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 gestures to a booth. “I asked for a booth in the corner. Seemed date-like,” he says.
He has no idea. “Perfect,” I say, but it comes out feathery.
Get it together.
But when he sets a hand on my back and guides me through the diner, decked out with garlands and wreaths, I’m not sure I can get it together.
We sit in the booth. My hands feel light, airy. My chest is fizzy. Rowan’s looking at me with something in his eyes I can’t quite make out, but it’s almost a game day kind of intensity.
“Should we order?” I ask, desperately focusing on something other than butterflies.
“Yes, but I know what I want.”
My stomach flips again. I shouldn’t look up. Really, I shouldn’t. Just because I want him to say me. But I look up anyway. “And what’s that?”
He holds my gaze, long and lingering, no signs of breaking it. Then he says, “A chicken sandwich and fries. Can’t beat ’em.”
I laugh. That wasn’t what I’d expected, but something about the normalcy of it delights me. Am I in that wanting to know everything about him phase?
“I’ll do a veggie burger and fries.”
“Want to split a milkshake?”
That sounds romantic. “I do,” I blurt out before thinking the better of it. “Chocolate. Would chocolate work? I’m craving that.”
“What do you know? I like to satisfy your cravings,” he says.
A flush races up my chest and spreads across my neck. My face is hot. “Great,” I say, or maybe I mumble it, since I’m wondering how obvious it is to Rowan where my thoughts are.
When the server arrives a few seconds later, I’m relieved for the distraction. She wears slacks and a red polo, with her hair pulled back in a white scrunchie—on brand for the diner. “How’s your day, Phillipa?”
“I can’t complain,” she says. “I’ve got a great coach for the competition.”
“Fable’s amazing,” I say.
After she takes our order, Rowan turns to me, his green eyes holding my gaze for a long beat. “So you’re going to teach me everything I need to know to date. Where do we start?”
Good question. My head is blank. I’m nothing but a skittering heart and flipping chest, thanks to his hot gaze. “Nice sweater,” I say, since I need to say something. “But it doesn’t seem like something you’d own.”
He glances down at it. “It’s not. But it seemed like something you’d like, so I got it today. What do you think?”
I stifle my gasp. I like it far too much that he bought it for me. “It looks good,” I say, as evenly as I can.
He leans closer. “Just good?”
I draw a shuddery breath. “Just good,” I say, getting my bearings.
“I like to aim a little higher than just good on my dates—practice or not. Let’s see if I can finish with a better than good,” he says, then lifts a hand and reaches for my necklace, touching it gently, grazing his fingers across the mistletoe charm, then meeting my eyes. “This is very, very pretty.”
I’m not sure who’s coaching who anymore. When he lets go, my head is a fog. My chest is buzzing. I try to clear my mind of anything but the competition. “What did you think of your team?”
He tilts his head. “Isla, are you fishing for intel?”
“Me? No. Of course not.”
“You’d never do that.”
“Never,” I say, primly.
He blows out a breath, shooting me a doubtful look. “But this raises a new issue.”
Is he going to nix these practice dates? Say they’re a conflict of interest since we’re technically competing? My pulse spikes in worry. “What is it?”
“Can you still be my Christmas advisor?”
My shoulders relax. Then it hits me—I was freaking out that he didn’t want to fake date me.
I’m so screwed.
“Fair point. I probably can’t,” I say, fighting to return to the way we were—colleagues, in a way. Client and matchmaker. “Since we’re competing against each other now.”
He lifts his chin, giving me a cocky smile. “C’mon. Just a little hand here and there.”
It’s said in a low, smoky voice. A rasp, nearly.
“Rowan,” I say, taking the napkin and spreading it in my lap. “That hardly seems fair.”
“Just a tip,” he says, but I hear just the tip.
Or…shit. Is that what my dirty brain is thinking? Must ignore it. “That feels like insider trading. You’ll have to win on your own merits.” Then the full-blown competitive monster inside me comes roaring to life. “Let’s see how you do against a true Christmas elf like me.”
Rowan tosses his head back and laughs, deep and throaty. He seems like a new Rowan tonight. I’m not sure what to make of this side of him—the charming, flirting, playful side. But it’s time for me to take control of this practice date. “In fact, I bet my team will win.” There. A bet will return us to familiar territory.