Chapter 45
COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE
ISLA
Don’t look.
Don’t you dare look.
Those were his words when he went out to the backyard thirty minutes ago.
“Keep your eyes facing this way,” he’d said, a stern command as he pointed toward the window by the front door.
Turns out I’m very good at following orders. The curse of an organized mind, I suppose.
So now I’m stretched out on the couch, reading a book—but also not reading at all. My mind is whirring. What is he doing? Chopping wood out there? That hardly seems like Rowan.
Maybe he’s prepping the hot tub? That has to be it. I bet he has a hot tub out on the deck. He’s probably planning a soak with some champagne. That would explain the noises I heard in the kitchen minutes ago.
But I was a good girl. I didn’t turn around to look.
My shoulders shimmy as I picture it—sinking down into the steaming water, cold air kissing my bare shoulders, snow on the ground, us toasting with champagne and…chocolate. Yes, something smelled chocolatey. Mmm…I bet it’s chocolate-covered strawberries.
I think I could get used to this kind of treatment. In fact, I know I could.
And like I said to Mabel earlier today, I want to talk to him. About whether this thing between us could be real. If we could try…something.
This night is making me believe in possibilities. And is giving me the courage to say those hard words.
The music he turned on for me slides into a new tune—Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby”—and it’s got a sexy beat to it. Rowan better get his ass in here soon.
At last, the sliding glass door creaks open, and Rowan strides in, looking pleased and purposeful. His cheeks are bright and pink, cold but healthy. He dusts one gloved hand against the other. “Ready or not,” he says, and it’s a statement not a question. I hear the unsaid innuendo—here I come.
“Ready for what?” I ask.
“I made you something,” he says, proud and pleased.
“A pear tart? A filthy Advent calendar? A poinsettia?”
“Only one of those is even remotely close.”
“I knew you’d come to your senses about pears.”
“Never. But it might be similar to a filthy Advent calendar,” he says, the corner of his lips quirked up. “Get your boots and a coat. Maybe even gloves.”
Oh. Oh, yes. “So it’s time to go outdoors,” I say, like the words taste good on my tongue. Because they do.
I comply, carrying my boots to the back door, then I slide them on and button my coat.
Once outside, I draw a big inhale of cool, fresh air, then take a few tentative steps across the soft blanket of snow on the deck. When I reach the edge, I stop.
A sign made from white cardboard hangs across two trees in the yard, reading in black marker: ISLA’S CHRISTMAS TREE FARM
My heart catches. I turn to him in slow motion. “Rowan,” I say, his name full of intrigue.
“I know you like Christmas tree farms,” he says, then gestures to the yard filled with trees. “So I made one just for us.”
For us. Those words echo, hard and lovely in my chest. Full of promise and…passion.
I look around at the spruces and pines, some strung with lights. And—wait—do those trees have paper tags? Like they’re for sale. He really went all out. For me.
There’s also a makeshift table made of three wood planks. On it are two cups of hot cocoa.
Is that what he was doing in the kitchen? Making a hot cocoa stand?
Sugar plum fairies are definitely doing a dance in my chest.
“This is…incredible,” I say, though the words hardly feel like enough. I turn to him, my heart in my throat. “No one has ever done anything like this for me.”
“Good. I like all your firsts.” He takes a beat, then nods to the table. “Want a sip of cocoa for fuel?”
“For what?”
With a smirk, he says, “You’ll see.”
I know better than to say no to hot cocoa, so I say yes and follow him down the steps, then pad through the freshly fallen snow. The world is still now, the sky quiet. But the yard is softly illuminated by the glow of snow and the reflected lights.
We reach the makeshift stand and he offers me a cup. A tendril of steam rises. I take a sip.
“It’s delicious. Sweet and a little milky,” I say.
“It didn’t win us the contest today,” he says with a shrug. But he seems unfazed. Maybe this—me—is the contest he’d rather win? Hope curls brightly inside me.
“I’m giving it a ten out of ten,” I say.
His green eyes flicker with…hope. The same hope I feel? “Let’s see what you give it after you visit the rest of the farm.”
“Are you giving me a tour?”
“No. I’m giving you a chase.”
I gasp, cold air filling my lungs and somehow making me hotter. “You are?”
“I sure am. I noticed at the Christmas tree farm—you seemed a little excited. A little turned on when I was close to you. I thought, too, there was something in your eyes—the start of something. And I thought maybe…you’d want me to catch you.” He licks his lips, like a hunter. “Was I wrong?”
My heart is beating so fast. My thighs clench. I ache between them. I want to be his prey.
I don’t know where these fantasies came from, but I know when they woke up.
And he knows it too—the day we walked through the real tree farm weeks ago.
When I imagined him pinning me against a tree.
And I swear, he can read my mind. From the outdoor patio to the path by my parents’ house, this man has read a book of fantasies I didn’t know I owned—snow and cold and outdoor kink.
“Is your yard fenced in?”
“Yes.”
I scan the trees. The lights he’s hung illuminate them just enough. “Give me a fifteen-second head start,” I say, the words flying out. “Then catch me if you can.”
“You’re on.”
Vaguely, in the back of my head, I wonder if all this effort he’s made is simply for a few days or if he’s rolling out all the stops because he likes the games we play. Maybe he wants them to be real too.
But there’s a time and place for confessions. And there’s a time to run. Right now, I run, through the snow, dodging and darting past trees, rounding spruces, sliding between firs. I’m inhaling the delicious scent of pine and snow and wild thrill.
I don’t know where he is—but I hear him.
His footfalls grow louder. A dangerously seductive sound. I whip my gaze around, my heart pounding in my throat, my adrenaline sky-high.
But my desire is too.
I want him to catch me.
I duck behind a tree. Wait.
His boots grow louder, crunching snow.
Then he says, “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
I stay quiet, holding my breath, until he walks past me.
I let out my breath.
He jerks his head. His eyes are dark, his jaw tense, his gaze locked on mine. “Got you,” he says, his arms darting out, grabbing my shoulders, clutching me.
It happens in no time. His kiss is hard, rough, cold. He leans my head back. Crushes me to him. Devours my mouth.
I break the kiss and pant out my true desires: “I want you. Right here. Right now.” I stop. Smirk. “But I want the kind of outdoor sex where only your dick gets naked.”
His eyes flare. He growls.
I hold his filthy stare as desire pulses low in my belly. Then I drop down in the snow.
But Rowan catches me before my jeans hit the white stuff. “Wait,” he says, and I wobble but don’t fall.
In one swift move, he shrugs off his coat, and spreads it on the snow beneath us. “Don’t want you to have to kneel directly in a winter wonderland.”
“I knew you’d start quoting holiday songs eventually.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Oh, I bet I can get you to talk in Christmas tunes when I’m done with you,” I say, then lick my lips, nice and slow and seductive.
“You’re on.”
At last I kneel on his coat, and he unzips his jeans. I’ve never been hotter than right now, out here in the cold.