Chapter 53
HELP A GROVELER OUT, WILL YA
ROWAN
The thing about falling for a matchmaker-slash-dating coach is that you’ve got a roadmap for what to do when you screw up.
And I screwed up. Big time.
But in my defense—steel-trap memory right here—I’ve saved all of her dating tips in my head. I just need to put them into action. Fast.
Tyler offers to slip out with Sabrina and take Mia back home to my parents. I give my daughter a hug and a kiss on the forehead, and they take off.
The other guys huddle with me in the lobby.
“I know what I need to get,” I say. “But it’s going to be a lot harder than last night, when I ran out to a big box store that had extended hours. It’s eight o’clock on Christmas Eve. I’m pretty sure nothing is open.”
Wesley gives it some thought. “Yeah, you really missed the net on this one, big time. But here’s the thing—where there’s a hockey player who fucked up with a woman, there’s a bunch of guys who have his back. I know exactly what you can do.”
I make a beckoning motion with my fingers. “Serve it up.”
“I’ll do better,” he says—and he takes off.
He’s just gone.
Where the hell did he go?
But thirty seconds later, he’s back, and he’s got none other than Wilder Blaine with him.
“Mr. Blaine,” Wesley begins.
Wilder smiles, rolling his eyes. “Wilder.”
“Yes, sir—as I was saying, we were hoping you could do us a solid.” He explains what we need.
Wilder nods. “No problem. I’ll take care of it.”
The billionaire makes a few phone calls, chats a few people up, then returns. “You’ve got thirty minutes. I suggest you go now.” Then he turns to me. “And good luck. I’ve been there before. Sometimes you have to go big to win her back.”
“You do,” I say.
Then we pile into a couple of cars and head to Main Street.
Wilder called in a hell of a Christmas Eve favor. He asked the shopkeepers from the Mistletoe Emporium, the stationery store, the bookshop, and even the sundry shop to open up for a Christmas Eve groveler.
They stand in line outside their stores, handing out the orders we called in. One by one, I thank them. “Merry Christmas,” I say—and I mean it.
This isn’t just a big gesture. It’s a promise to Isla that I listened. And that I won’t walk away this time.
When I’m done, my teammates send me back to my car.
“It’s on you now. Don’t fuck this up,” Miles says.
“Also, you owe us,” Wesley adds. “We slipped out of the gala to help you. Next year you’d better stay the whole time—with Isla.”
It’s a terrifying thought. And a wonderful one too.
“That’s the goal,” I say. “That’s the big goal.”