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 wish I’d seen it sooner. I wish I hadn’t been so foolish. So trusting.
I just smile and say, “Any second,” like I mean it.
Only I’m lying. I’m lying and I’m covering for him, and my gut twists with worry as the next few minutes pass interminably until footfalls echo from the alley, growing louder, heavier.
They sound like his.
I should be happy, but the dread doesn’t vacate the premises when Rowan appears on the steps to the patio and says my name. “Isla.”
He sounds empty.
He looks devastated. Jaw set. Eyes sad. This is not the Rowan I’ve come to know. This isn’t even the Rowan I first started working with—grumpy, full of walls, but brimming with sarcasm and humor.
This is a side of Rowan I’ve never seen.
I swallow past my fear, trying to stay strong. I don’t want to assume. I move closer to him. We’re a few feet apart now. “You’re here. I was worried. I’m glad you’re okay,” I say, trying to make the best of things.
He works his jaw a few times. His forehead is tight, lines digging in. “I’m sorry,” he says, but it sounds like he’s biting off something bitter.
My heart lurches in worry. But now’s not the time to retreat. Communication is key. I didn’t have it with JD. I want to have it with Rowan.
“I was worried when you didn’t text,” I say.
With a sigh, he scratches his beard. “I…should have. Everything kind of hit me at once.”
My stomach plummets, like an amusement park ride. “What hit you?” I ask carefully.
He winces, like something physically hurts. “Mia couldn’t find her apron, and I forgot to get her special sprinkles, and then she found a photo of Regina, her, and me.”
“Oh,” I say, heavily, my heart aching for her…and him. “That must have been hard.”
“I didn’t even see it coming,” he says, that hollow sound hitting me right in the heart.
“What did you say?”
“It’s not what I said—it’s what she said.”
I’m terrified to ask the next question. But I ask it anyway. “And what was that?”
“She wanted to recreate the photo with the three of us—you, me and her. Then she said you knew where her apron was—”
“In her suitcase,” I supply easily.
That seems to make it worse for some reason, since he puts his hand on his forehead like he’s in physical pain. “Exactly.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
Lowering his hand, he shakes his head and closes the distance between us, opening his arms like he’s going to hug me. But instead, he sets his hands on my shoulders like a consolation prize.
“I did something wrong. I did.” It’s a harsh confession.
My body turns to ice. “What do you mean?” I hardly want the answer, but I also have to know.
“I thought telling her we were fake-dating was a good idea. I thought letting her in on this whole thing was the right move. Instead, I just set her up to get hurt because she got close to you, and she adores you, and she wanted to know if you were going to come over on Christmas morning too.”
My breath catches. All at once, I love the idea, but I see the problem. “She thinks of me as a replacement?”
He winces, like he’s eaten something sour. “I think so. I can’t keep stringing her along. I’m so fucking worried she’s expecting a new mom. And then she’s going to get hurt. I think you’re amazing, and I’m having the best time with you, and I totally want to see you again,” he says, like he’s pleading with me to understand. “I have all these…feelings for you.” It sounds like saying that word—feelings—is as hard for him as having them is. “I feel things for you—intense things, passionate things, emotional things—things I haven’t felt in ages, Isla.”
That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Because I know what’s next.
He keeps going, running a hand roughly through his hair. “But what if it doesn’t work out? What if I break Mia’s heart again? What if it’s worse the second time around?”
Rowan sounds like he’s on the edge of a panic attack. His eyes are wide, filled with a fear I never see when he’s playing hockey. This is his real fear. That his daughter will be hurt again.
How can I argue with him wanting to be a good dad?
“There’s no guarantee in relationships,” I say, and it’s the same thing I tell my clients. “But you hope for the best. And you try.”
“But the thing is—what if the best doesn’t happen? What if it all goes to shit and then I’ve ruined the holidays yet again?”
“You didn’t ruin them in the first place,” I say, firm and clear.
“I know, but they were still ruined. Mia was still hurt. Her heart was still broken. And she’s finally having a good time again, and I don’t know if I can risk it.” There it is—the crux of it. Romance is just too risky for him. He cups my cheek. For a second, I think maybe he’s having second thoughts. Maybe he’s willing to give us a try. That he wants this no matter what. That all these feelings are worth it. But regret swims in his lovely green irises as he closes the door, saying, “I just can’t take a chance again. Not when the stakes are this high.”