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)
Rowan seems to give that some real thought, then nods. “I hear you—you want to give it your best.”
“Romance deserves my best. I’m sure you feel the same about hockey.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re always trying to read me.”
I smile. “Of course I am. Like I said, it’s my job.” I take a beat, blow out a breath and let the vulnerable moment pass. “And now, will you pretty please finally cut down the tree?”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” He hands me his coat, rolls up his sleeves, and kneels beside the tree I’ve chosen. His forearms flex, the veins in them standing out as he grips the saw.
Oh. That’s real nice.
And right now what I want more than anything is what I have—this view.
“Pull the tree gently from the cutting side,” he tells me.
This definitely isn’t his first Christmas tree rodeo. I grasp some branches while watching him work.
He sets the blade against the trunk and cuts with clean, efficient strokes—no wasted effort, no hesitation. The rhythm is steady, precise. Muscle memory from years of handling tools and fixing things when needed, I presume.
He looks strong as he cuts. Like he could toss that tree over his shoulder with practiced ease.
The scent of fresh-cut pine rises, sharp in the cold air. And if I didn’t have lumberjack fantasies before? I do now.
The back-and-forth movement, the steady rhythm, the relentless pace…it’s a metaphor all right. Lumberjack porn is my new kink unlocked.
When he’s done, the tree topples into my arms. He sets down the saw, grabs the tree from me, and hoists it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
Yes, sir.
“This why you tricked me into coming? My tree-carrying services?”
“And I’m so glad I did,” I say, licking my lips and momentarily forgetting why it’s a bad idea to flirt with clients.
I swear he lifts it a little higher. Like he’s showboating for me. Letting me enjoy the view once more.
I carry his coat and the saw as we march back along the path toward the farm. “If the coaching thing doesn’t work out, you have a bright future as a lumberjack. You’d look great in flannel,” I say, returning to the safer territory of teasing him.
He snorts. “That’s your takeaway from this whole thing?”
“I’m just saying—I could match you at least thirty percent more if you were a lumberjack.”
“Tempting.”
Yes. He’s very, very tempting. “Oh, trust me, it is tempting,” I say, then quickly add, since I have to stop myself, “it’s tempting to put that in your bio.”
He tosses me a look—sexy, sly, those green eyes twinkling with amusement. “And is that how you’re going to pitch me for all these matches you’re setting up before I’m out of commission? ‘Looks good as a lumberjack?’”
Evidently, that would do it for me. “You’re getting the hang of things.”
“In your dreams, Isla. In your dreams.”
I jerk my gaze away.
Because oddly enough, he did star in my dreams the other night. But I refuse to put any stock in that. Dreams are just your brain sorting through the detritus of the day. For whatever reason, the detritus of my day featured Rowan in candy cane boxers, decorating a Christmas tree.
Dreams are such silly things.
Best to dismiss them fast when reality hits as the day dawns.
But when we’re emerging from the tranquil woods, reality must hit Rowan since he catches a glimpse of his watch, then mutters, “Oh shit.”
12
FOOL ME ONCE
ROWAN
When we leave the quiet Christmas tree forest, it’s like emerging from a time warp. Trouble is I’m praying Isla’s installed a turbo jet pack in her car, since I’m late to pick up Mia.
How the hell did this happen? I play a goddamn timed sport—I don’t struggle with the clock. I’m always on time if not early. But we ventured so far into the woods and—I hate to admit it—I got a little lost in the conversation about the future.
Once we hit the highway, the traffic flips us off, and we’re stuck slogging behind cars until we reach Sausalito. Maybe I can make it home to get my car, then to Mia’s school. But still, I’m tapping my foot, checking the time, and weighing my options.
“I should call my mom,” I say reluctantly, but I feel bad already. “Mom’s probably inking a client right now. Her shop’s not that far from Mia’s school in Japantown.”
“The GPS says we should be at your house in fifteen minutes,” Isla offers, and that should give me just enough time to slide into my car and race to Mia’s school by the three-thirty bell. But it’s a razor-thin window.
“Oh good. Pretty sure Mom and Dad have a busy day, since every day at the shop is busy. Besides, she always helps out, and I feel like a douche asking again,” I admit, which isn’t something I usually do, but I’m feeling a little…frayed thin.