’re not easy to know.”
He gives a small, soft laugh. “Truer words.” But as he strokes my hair, he adds, “Pot. Kettle.”
“Oh, hush. I’m an open book.”
He scoffs. “In no way are you an open book, Miss Christmas.”
“Didn’t you send me a top-five list of things about me once upon a time?”
“Didn’t you do the same for me? And haven’t you been recording details about me in your planner? And you still said I’m not easy to know.”
Hmm. He has a point. “Fine. You might be right.”
“You admit it then? You’re not easy to know?”