Chapter 54
THE BIG THREE
ISLA
Neatly, I fold the final scarf into a packing cube, then nest it properly in the remaining spot in my suitcase.
I close it, then zip it up at last. Everything I’ve used at the unloved shack has been put away.
I’ve straightened the kitchen where Rowan cooked for me, washed the towels and sheets we used and left them folded for the next guest, and made the bed.
I pull out the collapsible handle of my pink suitcase, take a final breath, and say goodbye to a wonderful holiday season that ended…
with a lump of coal in my stocking. But sometimes, you just have to look on the bright side.
I have salted caramels, and an amazing plant-a-tree organization received a fantastic donation.
That has to be enough. So what if my heart is broken?
I glance down at my phone one more time, rereading the email about the donation. My heart stupidly softens. I run a hand over the note, wishing—just wishing—it were different. But it’s not a love letter. It’s an apology note, and that has to be okay.
As I head to the front door, my friends’ voices echo in my head like a Greek chorus.
Did you tell him?
But what difference would it have made? Salted caramels and huge donations aside, the man is still afraid to take a chance.
Time to move on.
When I yank open the door, I startle. There’s a notebook on the front porch, and it’s covered in illustrations of…hammocks. And palm trees. And waves. It’s teal, like the sea.
I pick it up, my brow scrunching. I look around for the Christmas elf. Maybe Mia left it for me? Seems like something she’d do.
Except there are Post-it tabs sticking out of it, and each one says…Isla’s big three.
Hastily, I flip it open to the first one and the page has the words on it: Someone who makes time for you.
I lift my face again, looking around. But I don’t see anyone. Yet I know this is Rowan’s handwriting. He’s quoting me back to me.
Is this another apology gift, like the salted caramels?
I turn the page to the next tab mark and read: Someone who listens to you.
There’s an infuriating flutter in my chest. A little hummingbird of hope, flapping its wings against my better judgment. I don’t want to be hurt again. Carefully, I turn to the final tab, with a mix of dread and excitement.
Someone who says he’s sorry.
“Well, I guess he already did that,” I say, a little irked. Since yup, this was an apology gift, and I’ve already heard his sorry loud and clear.
Footsteps sound, growing louder, and I close my eyes for a second. The weight of all this hope is too heavy. I don’t want to hope this hard. I don’t want to be disappointed again.
It’s probably just a caroler. A late-night shopper. Somebody walking a dog.
But when I open my eyes, there’s a hockey player sporting a tailored tux and a scruffy beard heading my way down the street, a shopping bag in each hand, moonlight streaming across his handsome face.
When Rowan reaches the porch, he climbs two steps, then stops.
“I know more than five things about you. I know you’re kind.
I know you’re caring. I know you like gingerbread, for some unfathomable reason.
I know you’re obsessed with snow. I know you’re neat.
I know you not only like matching people—you like matching things.
I know your friends mean the world to you.
I know you adore your parents. I know you’re afraid you don’t believe in love for yourself, but also that inside of you, you never stopped believing.
I know you’ve let my daughter into your life without a second thought, and with only open arms, and that means so damn much to me.
I know you want to make people happy. And I know you deserve the best.”
My heart thumps unbearably hard, but I lift my chin and say, “I do deserve the best.”
He’s not saying he is the best. He’s just saying I deserve that.
But he keeps going. “I’ve been paying attention all along.
I’ve never stopped paying attention to you, Isla.
I’ve never stopped falling for you. I don’t think I ever will.
” He takes a breath, and in that pause, I dare to feel again, to want again.
“I was scared. Of how much I needed you. Of how much I wanted you. Of what would happen if I messed it up—if I lost you. But mostly, I was terrified that one day you’d stop loving me. ”
I roll my lips together, sealing in my emotions, because I don’t want to miss a thing he has to say.
He holds up a hand and says, “Hold on. I need to backtrack, because I don’t want to assume you’re in love with me.
I just really hope you are. Since my point is—I’m so in love with you that I’m terrified you’ll fall out of love with me.
And I just want you to know—I’ve listened to everything you said. ”
Did he say he was in love with me? I’m not sure I can breathe.
“You did?” I ask, since I can barely form words.
“I want to show you that I listened,” he says, then reaches into one of the bags and takes out a burgundy scarf with snowflakes on it. “You didn’t have one in this color. I thought you’d like one more matching scarf…”
I laugh lightly, take it, and toss it around my neck.
His hand dips back into the bag and he pulls out three face masks from, I think, a sundry shop—pink grapefruit, watermelon, and charcoal.
“Maybe we can do them together,” he says, his eyes wide, his smile bright. “Probably the coal one is better for me. I think you’re more of a watermelon.”
I hazard a smile, even though I’m not sure where this is going—but I am sure where I want it to go. “I think you’re right.”
But I don’t tell him I want to do face masks with him. He has to earn that kind of fun.
“I brought all this because I know it’s not just salted caramel that’s the way to your heart. I know you love skincare, and face masks, and scarves, and winter, and holidays, and gingerbread coffee, and mushrooms. Which incidentally, I couldn’t find at this late hour. But I even found this apron.”
Bending, he pulls out an apron from another bag. I laugh because it clearly has one use. It’s a sexy red-and-white gingham apron that’s so tiny that it wouldn’t help with cooking at all. It would only help with some sort of Mr. and Mrs. Claus role-play.
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, Rowan,” I say, but my tone is light.
He shrugs. “It’s possible. But I like to overdeliver, so I’m not done.”
“What else have you got in that bag of tricks?”
“Honesty. Apologies. And, here goes—I messed up yesterday. I canceled plans. And I broke it off. But I want to make it up to you. In a very big way.”
