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)
The scent of pine thickens the farther we go, but I catch the faint hint of an ocean breeze too. Is that him? His soap or shampoo?
“I used to think artificial trees were better for the environment than cutting down a real one,” I say, focusing on the conversation. “But then I did some research. Turns out, they’re not as great as you’d think.”
“Why’s that?” He sounds genuinely interested.
“Artificial trees are mostly plastic, and around ten million are bought every season. You need to keep an artificial tree for at least ten years to make it environmentally worthwhile.”
“I had no idea. You really researched this.” He actually sounds impressed, which makes something warm settle in my chest.
“And hey, if someone keeps theirs that long, then it’s great! Totally worth it. But I wanted to find a place I felt good about recommending to clients. Christmas tree farms make great date spots.”
“So you were trying to get me in the mood,” he says, shooting me a flirty glance that makes my pulse kick up.
“Yes, you figured me out,” I retort.
“You and your love of trees. I had a feeling you were trying to lure me to the forest. Have your way with me.”
Images flash before my eyes. Rowan tugging me against him, a Christmas tree behind us, crisp air around us. Then, a new thought lands—him chasing me through the woods before he kisses me. Playfully, like a game, at twilight. Catching me, then having his way with me. Right here in the snow. Outside.
A gasp threatens to escape my lips.
“Or maybe I’m trying to kill you out here,” I say, but my teasing sounds too breathy to be believable.
“Nah. You’d lose the bet then,” he says with that lopsided smirk that wreaks havoc to my common sense. “You definitely wanted to date me in the trees.”
I swallow roughly. He’s playing me. Of course he is. It’s our game. But something about the way he’s teasing today feels different than at the café. Or even in my car earlier.
Like I’m shaking snowflakes off my hair, I shake off the thoughts, returning to the topic of trees. “And, I try to support local businesses when I can.”
“I do the same,” Rowan says. “It’s nice to know the money from the burger, the T-shirt, or the book you’re buying is going to a family, to a person you can actually see—not just some faceless corporation. Like An Open Book—that store’s owned by a woman who lives in the neighborhood.”
I duck under a thick branch, brushing stray needles off my coat as I explain. “Yes! I’m the same way. I think about it a lot—maybe because I’m from a small town, and it’s kind of a small-town thing.”
“You’re from Evergreen Falls,” he says.
I rack my brain, trying to remember where he’s from. I’ve gone to his hockey games. They often say where a player is from…
“And you’re from Vancouver!”
“Impressive memory.”
I blow on my fingernails. “I’m all about the details.”
We resume our pace. I scan the trees again, assessing their branches, their fullness as I hunt for the perfect specimen. One has a perfect conical shape, but its needles look a little sparse. Another is thicker and well-rounded, but the top is a bit lopsided. I run my fingers along the soft needles, then out of the corner of my eye, I catch Rowan watching me.
Really watching me.
I swipe at my cheek, self-conscious, like something is on my face. “What is it?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“You study trees. You research the places where you shop. You know the business owners,” he says, but his tone is even, hard to read.
“I do,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure where he’s going. “All of that is important to me.”
He gives me a slow, knowing smile. “I had a feeling.”
I tilt my head, trying to figure him out. “What’s that for?”
“Because look at you, just sharing all this stuff, and now I’m actually getting to know you better,” he says, a little triumphant.
Deservedly so, since he did just slide in that little Isla assessment when I wasn’t expecting it. “You’re so sneaky,” I say, since his gamesmanship is on point.
“Yeah. Who knew I could actually be your matchmaker? I mean, isn’t that part of our original bet? I get to find a date for you for the matchmaking showcase.”
I hold up a finger. “If I lose.”
“When I win,” he corrects smoothly. “So now I’ll just have to make sure you find a guy who’s into all the same things you are.”
“I thought you were going to set me up with some guy who can’t even drive. Or, like, a dude bro who only talks about fantasy football. Now you’re actually going to find someone perfect for me? I’m excited.” I challenge him with a bright, wide grin.
He growls. Not in a jokey way. In a deep, frustrated, primal kind of way.