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)
Which is why I played dirty tonight.
Or really, I played to win.
“Isla,” I begin, taking my time saying her name.
“Yes?” She sounds a little dreamy.
“Remember that time at the Ferry Building when you told me you had playlists of Christmas music?”
A curious line digs into her forehead. “I do.”
“And one of them was top ten sexy holiday songs, right?”
“Yes. That’s one of them.”
“You’re not the only one who has a memory like a steel trap,” I say, as the song nears its end. “This afternoon I did a little googling. Looked up sexy holiday songs. Something I’d never done before.”
“That does sound like new territory for you.”
“Very new. I did some date research too. Learned The Mistle Bros were coming here tonight to play. I talked to the diner owners, and they said I could ask the band to play some sexy Christmas music. For you.”
Her lips part. Something like wonder crosses her eyes. “You…did?”
“You said you wanted me to be real. To show up when we practiced. This is me—showing up.”
There’s no sarcasm to cloak me, no frown to cover for me. It’s like putting on a pair of shoes that don’t quite fit yet. I’m not sure I can walk in them, but I’m trying.
Isla purses her lips, like she’s unsure what to say. For several seconds, I feel suspended in uncertainty until she tries and fails to fight off a sexy smile curving her pretty mouth.
“I like it when you’re real,” she says softly, and it sounds like an admission of something more from her.
Pride spreads in me, along with some other feeling, warm and bright. Something I can’t quite name. But for now, I don’t need to name it. I just need to dance with my matchmaker under the twinkling lights of the Candy Cane Diner.
The Mistle Bros slide into the next song: Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me.”
People come and go on the dance floor around us. I barely notice them. Pretty sure Isla’s in this bubble too. As I clasp her tighter, the electricity between us cracks and pops. The air is charged. I lift a hand and sweep a strand of hair off her neck, cataloguing her shivery reaction as we sway to an Elvis-esque rendition of “Santa Claus is Back in Town.”
This is merely a practice date, I tell myself.
But it feels thoroughly real at the end of the tune when the singer pumps his hips to the line about coming down the chimney, and Isla whispers my name in a throaty voice, “Rowan.”
It’s full of heat and longing. Yes, fucking yes. Playing dirty worked. If she didn’t drive, maybe I can drive her home and kiss the fuck out of her in the name of practice dating. Let her feel the imprint of my lips when she goes out with that other guy.
“Yes, Isla?” I ask.
But her hands fly off my shoulders and she wrenches back, all businesslike and clinical. “You did great tonight,” Isla says cheerfully. “Good job. Amazing job. Incredible practice.” She swings her gaze to the door. “I should…go.”
It’s like an icy-cold bucket of reality poured over my head. “All right. Practice date is over,” I bite out as the song warbles on, and I stand stupidly on the dance floor wondering what the hell just happened.
“Yes. It is,” she says, her voice tight.
No clue why she’s brushing me off but she clearly is. She turns, and we shuffle through tables on the way to our booth. She grabs her scarf and coat.
I’m chilled to the bone, and I say nothing as I pay the bill, snag my jacket, and walk her out of the diner. It’s as cold as an ice rink tonight. Fitting. I scan the street, hunting for those infernal Christmas lights on her red car. I’m sure it’s somewhere nearby—then I can put her in it and say goodbye.
“Where’s your car?” I ask, but it comes out gruff.
“I didn’t drive.” She sounds…nervous? Upset?
Oh, shit. I can’t be that guy—the one who ends a date pissed off because she didn’t kiss him. The one who thinks she owes him something for a dance. That’s not me. That’s never been me.
“I can get a Lyft, though,” she adds quickly, apologetically.
I snap out of my very momentary funk. “No. Don’t. Let me drive you.” I sound borderline desperate, but…I am.
“That would be great,” she says, seeming relieved. “The Lyft sometimes takes forever.”
We head to my car, and I open the passenger door, wanting to kick myself for having been so curt. Inside, I’m quiet. I don’t know what to say. I feel like an ass for thinking we were going to kiss—for being annoyed, even for a second, that we didn’t. Who the fuck am I?
I chew on my irritation as I wind my way up the hills to her family’s house. Jason’s not here—there wasn’t enough room for him, Natalie, and the kids, so they rented a cabin.