He takes a deep breath, then reaches into a bag and removes a Hawaiian shirt and a flowery dress.
“You said you wanted to go to Kauai on New Year’s.
I can’t go then because I have a hockey game.
But if you’d want to catch a flight with me the day after tomorrow, I could take you there for a few days before my next game. What do you think?”
“With you?” I ask, because I’m too choked up to say anything else.
“What do you get a matchmaker for Christmas? A vacation in Hawaii. Since it’s what you want,” he says, then sets down the bags and the clothes.
“But I know that’s not enough. I want you to know I’m sorry for not believing in us.
I’m sorry for being scared. I’m sorry for not having the guts to tell you yesterday how utterly, ridiculously in love with you I am.
And I’m sorry it took me so long to realize—I want to take a chance with you.
I want to take all my chances with you.”
I bring my hand to my heart, trying to process this surreal moment. Rowan laying himself bare on the front porch of…the Love Shack.
Because it feels like that again. I don’t feel unloved. I feel so much.
But I can’t just throw myself at him. I collect my emotions, reach for the lapel of his coat, and stroke it gently, needing some kind of contact. “I want you to know how I felt. You really hurt me. I felt like you didn’t even give us a chance. I felt like you were willing to throw me aside.”
“I wasn’t, I swear. I retreated because it felt safer.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to play it safe anymore. I want to show you I’m a man who loves you so completely he’d do anything for you. Including, well…going Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve.”
I can’t help but smile. That is the ultimate romantic gesture. But I also need to do my part too. I let the smile fade. “But the thing is…I need to tell you how I feel as well.” I swallow past the fear. “And it’s this—you pretty much had me when we started dating at the Christmas tree farm.”
His smile lights up the night sky. It’s big and bright, and I swear it twinkles. “You said it.”
“I did.”
He climbs the final steps to my front door, cups my cheeks, and kisses me—soft and sweet at first, then deep and passionate.
When he breaks it, he says, “I love you. Will you be with me even if I’m terrified of you breaking my heart?”
Tears well up. My throat aches. I set a hand on his chest.
“I will. And I won’t break your heart…because I love you too.”
He kisses me one more time. Longer. Sweeter. Until the opening lines of “White Christmas” drift past my ears.
Three voices. Deep, rich tenors.
I open my eyes and see The Mistle Bros on the sidewalk, serenading me with my favorite Christmas song.
Rowan moves behind me, wraps his arms around me, and holds me as we listen.
When they’re done, I say, “Thank you.”
“And may all your Christmases be white,” they say together.
They leave, and Rowan turns to me with what’s next? in his eyes.
But I know what’s next.
I tug him by the collar and pull him inside.
“Say it again,” Rowan growls, slamming into me hard enough to make the door rattle.
We barely made it inside. There was no point in heading to the bed.
And really, I didn’t want to make the bed again.
“Say what?” I pant as he drives into me.
He grips my ass, his palms rough and possessive, grinding into me, letting me feel every glorious inch.
“You know what I want to hear,” he rasps, then licks the side of my neck, hot and slow, before biting down gently.
I gasp, then cry out. But I don’t give in. “You say it first.”
“Fine,” he growls, but there’s nothing grumbly about it. “We’ve been dating since the Christmas tree farm,” he says on a deep, hot thrust.
And I shout a loud and very, very joyful yes, my head thudding against the door.
A second later, he follows me with a low, feral groan, spilling into me, then slumping against me. His bow tie is undone, and his pants slip low on his hips as he shudders.
“You look good in a tux,” I say between breaths.
“Bet you’d look good in a cocktail dress.”
I smile. “I would.”
He sets me down, checks the time, and says, “Snow angel, come to the gala with me. We’ll be fashionably late.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We walk into the ballroom, fashionably late and owning it.
I’m in a sleeveless, silver sparkly dress with a deep neckline and an A-line cut that hugs my curves.
Rowan’s shirt is buttoned up, his pants zipped, of course.
But his bow tie’s still undone, and that feels fitting.
Very him—the edgy defenseman with an attitude.
His lips are still bruised. Bet my cheeks are still red.
Well, we cleaned up, but we kissed like crazy outside the chalet after he parked.
The fête is in full swing—servers weaving through glittering throngs of big athletes and their lovely partners, dressed to the nines in gold, deep red, and emerald-green.
Music floats through the air, and I laugh, turning to Rowan. “It’s our song.”
He cocks his head. “‘Jingle Bells’ is our song?”
“It’s one of them.”
He touches my cheek. “You do like riding in a one-horse open sleigh.”
“Among other things,” I say with a brow lift.
He tugs me close, pressing my body to his, then dances with me in front of his team, his coaches, the management.
And he doesn’t grumble.
He doesn’t bah humbug.
He doesn’t hate on a single thing—not even when the pianist moves into “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and croons about a partridge in a pear tree.
He sways with me the whole time, then says, “Want to hear my list?”
I’m game. “Sure.”
“It’s the opposite of a hate list.”
“This sounds good. Continue.”
He twirls a strand of my hair between his fingers.
“I love you in this dress. I love you out of this dress. I love the way you challenge me. I love how smart and how kind you are. I love how you taste. I love making your dirty dreams come true. I love hanging out with you and my dog, and my daughter too. I love spoiling you. I love fucking you—outdoors and inside.” He pauses, his breath hot against my skin.
“Mostly, I just love being yours, and I love that you’re mine. ”
My heart soars. “I am yours.”
Then he kisses me. Deeply. In front of…everyone. And that cinches it. I can't imagine a better present than this merry little kissmas night.