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)
“Like a single dad’s club? Except Tyler’s no longer single, of course.”
Rowan seems to give that some thought, then almost reluctantly says, “I guess it is a club.”
“It sounds exactly like a club,” I say with a laugh—a challenging laugh. “Why is that so hard to admit? Because you don’t want to belong to any club that’d have you?”
He shoots me a searing look. “I’m on a hockey team—isn’t that a club?”
“You’re admitting it then? You do like clubs, since you’re a member of two.” As I drive along the outskirts of town toward the tree farm, I adopt a courtroom-like voice. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, may I present the case of Rowan Bishop? The man who pretends to hate everything, but secretly—gasp—likes a number of things.”
He growls. “I don’t like things.”
“You do. You like cinnamon nutmeg lattes, bocce ball, cornhole, falling snow, squirrels, sharing your drinks, and beating me in every possible game you’ve decided we’re playing,” I say as we reach the tree farm.
As I slow to a stop in the gravel lot, he tosses me a gotcha look, his lips curving in a smirk. “I don’t like Christmas trees though. Or pear trees.”
I laugh. “Pear trees? Really? Or just the partridges in them?”
“The pears. They’re sandy and mushy. Can’t stand them.”
“Noted. I will not set you up with a pear enthusiast.”
“Thank you. It’s a deal breaker.”
“Understood.” I pause, then vie right back with him, saying, “Rowan Bishop, there’s one more thing you like—being difficult.”
As I waggle my phone out of the holder, he pushes open his door. Like he’s The Flash, he’s at my side of the car seconds later. I’ve barely even reached for the handle when he swings the door open and offers a hand. “The gravel’s uneven,” he mutters, like he needs the justification for his display of manners.
I take his offered hand, a little surprised. “Thanks,” I say, and when our fingers touch once more, a spark shoots through me, fast and unexpected but leaving tingles in its wake.
It’s the third time he’s touched me since I picked him up, and I’ve liked each one more than the last.
Especially since he doesn’t let go as we walk toward the sign for the farm, draped in holly-laden garlands. A towering tree flanks it, the evergreen branches home to a glittering array of shiny ornaments. A sparrow is perched at the top of the tree. My heart goes all glowy as I gaze at the sight.
“Is that what it looks like in your house?”
“In my home, squirrels perform chorus line dances on all of the trees.”
“And chipmunks sweep up any stray needles,” he adds dryly.
“You understand,” I say, grinning.
“Oh, I do. I definitely do.”
As we wander along a stone path to a red gift shop cottage at the entrance to the farm, I tell him about the couple who runs this place. “I’ve known Kaiden for several years. His parents bought the tree farm when they moved to California from Haiti, where they’re from, and then ran it for a long time. They retired recently so they turned it over to Kaiden. Then I introduced him to Bennett, who hangs Christmas tree lights, and they got married and have been running the farm and the lights business together for the last few years.”
“You matched them?”
“It’s what I do,” I say with a proud smile.
“So, we’ve got the coach, the art museum executive director, and now the Christmas tree farmer and the light hanger?”
“Oh, please. There are so many more of my matches.”
“I’m getting the impression they’re everywhere,” Rowan says.
I pat his arm. “And you’re next.”
He scoffs.
We reach the cottage and go inside, where the scent of pine from candles wafts through the air.
“Hey, handsome hotties. Love the new hair,” I say to Kaiden, who’s rocking a fade.
“Thanks, babe.” Kaiden strikes a pose to show off the new ’do.
Bennett gives me a pointed look, asking, “What about my hair?”
“Your head’s like a beautiful cue ball,” Kaiden says with affection as he runs a hand over Bennett’s shaved head.
Bennett rolls his eyes. “Not the answer I wanted.”
“You both look terrific. How’s the season going?” I ask.
“Can’t complain,” Kaiden says, stepping out from behind the quaint wooden counter, lined with twinkling lights. “We had a busy weekend, and for a Tuesday, it’s not too bad.”
“Considering my husband with the perfect hair made his world-famous cranberry and fake turkey sandwiches, I’d say it’s a great day,” Bennett adds.
“Yum,” I say appreciatively.
“Want one to go? I can make another,” Bennett offers, hooking his thumb behind him, toward their home on the property.
“Tempting,” I say, then turn to the strapping, grumpy hockey player beside me. “This is Rowan. He’s going to help me find a tree today.”
Kaiden eyes him with curiosity. “Do you need one for yourself too?”
“Or a sandwich?” Bennett chimes in, since he’s always helpful.