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)
“Now I really want to know the details.”
“What’s Christmas without a little Advent calendar mystery, Mia?”
“And you’re too good at mysteries, Dad. This is from all those cop and law shows you watch, right?”
“Maybe it’s from the jigsaw puzzles I do,” I say.
“Ooh, they sell puzzles at An Open Book too.”
“Always angling,” I say, laughing as I loop another strand. “As soon as I’m done, I need to take a quick shower and put on my suit. You want to get Wanda ready when you’re done eating?”
“Yes,” she says, then points at the world’s cutest dog, saying to her, “You get to go to doggy daycare!”
Wanda yips happily, her flag-like tail wagging like crazy. That’s the Papillon in her, I’m sure.
Just as I finish the second braid, my phone buzzes on the table. The notification preview catches my eye—it’s Isla asking about when we can get together for next steps. I’m a little more excited to see her name than I want to be, but I wish it were about anything other than freaking matchmaking.
“Who’s that?” Mia asks, tilting her head curiously. Pretty sure there’s no need to tell her my teammates got me a matchmaker for one stinking date.
“Just the Ghost of Christmas Future,” I say, smirking. “I need to meet her soon.”
I ignore the text for now though. The clock’s always ticking as a parent. I head into my bedroom suite to take a fast shower. I used to nap on game days. As a single dad with sole custody, there’s no time for napping.
My dad’s picking Mia up after her skating lesson, and she’ll have dinner and spend the night at my parents’ place, then they’ll take her to school tomorrow morning. I’m lucky my parents live nearby. I have no idea how I’d manage my job and travel without them to help raise my kid and take care of my dog. But thank god I don’t have to figure it out.
Ten minutes later, I’m in my game-day suit—burgundy with a black dress shirt—and ready to get the hell out of here. When I walk into the kitchen, I stop dead. Wanda is now prancing around in a red-and-green-striped sweater with a big bow on the back.
Incredulous, I point at the dog. “Mia, where did that abomination come from?”
“Grams found it at the thrift store,” she says innocently, her devilish grin giving her away.
I scoop up Wanda, who gives a little bark. “My dog is wearing a holiday sweater,” I grumble. But at least I’m not cursing an Advent calendar.
“It’s better than the jean jackets you make her wear,” Mia says as she grabs her skate bag.
“Those jean jackets are cool.”
“They have metallic studs and Black Sabbath patches!”
“The Ramones, kiddo! And The Clash. She’s a punk-rock kind of dog.”
“I think you’re wrong. She’s a girl-pop kind of dog.”
“Then why does she have so many cool jean jackets?” I bring one with us to the car, dropping it on the front seat next to her harness and leash, then Mia and I argue about Wanda’s musical tastes the whole drive to the bookstore.
We park and walk a couple blocks. I have Wanda on her leash in one hand and hold Mia’s hand with the other. Warm light spills out of An Open Book and onto the sidewalk, a glow against the late afternoon chill. The display window is full of twinkling string lights and fake snow, framing stacks of books with bright holiday covers. A miniature Christmas train circles through a forest of tiny glittering trees, passing houses decorated with tiny lights.
I despise it all, but I bite my tongue since I have an Advent calendar plan and only a few minutes to execute it.
As I scoop up Wanda so I can carry her inside the store, my phone buzzes again. I grab it from my pocket and look at the screen.
Isla: See you soon!
What does she mean? Maybe she’s coming to the game tonight? Not sure, but we’re at the store, so I’ll reply to the text later.
After tucking the phone away, I hold the door open for Mia, who steps inside, smile brightening even more at the sight of all the book-filled shelves. Before I can say anything, Isla sugar-plum-fairy-waltzes in right freaking behind us.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in tactless surprise. Isla could have just stepped out of a winter season catalogue in trim black pants, a sleek white coat, and a pink, snowflake-patterned scarf. Her smile is photograph-worthy. Her cheeks are rosy from the nip in the air, and her lips are shiny and so distracting as they part in a small O.
I snap my gaze away before my inappropriate crush on this fashionable snow angel becomes obvious.
Mia tuts. “Dad. Maybe say hi first.”
What? Okay, fine. She has a point. “Hi,” I say to Isla.