Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I nearly choke on my scotch. “Momentum? You think this is going to turn into some kind of rom-com montage? Or worse, a relationship?”
Miles leans in, unflappable as ever. “It’s about finding someone who fits, man. Not just for one night. Sure, we’ll start with the gala, but that’ll be the beginning for you. And we get it—dating is hard. That’s why we got you a matchmaker instead of a subscription to a new app.”
“Gee, thanks,” I deadpan.
“We’re not going to leave you stranded looking for love. She’ll help you every step of the way.”
Feels like jail time. “Amazing,” I mutter.
My sarcasm is lost on them. “It is going to be great. She’s damn good at what she does,” Jason says, clearly proud of both his sister and my teammates’ gift. “And it’s going to work.”
Like hell it will.
Jason presses her name on his phone, and a moment later, Isla sweeps into the hotel bar. She’s a burst of energy, rubbing her palms together with a bright, confident smile that I’m desperately trying to not think about kissing off her as she says, “Gentlemen, thank you for giving me this opportunity.” She turns to Jason and the team. “I love a challenge, and I always rise to them.”
Jason chuckles as he gives her a hug. “This will be your toughest one ever,” he says and ha, fucking, ha.
Miles grins. “We’re rooting for you.”
“I won’t let you down,” Isla says with complete assurance, her smile never faltering. Her pretty, pink smile that I really need to stop fixating on. “We’ll find him a date before Santa can even check his naughty or nice list.”
Right. Sure. Because nothing screams holiday cheer like meddling friends and forced matchmaking. They think I’m cornered, but I’ve got my own playbook. I’ll take their damn gift to keep them happy, but I’ll be playing along when I go on dates. Acting as if I’m opening my heart. But really, I’ll just be going through the motions, and keeping my heart where it belongs—on ice.
I’ll fake it for my friends’ sake, but no way am I finding my Christmas love, or any other kind.
Ever again.
5
A HOLLY JOLLY BET
ISLA
Hold my beer.
Or in this case, my Holly Jolly Martini.
Men like my brother’s best friend—down on love—don’t scare me. In fact, I thrive on the naysayers. Their pessimism only fuels my optimism. Makes me want to prove them wrong even more.
Rowan might be gruff and thorny, but I’ve been in the dating trenches long enough to handle every kind of personality. I’ve matched the eternal skeptics, the hopeless romantics, and everyone in between.
Because at the heart of it, the truth of love is universal—everyone wants to love and be loved.
It’s that simple. Everything else is only window dressing.
The guys are gone now and it’s just Rowan and me at this table in the corner of the room, hidden from the eyes of the few other patrons lingering in the bar.
After taking a dainty sip of the fantastic concoction I ordered—savoring the vanilla vodka and white chocolate liqueur—I slide the glass to the side of the table and flip open my planner, unhooking the red ribbon from the middle page with a deliberate flourish.
Rowan scoffs like he’s never seen anything like it before. “What in Santa’s ass is that?”
I meet his skeptical gaze, undeterred. “It’s a planner. You use it to plan things. Like, say, your day, your month, or your projects. In this case, you’re the project.”
He growls. Actually growls. Then he tips his chin toward the shiny red cover. “And you have seasonal planners?”
What a silly question. “Of course I do.”
He points at it again. “You don’t use a—I don’t know—iPad? Phone? Computer?”
I glance dramatically around the bar, taking in the glittering garlands draped along the brick walls, the twinkle lights casting a warm glow over the polished wood table, and the oversized Christmas tree dominating the lounge area, its ornaments catching the flicker of the nearby fireplace. “Oops, wherever did I leave my laptop?” I quip, before fixing him with a no-nonsense stare. “No. I’m old-school when it comes to writing down a client’s likes and dislikes, crafting bios, and getting to know them.” I lean forward, meeting his gaze. “Writing by hand makes this more personal. And that’s what matchmaking is—it’s the opposite of a dating app. It’s personal, it’s intimate, and it works.” I brandish my favorite pen—this ballpoint leaves no streaks. “You can’t backspace over someone’s hopes and dreams with a pen.”
He shifts in his seat, clearly trying to find a way to argue without sounding like a jerk. Eventually, he mutters, begrudgingly, “Fine, that makes sense.”
I uncap the pen with a triumphant smile. “Good. Because the holidays fly by, and we’ve got exactly one day left in November and twenty-three in December to make this happen since the gala is on Christmas Eve.”