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)
Maybe tonight doesn’t have to be a one-time thing.
That thought chases me as I finish the dinner prep. It joins other, newer ideas as I set out some olives in a small ceramic snowman dish.
Isla sighs contentedly, then turns her focus toward me. “Can I help?”
I shake my head. “I like looking at you watching the snow.”
“You do?” She sounds skeptical, and I have to remember—Isla has trust issues, just like me.
“I do. I know you want to help—it’s in your nature. But you’re my snow angel. This is your night. Just enjoy it.”
The second those words leave my mouth, an idea starts to form. It’s just clay right now, shapeless. But there’s something there.
Snow. Isla.
Isla. Snow.
As Isla stares out the window, listening to music, petting Wanda, chatting with me—she’s relaxed. Not making a list. Not solving someone else’s problems. Not holding it all together.
Just being.
What if she were able to do that regularly? With me? What if she could come over and…let go of the day? Kick off her shoes. Know she’s safe. Bold new images flash by, and I’m not at all sure what to do with them. If anything.
But when I glance at the window again, and the snow wraps around us, it occurs to me I can do something for her that I’m pretty sure she’s never had before. It’ll take some quick work. Pretty sure I have what I need though.
Once we sit down to eat while the snow falls quietly outside, blanketing the world in white, I devise a plan for the rest of the night.
I catalogue the items I’ll need.
The tools. The materials. And the opportunity.
Sometime, well after we clean the dishes together, it comes. The snow slows, then stops. “You want another amazing date, Isla?”
“Pretty sure I’m on one,” she says.
“It can be better. With a little outdoor game.”
She lifts a curious brow. “I do love games.”
“I know, Isla. I know.”
45
COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE
ISLA
Don’t look.
Don’t you dare look.
Those were his words when he went out to the backyard thirty minutes ago.
“Keep your eyes facing this way,” he’d said, a stern command as he pointed toward the window by the front door.
Turns out I’m very good at following orders. The curse of an organized mind, I suppose.
So now I’m stretched out on the couch, reading a book—but also not reading at all. My mind is whirring. What is he doing? Chopping wood out there? That hardly seems like Rowan.
Maybe he’s prepping the hot tub? That has to be it. I bet he has a hot tub out on the deck. He’s probably planning a soak with some champagne. That would explain the noises I heard in the kitchen minutes ago.
But I was a good girl. I didn’t turn around to look.
My shoulders shimmy as I picture it—sinking down into the steaming water, cold air kissing my bare shoulders, snow on the ground, us toasting with champagne and…chocolate. Yes, something smelled chocolatey. Mmm…I bet it’s chocolate-covered strawberries.
I think I could get used to this kind of treatment. In fact, I know I could.
And like I said to Mabel earlier today, I want to talk to him. About whether this thing between us could be real. If we could try…something.
This night is making me believe in possibilities. And is giving me the courage to say those hard words.
The music he turned on for me slides into a new tune—Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby”—and it’s got a sexy beat to it. Rowan better get his ass in here soon.
At last, the sliding glass door creaks open, and Rowan strides in, looking pleased and purposeful. His cheeks are bright and pink, cold but healthy. He dusts one gloved hand against the other. “Ready or not,” he says, and it’s a statement not a question. I hear the unsaid innuendo—here I come.
“Ready for what?” I ask.
“I made you something,” he says, proud and pleased.
“A pear tart? A filthy Advent calendar? A poinsettia?”
“Only one of those is even remotely close.”
“I knew you’d come to your senses about pears.”
“Never. But it might be similar to a filthy Advent calendar,” he says, the corner of his lips quirked up. “Get your boots and a coat. Maybe even gloves.”
Oh. Oh, yes. “So it’s time to go outdoors,” I say, like the words taste good on my tongue. Because they do.
I comply, carrying my boots to the back door, then I slide them on and button my coat.
Once outside, I draw a big inhale of cool, fresh air, then take a few tentative steps across the soft blanket of snow on the deck. When I reach the edge, I stop.
A sign made from white cardboard hangs across two trees in the yard, reading in black marker: ISLA’S CHRISTMAS TREE FARM
My heart catches. I turn to him in slow motion. “Rowan,” I say, his name full of intrigue.