Chapter 43 #2
She looks to Eloise, then Aurora. “Bourbon. Good choice. But how is it without?”
“Try it,” Aurora says, reaching for the liquor-free one.
The mayor takes that cup, then knocks some back. “Mmm. It’s not too sweet.”
It’s just right, I want to shout.
But it’s also designed for the mayor’s taste buds. Aurora knew from the mayor’s visits to the bakery that she favored dark chocolate. Eloise knew from seeing her at the North Pole Nook and Tavern that she liked bourbon. And the apron love? Well, that’s just good sense.
Or really, it’s teamwork.
And it pays off, since a little later, she declares us the winners of the Cocoa and Cocktails competition.
Rowan’s team doesn’t even place.
And honestly, I might gloat this time. I just might.
As I wind up the switchbacks to Rowan’s cabin, the clouds hang lower in the early evening sky. A faint tint of orange rings them.
I steal a glance at the snowball cookies in the Tupperware container on the passenger seat. After the hot cocoa competition, I swung by my parents’ place, and when my mother learned where I was headed tonight, she thrust the container at me, saying, “Raccoons like cookies.”
“Mother,” I’d said. Because she deserved to be called Mother for that comment.
“It’s true. Plus, sugar will keep your energy levels up.”
“Really, Mother.”
“Yes, really,” she said seriously.
“His parents will be there. So will his daughter.”
She arched a brow. “Your parents were here. That didn’t stop you.”
I rolled my eyes, said goodbye, and left. But on the way out, she gave me a hug and said, “I have a good feeling.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s fake. Keeping track of who knows what is making my brain hurt. But I’ll have to add them to the people I’ll disappoint when we break up. At least I won’t disappoint my brother. He already knows it’s fake.
The cabins are spread out here on Rowan’s street, the birds huddled together on power lines and in branches. I reach his driveway, scrunching my forehead when I see only his car. Maybe his parents’ car is parked in the garage?
I pop out and grab the cookies, along with a gift for Wanda, and head up the steps.
Before I even ring the bell, Rowan swings it open, and the air escapes my lungs.
He’s so painfully handsome. But even more so tonight in the cable-knit sweater and jeans, looking like he’s stepped right out of a top flick on Tinsel Takes, right down to the beard.
The whole vibe is amplified by the music.
He’s playing a Christmas carol—and it’s the Luther Vandross version of “A Kiss for Christmas.” The one that’s on the playlist for me.
I don’t want to read anything into it, but I also want to read everything into it.
That’s the problem when you walk a tightrope between real and fake, I’m learning. You don’t know what’s what.
“Hey, snow angel,” he says, using that nickname that does funny things to my belly.
“Hey, you,” I say, and that feels awfully intimate too.
Right as he leans in and brushes a kiss to my cheek, a cutie-pie of a dog trots down the hall, excitedly barking hello. When Wanda reaches me, she pops up on her back legs and bounces.
I waggle the stuffed toy for her. “I brought you a reward for all this fabulous dancing.”
As Rowan shuts the door, he shoots me a curious look. “You got Wanda a toy?”
“It’s like a hostess gift.”
He pets her head, but she’s too wrapped up in the stuffy now. She’s hauling it to the living room, the bright green tail of the gator dragging along the carpet behind her.
I haven’t been here since we decorated the tree, but it’s looking festive and lit up tonight. The lights wink on and off in greeting. He’s even hung a few stockings by the fireplace. Three. I don’t dare hope the extra one is for me. It’s probably Wanda’s.
“Let me take your coat,” he says, and I shrug it off for him. He sets it on a hook by the door as I toe off my boots then sniff the air. A warm, rosemary aroma drifts past me, and it smells like—
“Are you making eggplant parmesan?”
“For my vegetarian,” he says, sounding proud.
“Smells incredible,” I say, then peer around. “Where are your parents and Mia?”
“They’re swinging by the store then their cabin to grab some salad ingredients. Mom wanted to make something special for you.”
My heart squeezes. “Does she…know…?”
“She knows I like you,” he says.
My stomach twists. God, don’t make this harder. Don’t make this feel more real.
I smile back, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. But maybe, maybe that means something? That this could become real? Ugh, I didn’t mean for this to feel real.
“It’s mutual,” I say brightly, though I hope that’s obvious.
“Good,” he says, in a rasp, then nods to a bottle on the counter. “Want some wine?”
“One glass can’t hurt, but I’ll stop after that. I don’t want to be overserved when your parents and daughter arrive,” I say.
He moves into the kitchen, pours me a Chablis, then a scotch for himself, and toasts. “To another chance for you to say we’ve been fake-dating since the first Christmas tree farm.”
Fake.
I wish he’d just said dating.
But I keep that thought to myself, since at least he remembered I like Chablis. “Fake-dating is like hockey. You have to play the game till the last second ticks off the clock.”
“Oh, don’t turn me on with hockey analogies.”
“Puck me, baby,” I say.
“That’s it. I’m turned on,” he says, then we clink, and I take a sip—it’s bright and fruity. “Delicious.”
“Let me try it.”
I offer him the glass. He takes it, sets it down on the counter, then comes in for a kiss. He seals his mouth to mine for several long seconds that scramble my brain, then he breaks it and says, “On you. I want to try it on you.”
My chest flutters, and he comes in for another kiss. Longer, deeper, needier.
When he breaks it, he checks the clock. “They said they’d be here in thirty minutes.”
And it’s clear how he wants to pass the time.
“What about the eggplant parmesan?”
“I’ll set it on low,” he says.
Soon, we’re on the couch, and I’m under him, and he’s kissing me hard and deep as the music plays and the sky darkens…
And hold on. What’s that?
I squint past his shoulder, out the window.
The world has gone white.