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)
On the other hand, I won’t let irritation get the best of me. Especially since there’s a bigger problem—defiled Christmas punch. I can fix this mishap in no time.
With my hand on his strong, toned forearm, I flash Rowan my brightest crisis-management smile. “It’s no big deal. We’ll just—”
I break off, noticing Rowan’s white-knuckled grip on the ladle, like it’s a hockey stick he won’t relinquish. “You need to drop the candy cane, Rowan. Then we’ll toss the whole thing and get a fresh bowl of punch.” My tone is cheery but reassuring. He’s my brother’s top-earning client, not just his best friend. “Easy-peasy.”
The burly hockey star peers at me like I have antlers, then tightens his hold on the ladle. “But we’re not punch makers.”
“Well, we can’t just leave it like this,” I say.
His jaw works like he’s biting back some sarcastic comment—or maybe the rest of the candy cane. His green eyes narrow. “So your plan is what, Miss Christmas?”
I smile, knowing you catch more flies with honey. “Thank you. I wear that title with pride.”
“Of course you do.”
I ignore his dry tone and the strong set of his jaw. I ignore, too, how his stubble makes me wonder if it’s soft to the touch, and how his eyes sparkle with mischief even when his expression is stern. Deliciously stern, if you want to know.
“Step two,” I say, “we fix this. Quick, discreet, and with as little public embarrassment as possible.”
He raises a skeptical brow, the scar cutting across one eyebrow arching too. “Because nothing screams subtle like launching a candy cane into a bowl of Christmas-red punch in a room full of guests.”
“Oh, please. No one saw you,” I counter with a breezy wave. One projectile candy won’t ruin the party. Not when my burgeoning business is offering a fabulous item for auction. “I’ve been watching this table, and luck is shining on us. Trust me. I’m a former party planner.”
Rowan holds up a finger. “Or, hear me out. We’ll put up a sign that says No punch. You’re screwed.”
“Absolutely not! And,” I remind him, “your agent would be very mad at you for that.”
Rowan simply shrugs. “Might be fun to see him riled up.”
Men. “Rowan, this is a holiday party. For a holiday auction. And punch is festive.”
“We’ll use red and green pens. Would that make the sign festive too?”
“The longer you argue, the more attention you draw,” I point out. I grab a napkin with my free hand and hold it out. “Let go of the ladle, Rowan.”
With a sigh, he finally gives in, lowering the ladle and tipping the candy cane into my offered napkin. “Fine. What’s your punch replacement plan?”
I straighten, summoning all my sunny determination. “Lucky for you, I know how to make a fresh batch. Grab the bowl and prepare to be dazzled by my recipe.”
“Dazzle me, Isla,” he says. For a flicker of a second, I wonder how I might dazzle him in a different scenario. Then Rowan pulls me back to the moment. “But first, tell me where to dump this so we can move on.”
I blink at his sudden decisiveness, appreciating his willingness to step up. “The prep area for the servers,” I say. “Down the hall, third door on the left. Then we’ll go to the bar, and I’ll convince the bartender to whip up a fresh batch with a fix-it recipe I’ve got in my head.”
“Got it.” With the bowl balanced in his steady hands—and the cuffs on his charcoal gray dress shirt rolled up, thank you very much—he scans for the nearest exit. It’s thirty feet from here.
Clutching the candy-cane-filled napkin, I whisper, team-leader-style, “Go! I’ll cover you!”
“You do that,” he says dryly.
Everyone’s mingling, so we should be able to quietly handle this little problem. But as I step away from the table, a pack of just-arriving guests heads toward me. Or us, really. A flare of tension races down my back. This is not a good look—tampering with the food and drink at a party.
Think fast, you problem-solving genius.
I peer around the ballroom, hunting for a faster exit, but Rowan has already changed directions with the confidence of, well, a pro athlete. He’s heading straight for…the poinsettias in the corner?
“What are you doing?” I whisper, too late to stop him, then turn back to the table. A woman in pearls and a red, faux-fur bolero jacket makes her way along the buffet, chatting animatedly with a dapper older man in a plaid suit.
Rowan is behind me, doing whatever horrifying thing he’s doing to the plant, so I guess I’ll do what he does on the ice—block. Grabbing the list of auction items, I widen my eyes with an exaggerated gasp. “A life-size nutcracker? And his nutcracker friends! That would be so perfect for a front porch display.” I wave the card, catching the pearl-and-faux-fur woman’s eyes. “Don’t you think?”