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)
“You did bid on the women’s hockey tickets,” I add, since I want him to know I didn’t just figure that out from him being an athlete. I observed him.
For a few seconds, as a pair of latte drinkers weaves past our table, Rowan shoots me a quizzical stare, either amazed I remembered or that I’ve put it together.
“The women’s team plays hard. I love playing hockey and watching hockey.”
“So, we want to find you a match who loves sports and who doesn’t mind a protective man? Just for starters.”
His sigh is so long it could inflate a fifty-foot inflatable yard Santa. His jaw ticks like he’s weighing something—likely concession. “Fine. You’re right there too.”
I nearly squeal. Possibly, I preen. I channel all my victorious energy into writing a fantastically large and unnecessarily bubble-sized checkmark next to the words in my Rowan profile.
“What is that exactly?” he asks, gesturing to the notepad.
“It’s the book of you,” I chirp. “Where I keep track of who you are so I can pick the best matches and dates for you over the next few weeks. Dates where you’re guaranteed to have success.”
“What kind of dates?” he asks.
“I have some things in mind,” I say, then swing my gaze to the clock above the wreath on the wall. It’s ticking closer to the top of the hour, reminding me of what a busy schedule this man has. That’s also one of the challenges in matching him, but there’s no way around it. He travels for work. “Rowan, I’ve checked the hockey schedule, and I know you have a pretty busy month, but is there anything else I need to know about your availability? Anything you have going on with Mia or otherwise for Christmastime that would preclude dates?” Then I smile. “And tell the truth. We do have a bet going on.”
He meets my gaze, but he’s quiet and stony-faced. His furrowed brow a frustratingly good look—the stern, dark-haired, bearded man staring me down. Would he be stern in other ways? Like, after dark. Like after winning that bar fight I imagined the other night. Like, one where he’d defend his woman against a handsy stranger.
“I’m mostly free,” he concedes.
“Perfect. Because I don’t want you to be late. For the suit walk or the game. You’ll do the suit walk with Wanda, of course, right?”
He hugs the dog closer, more protectively than before. “Yes,” he admits, like it costs him something.
I smile at the image of this big, burly man cradling that small, pretty dog in his strong arms. “And that’s another thing in your favor. A man who loves dogs. I need to find an animal lover for you. I mean, Wanda’s the cutest thing ever.” I gesture to the pup, who perks up her head.
“Yeah, she is. Been attached to me since Mia begged me to adopt her.” He admits this easily, naturally, as he strokes between the dog’s fluffy ears. Wanda leans into him, clearly loving the dog-dad affection.
“Seems Wanda adopted you,” I observe.
He shoots me a look that translates to don’t push it.
But we both know I nailed it. I make two more notes in my planner as “Let It Snow” plays overhead and a pack of girlfriends at a nearby table croon the chorus.
Rowan eyes me suspiciously, trying to read my handwriting upside down. “What’d you write?”
“Loves punk rock and his little dog too,” I say.
His expression shifts into surprise—maybe admiration. “You read all her pins?”
“Yes, but you also said as much,” I point out, not unkindly.
He takes a beat, then nods. “Right. I have to remember you remember everything,” he says, tapping his temple.
“I try.”
He pauses, scrunches his brow. “I guess I’ll have to make a similar list about you.”
Game on. “I would love to see that.”
“You would?”
“Of course,” I say, partly because I’m curious what he’d list but also because the more he leans into this matchmaking mission, the better it’ll go. If that means applying the same treatment to me, so be it.
“I’ll consider that my homework then. And it’ll start with…memory like a steel trap.” Funny how the words are sharp, almost damning, but I can hear the admiration in his tone. He pushes back in the chair. “So the next thing will be…a date…with someone?” he asks, like the words are a sour lemon on his tongue.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Oh no. We’re not there yet. I have more data to gather. We’ve hardly spent enough time together. We’ll need another get-to-know-you session,” I say, a little zing rushing through me at the thought—this kind of deep work is why I moved on from podcasting. The show was fun, but this? It feels like I can make a real difference.
“Sounds like a date,” he grumbles.
A shocked laugh bursts from me. “A date?”
“You did say a get-to-know-you session. That’s kind of a date.” He smirks. “Maybe you’re trying to date me.”