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)
Plus, she added a smiley face.
I look at Isla, aghast. Fucking aghast. “There are seven exclamation points and an emoji. You didn’t think, I dunno, I’d been kidnapped?”
She taps her chin. “You’re right. Kidnapping is much more likely than a sudden onset of enthusiasm from you.”
I roll my eyes, then check my watch. “It’s game day. I need to be at the arena in an hour. Another time?” Maybe I can just avoid this altogether. Get out of this whole matchmaking situation, since that’s what it’ll be—a fiasco.
But Mia zips by again, stopping short and saying, “It’s okay. Some time is better than none—this way you can get started. Gramps is picking me up from my lesson, and we’re going to a new make-your-own-pizza place—the one that only uses organic ingredients—so we’re all set, Dad. You go meet with Isla. Plus, you can tell her about Wanda. And anyone you date needs to know about Wanda.” Then, to Isla, Mia says, “Wanda likes girl pop.”
“Punk rock,” I mutter, then add, “also, you’re a meddler.”
“You’re welcome,” Mia says, then grabs another book.
She’s exhausting sometimes, sure. But damn, if her determination doesn’t make me proud. My kid didn’t just inherit my stubborn streak—she improved on it.
After I drop Mia off at the nearby rink, I stop at my car, grabbing the jean jacket I left there earlier. I switch Wanda’s duds and head back toward the bustling bookstore café, scanning the packed tables then catching a view of Isla in the window as I’m walking up. She tosses her coat over the back of her chair and fluffs out her hair. Each small movement draws my attention more than it should, and it’s tempting to watch this snow angel through the window a little longer. She fits here perfectly, her entire vibe matching the decor of the shop, down to the stockings hung on the wall.
Stockings.
A cruel memory flashes before me once more. A Christmas Eve years ago. A gift. A plan. But I bat it away as Isla pulls out that planner again—a reminder of the mission.
With Wanda curled up in my arm, since she’ll be going to doggy daycare this evening, I take a breath and head back inside, refusing to look at the stockings. I’d better get ready for the inevitable dating fiasco.
7
THE UNMATCHABLE
ISLA
Admittedly, I didn’t come to this impromptu meeting with Rowan expecting to learn so many juicy details about him. But I did. Oh Santa, did I ever.
“Someone is a fount of information,” I say as the burly, surly hockey player arrives at the table that’s decorated with a tiny tree covered in mini pine cones as a centerpiece. With an arch of his brow, Rowan sets down a salted caramel latte for me and a drink for himself, all while balancing a very small dog, who’s now wearing a black jean jacket.
“Someone being a precocious nine-year-old who rivals a meddling grandmother?” Rowan asks as he sits, then adjusts the dog carefully in his lap, giving her a few strokes on her head and saying something to her in a voice too soft for me to hear.
“Yes, I learned so much about you in those few minutes with Mia,” I say, then lift the red and white mug and say thank you for the drinks he insisted on buying. I catch the sweet, minty scent of his beverage, my nose wrinkling in delight. “Is that a peppermint cocoa?”
Like a wary dog, he answers with a tentative, “Yes.”
“Rather Christmassy, isn’t it?”
“No,” he snaps.
“Aww, did I hit a nerve?”
“Nope,” he says, digging his heels in. “Just pointing out you’re wrong. Peppermint cocoa is good year round. Full stop.”
“I’m sure you down it during the summer months. While lounging in a hammock in your backyard as bees buzz in the nearby flowers.”
“Obviously I don’t drink peppermint cocoa in the summer. It’s a hot drink.”
“Right, of course. You probably drink iced peppermint cocoa in the summer,” I say, feigning seriousness.
With his chin held high, he says, “I do.”
“I can’t wait to have a drink with you in the summer then. And here I thought you were a—gasp—closet Christmas fan.”
“Hate to break it to you—you’re wrong,” he says. “And I will see you in the summer to prove it.”
This man takes stubborn to new heights. “I’ll put it in my calendar.”
After he drinks some of the cocoa with a purposeful appreciativeness, like he’s showing off how genuine his love for the drink is, he shoots me a hard stare that I bet he thinks scares me. News flash: he’s wrong. “You were saying you learned something about me. What could you possibly have learned in that short time? Other than the fact that Mia’s too smart for my own good,” he says, but he’s clearly proud of his daughter.
Understandably so.
I sit taller and smile like a Cheshire cat. “Maybe I should keep everything I learned to myself,” I tease, then take a sip of the latte—it’s sweet and savory at the same time, and it reminds me of my favorite memories growing up.