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)
Clenching my jaw, I can see that last Christmas unfolding again before my eyes. The blindsiding way she sliced my heart like a vandal slashing car tires. How she left us both, all at once, heartbroken. The pain I felt for months.
No, pain is too gentle a word for what she did when she left. It was hell.
My chest burns. My fists ball at my sides.
“Rowan?”
Isla’s voice is gentle and full of concern. Blinking, I scrub a hand across my beard, like I can erase the thoughts of a horrible Christmas years ago. When I woke up planning to spend it with the two people I loved most in the world only to find an empty bed and a break-up note in my stocking. I’m over my ex, but that doesn’t mean I want to stick my finger in the flames of memories. Or to make new ones.
“Are you okay?” Isla asks.
I must have frozen there for a bit. Stuck in the past. “Totally fine,” I say gruffly, ripping my gaze away from the lights.
“I don’t usually turn them on during the daytime,” she says, in a reassuring tone, and…shit. She’s astute.
I shake my head. “Whatever works for you. I’m all good.” Really, I am. I manage a small, sarcastic smile just for her. “Besides, the torture is good for me. Keeps me strong for the bet.”
She arches a brow in a way that says I call bullshit, but she doesn’t toss out a reply. She simply nods, and after a few seconds, she heads to the driver’s door. I beat her to it. I might be a grump, but I’m still a gentleman.
I hold her door open, but a car speeds by behind us. I inch closer, which forces her to squeeze past me. Her back brushes against my chest, and suddenly, I catch the scent of her hair, or maybe her perfume. Something sweet and tart, like cherries. It drifts into my nose, lingering just enough to be dangerous.
I sneak another hit, inhaling her and enjoying it.
The scent is entirely too tempting, but I’m no longer thinking about why I don’t like Christmas lights.
10
THE HONEST GRINCH
ISLA
Once inside the car, I hand Rowan a travel mug. Steam curls from the opening, carrying tendrils of cinnamon and nutmeg through the air.
But of course Rowan eyes the cup suspiciously even as he takes it. “What’s this?”
“A cinnamon nutmeg latte,” I say cheerily. “Picked it up for you from High Kick Coffee.”
He studies the cup, then me. “You got me a latte?”
“I did,” I say, unfazed by his skepticism. “I had a feeling you might like something sweet, Mister Sweet Tooth. Plus, I know you’re not thrilled about this outing.” I give that word particular emphasis. If I think of this time with Rowan as a date, which obviously he’s saying to get under my skin, my mind will wander in dangerous dating-ish directions. I must stay professional. “So I figured I’d make it more…enjoyable.”
Now I’m even more glad I stopped by the coffee shop on my way over. Yes, he’s a certified grump, but he also went through hell with his ex, and I’m guessing it has something to do with Christmas. While a cinnamon nutmeg latte can’t erase the past, it can make the present taste better.
His brow arches, but instead of arguing, he sighs. A long-suffering, put-upon sigh. Then he takes a sip.
And moans.
The man moans.
The sound is nearly obscene.
“That’s fucking good,” he says just as I pull onto California Street, my smile settling in for the long haul.
“I’m glad you approve.”
“It’s like a sweet and spicy party in my mouth.”
I crack up. “If I’d known you were this easy, I would’ve been plying you with treats from the start.”
“You found my Achilles’ heel,” he admits, but then squints at me as I slow at a red light. “But this changes nothing. Your plans to manipulate me through sweets will fail.”
I roll my eyes. “Rowan Bishop, you are some kind of grinch,” I tease, but the words are softer than I’d expected.
Because the truth is, he earned his grinchiness the hard way.
When he saw the Christmas lights on my car earlier, something flickered in his eyes. He checked out for a moment, drifting somewhere he clearly didn’t want to go. He’s going to take work, and not just a little. But that’s why I want this matchmaking project to be as painless as possible for him.
Hence the latte. And the plan.
“Sooo.” He stretches out the word as I turn onto Lombard Street, heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going in Cozy Valley?”
I take a deep breath. He’s not going to love this. But we have a deal—he agreed to let me find him a date for the Christmas Eve gala, and that means he has to engage with the season, at least a little.