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)
Easy-peasy. I’ll let him know the plan soon enough.
I arrive at the bakery a few minutes early, and when I push open the door, my gaze lands immediately on a man seated at a white wooden table. A man with floppy hair, the kind that makes him look like a European poet. His glasses add to the academic look, and the dimple makes him look friendly. His head’s bent over a book. Points for that too. If he were a client, I could set him up just like that.
It’s a game I play with myself, but as I imagine options for him, my gaze snaps to another man with a beard, haunting green eyes, and arms I want to feel wrapped around me.
I’m not surprised he’s here—with the team wanting players involved in the festivities, it just makes sense. What surprises me is the intensity of my reaction. My stomach swoops. My chest flutters. My pulse spikes.
The second his gaze lands on me, Rowan’s up and out of his chair, striding to the door with that same fire in his eyes I’ve seen on the ice. That laser focus, that winning determination—he’s channeling it now, and for some reason, it’s aimed at me.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks, already reaching for my elbow to guide me out of the bakery.
Okay.
This shouldn’t be hot.
Really, it shouldn’t.
And yet—it very much is.
“What’s going on?” I ask once we’re outside.
“I’ve got secret intel,” he says, his eyes imploring now, his tone passionate. “And I need your help.”
A plea for help? That’s so unlike him. “Sure. What is it? Want me to hang some lights at your house? Decorate a tree? Make gingerbread? I’m your gal.”
“I knew you’d be the right person. It’s about the competition. They’re changing the rules,” he says in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone.
“Okay…but how does that affect us? I’m not competing,” I say, starting to get wary. “Is the mayor going to ask me to? Because if so, I’m going to need to practice my snowball throwing. Probably also snowman decorating. Maybe even cookie baking,” I ramble, already psyching myself up. “But I can do this. I can totally do this.”
A rare smile shifts his lips. “Of course you can. But actually, I was wondering if you could help me with the competition. I was asked to help coach a team. Evidently, the organizers are adding coaches for each team to make the event an even bigger deal or something.” Normally, I’d expect Rowan to snort out a bah humbug with a side of Christmas derision. Instead, he says, “And I was wondering if I could enlist you to be my…special Christmas advisor.”
Something inside me lights up. There’s never been a better title in all the land. “I’d love to.”
“Thank you. I definitely need the help,” he adds, but when I come down from the holiday high, something still isn’t quite sitting right with me.
I narrow my eyes his way. “Where is Rowan, and what have you done with him?”
He taps his chest. “I’m right here.”
But—wait. Is he wearing…? I tilt my head, studying his sweater, or as much as I can see of it. “Rowan. What is that?”
He reaches for the lapels of his peacoat. “This? Just a coat.”
“No. Under it.”
“Oh, check this out. My teammates got it for me,” he says, amused.
He parts the coat, and I burst out laughing, pointing at him. “You’re wearing a Christmas sweater.”
Not just any Christmas sweater. It’s raunchy and ridiculous—Santa kneeling by a tree, setting down a gift, his pants riding low enough to reveal a black thong. He mentioned something about Santa’s ass and a thong the other night. I guess he meant this sweater.
“This is…so not you,” I say.
“Maybe it’s the new me,” he says. “The Evergreen Falls me.”
I’m not sold, even though I do like this side of him. “Really? You’re trying on a whole new personality for December? Soon you’re going to tell me you want a pear tart.”
“That won’t happen. But you can’t fault a guy for trying, can you? I’m just trying to get into the spirit. You did say I should try harder at dating.”
Maybe he’s turning over a new mistletoe leaf. “I like the sound of that,” I say—hesitant, but hopeful.
“Also, I got you a gingerbread coffee.” He nods toward the bakery.
“You did?”
“The flavored coffee. You like it, right?”
“Yes, I do. But how did you remember?”
I only drank that once with him—the day we went to the Christmas tree farm. “You told me it’s your favorite,” he says.
“It is,” I say, touched.
“And to think, we’re not even on our practice date yet.”
“Speaking of, why don’t we just go to the Candy Cane Diner tonight?”
With a smile that’s damn near dazzling—is this Rowan? Does he smile like that? With so much sunshine?—he says, “Sounds perfect.”