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)
She shoots me a withering look. “Rowan, I brought you the latte to be nice.”
“And I’m helping to be nice.”
“Accusing me of colluding isn’t nice.”
“If the shoe fits,” I say, holding my ground.
But she stares me down silently, hauling in a breath through her nostrils, then letting it out slowly, like she needs to cool her head. “I was calling her then about a plan for a date,” she says, biting out the word. “One I’m sending her on tomorrow night with a restaurant owner. I hadn’t even planned the cookie swap till Tuesday night at your house.”
And…fuck. I’m an ass. “Okay, but can you blame me? You did say you coached her on what to say tonight. The evidence added up.”
She releases another frustrated breath. “I had another woman coming tonight originally. A funny single mom named Kana. But she had to back out at the last minute this morning, so I called Emily to fill in. As for how to handle you, yes, I coached her because I had to know if you were actually trying,” she insists, but there’s a touch of sadness in her voice now too. “Rowan, if you were truly trying to make this matchmaking work, you wouldn’t have picked her.”
Dammit. She said that before, but the way she says it this time, so simply, tugs on my cold heart. A morsel of guilt wedges in there too. Sure, we tried to one-up each other, but Isla was still trying to find a love match for me. I was sabotaging her, having fun deliberately fucking up her play.
Well, I’m a defenseman. My job is to stop shit.
“I’m sorry I accused you of colluding,” I say sincerely.
Isla accepts it with a thoughtful nod. “I appreciate you saying that.”
Trouble is, arguing with her is too fun. I’m not sure I want to stop. Not when I catch her gaze drifting to my forearm as I loop the strands. Interesting.
Come to think of it, she was checking me out during the cookie swap as I was raising those sugary treats to my mouth. Does Isla Marlowe have a thing for forearms?
I bet she does, and I’m going to test it.
Ignoring the million reasons why I should walk out that door, I take one more offered loop of lights and wrap it around my forearm in tantalizingly slow motion. With avid eyes, she stares at me, like you’d stare at someone through a shop window as they make taffy in a vat—transfixed. When I’ve looped all the lights, I take the woven strand off my arm and hand it to her. “Here you go, Miss Christmas.”
She utters a shaky, “Thank you.”
That breathy note is a real good sound, coming from her. It sends a jolt of lust down my spine. I shouldn’t like it so much, considering she’s mad as a viper at me.
Even if she likes my arms.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. I’m aware that while I apologized for the accusation, I also should say I’m sorry for the sabotage. This would be the right time to say it. But something stops me again.
Maybe because I like all that intense emotion from her directed at me?
I’m not ready to unpack that thought, so I pack the rest of the extra ornaments, then lift the box from the table. “Where should I put this?”
She nods toward the archway and the room beyond. “Back of the shop. I’ll load it in my car when we’re all set.”
I head there, set the box by the back door, and turn around to grab more of the items. I’m passing under the archway with that infernal mistletoe hanging from it right as Isla sails past me.
Our gazes land on the sprig at the same time and stay for a beat or two. But she’s the first to look away, with her jaw set hard. “This is ridiculous.”
Well, I can’t argue with her. “You’re right. Mistletoe is one hundred percent ridiculous. Could you say that on the record though?”
Her stare is icy. “The mistletoe isn’t ridiculous,” she says. “Bumping into you under it is.”
But her eyes give her away once more—since she stares right at my mouth.
Well, well, well.
I’ll just tuck that data point into my pocket, thank you very much.
With a smug smile I try to fight off, I grab the box of lights next and carry it to the back. She’s right behind me with the tablecloth tucked under her arm. We set them down at the same time by the back door.
“No one likes mistletoe anyway. It’s a pain in the ass,” I say as we make our way back to the front of the shop.
Fine, my job as a defenseman isn’t simply to stop things. Sometimes it’s to stir things up.
“Surprise, surprise. You don’t like mistletoe,” Isla says, stopping under the archway and flapping her hand toward the sprig with the red berries on it. “It’s beautiful, fun, and festive. Of course you hate it.”