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
I’m a little turned on by what an evil genius Isla is. No. Make that a lot. My mind is racing to filthier shores. I don’t even know why I find it so ridiculously arousing that she called me out, but I do.
Smart women are, evidently, my turn on. And her clever brain is surface-of-Mercury levels of hot. So molten it’s burned down my brick walls. That’s the only reason I can think of for the next words I say: “You’re right.”
A skeptical laugh bursts from her. “I’m right? You just said I’m right? Is this an alternate reality we’re living in?”
“Where I can admit you’re right?”
“Yes!”
I shrug, helpless to resist her charms. “Evidently. So, here you go. You’re right and I’m a saboteur.” I glance around at the coffee shop—with chairs pulled out, plates scattered on the table, linen napkins left next to them. “Let me help you clean to make it up to you.”
One eyebrow rises as suspicion rims her bright blue eyes. “You want to help me?”
It’s like I’ve offered to go holiday shopping or something equally hellscape-ish. “We already established I’m helpful. Now I’m being…nice,” I say, though it’s best I don’t fly the altruistic flag too high. The reality is I’m caught up in her orbit, and if I can buy myself some extra time with her by helping out, I’ll do it.
She snorts. “Nice? You?”
I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “A little.” There’s no need to admit I have ulterior motives. Besides, it’s the right thing to do—help her. No way would I leave her with this mess.
She levels me with a skeptical stare for a long beat. Hell, it’s more like a death glare. The kind that would make lesser men cave. Make them say fine, I’m helping because you’re fucking irresistible.
I stay strong even when she scoffs out a “Doubtful.”
“Try me, sweetheart,” I counter, since her skepticism only makes me want to get closer to her. Seems I am a fucked-up sort of man when it comes to my best friend’s sister.
With an eye roll, she grabs an empty plate with only a few crumbs left on it. We were cookie monsters.
“I seriously can’t believe you tried to sabotage the cookie swap, Rowan. Who does that?”
A Christmas grump? A grump who knows love is a lie?
But I keep those thoughts to myself as she brushes off the crumbs into a trash can. “I’ve been working so hard on this event. So, you’re damn right you can make it up to me. Clean the plates.”
I fight off a smile. Yes, fucking yes. More time with her. “Yes, Miss Christmas.”
She huffs as I beeline behind the coffee counter to grab a washrag, then return to the table. “You have been working hard,” I admit as I pick up the other plates. “But hey, you tried to sabotage me.”
“You’re stopping the nice act already?” she asks as she marches to the counter.
“I’m still helping,” I say, wiping down the crumbs and catching them in the rag.
“Good. You should make it up to me,” she says as she rage-grabs a silver ornament from the garlands. Mad Isla is too sexy for my own good.
I focus on the task of cleaning, since even if I don’t believe in love, I do believe in enjoying these moments with her. She’s the candy cane I can’t resist.
When I’m done cleaning off the plates, I fold the penguin napkins. I set them both in a box labeled Isla’s Christmas Goodies, the sticker clearly made with a fancy label maker in a festive holiday font.
Because of course Isla owns a fancy label maker.
“Done,” I pronounce.
“Come help me do the lights now,” she instructs as she points to the lights strewn over the garlands. “These colored lights are mine.”
After I put the box of plates and napkins on the table, I join her, taking one strand from her and wrapping it around my forearm in a loop, elbow to palm.
She lets out a long exhale, then deals me a disappointed look. “You really hate this so much? All of this? Even the penguins in Santa caps?”
With her free hand she gestures to the scene of my matchmaking subterfuge, but she clearly means Christmas too. She knows the answer to all her questions, so I turn the questions back at her.
“You really don’t trust me that much? That you’d arrange for a plant on a cookie swap date? That’s like having a double agent.”
Defiant, she counters with, “Was I wrong?”
“Do two wrongs make a right?” I toss back as I twist the strand around my arm again.
“Emily actually is one of my clients. I’m legitimately trying to find her a match.”
Emily.
Wait a fucking minute.
How did I miss that name? I overheard Isla chatting with an Emily the other day on the phone, before we left for the Christmas tree farm. I narrow my eyes. “You were plotting this back on Tuesday afternoon? When you brought me that magic cinnamon nutmeg latte to trick me into liking Christmas?”