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)
The stoic beanpole of a barman, decked out in a white shirt and red vest, gives Rowan a crisp nod and an “Of course.”
I hadn’t thought about tipping the bartender extra for an extra-big ask. I suppose I’m glad Rowan did, avoiding a lot of awkwardness. “Cranberry juice and Sprite make an excellent punch mix.” I give the bartender the exact ratios. “It’s a sparkly punch.”
“Sounds good.”
As the bartender empties a couple of bottles of juice and one of soda, I’m doubly glad Rowan thought to grease the wheels. That’s a lot of replacement punch.
The bartender slides the bowl toward Rowan when he’s done. “Need help carrying it?”
Rowan shakes his head. “I’ve got this,” he says, cool and in control. But then he peers at the concoction, hums doubtfully, and scratches his jaw.
“What is it?” I ask, suddenly uneasy. “It can’t be worse, right?”
With a glint in his green eyes, he says, “Candy cane-infused punch. That would be perfect, wouldn't it?”
I groan, but my laughter slips out despite myself. “Do you have a thing for candy canes?”
“I like sweet things,” he says unapologetically, his gaze lingering on mine before he shifts his focus to the bartender. “Can you add a fresh candy cane? That’ll really make this sing.”
The bartender doesn’t blink, grabbing a candy cane and hooking it neatly on the side of the bowl. “There you go. Happy holidays,” he says, sliding the hundred-dollar bill smoothly into his pocket, with a smile that says it’s a very happy holiday indeed now.
As we head toward the table with the fresh batch, Rowan glances down at the bowl. “Admit it. It looks pretty tasty.”
“It looks better than before.” That’s all I’ll concede.
“Admit it. We’re a good team,” he adds, goading me.
I sigh, but I’m not truly annoyed anymore. “We’re a good team.”
After a pause, Rowan adds, “Nice life hack.”
That feels like the height of compliments from Mister McSurly.
“Thank you,” I say. I should leave it at that, but I don’t. “So, we’re friends?” I tease. “You called me a friend back there.”
His gaze swings my way, that too-confident, too-handsome grin on his lips. “Seemed easier than saying I’m your public enemy number one.”
I stifle a laugh. “I don’t believe in having enemies.”
“But if you did, I’d be on the top of the list.” It’s like he’s accepted that fate. Or possibly even enjoys it.
We reach the table, where he sets down the bowl without spilling a drop.
“And that’s one problem solved tonight,” I say, again pouring on the cheer. I’m hoping good humor will help me slip away from him soon.
Rowan’s entirely distracting with those heated eyes and that broad chest. He carries himself like a man who just knocked someone out at a bar fight and has zero remorse. I should not like that look, yet it makes me a little buzzy. But whether we’re friends, enemies, or frenemies, I can’t afford to lose focus tonight. It’s a big one for me. The more time I spend in the orbit of my big brother’s hot lumberjack of a client, the less time I’ll spend mingling and meeting potential clients of my own here at the auction.
I’ve only just launched my own company. It’s been off the ground for a year now, and it’s been a good year. But I want to make the next one even better.
“I should be on my way,” I say, offering a hand to shake.
Rowan takes it but doesn’t let go, studying my eyes as he tilts his head. “Why’d you help, Isla? It wasn’t your fuck-up. Because of…Jason?”
Oh. I didn’t expect that—his earnestness. I answer him in kind. “I want everything to go well for everyone. You, him, everyone here, and also me.” I square my shoulders. “I have an item up for auction. For my business.”
Rowan nods, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Most people wouldn’t help. Not like you did.”
“What else would I do?” I ask, meaning it.
With a shrug, he gently lets go of my hand. For a moment, my hand feels empty, and I miss his touch.
“Thanks for making sure tomorrow’s headlines don’t read: ‘Bonehead Grinch Hockey Player Ruins Christmas Punch,’” he says.
“It helps both of us,” I say. “I want people to remember who bids on Christmas Love.”
He frowns in confusion. “I thought you hosted a dating podcast. Love Unscripted, or something like that?”
It’s my turn to blink. “You know the name?”
He shrugs casually, but almost too casually, like he’s covering something up as his cheeks turn the faintest shade of red. “Yeah, well. Jason might have mentioned it,” he says.
“It’s sweet that you remembered. And yes, I did. I loved every second of working on Love Unscripted, but it took a lot of time, so I handed it off to my co-hosts, and now I appear as a guest host once a month. That way I can focus fully on Cupid’s Confidante—I’m a matchmaker and a dating coach,” I say with a burst of pride I feel for my burgeoning business. And hope, too, since I donated the matchmaking package as a way to reclaim this holiday after my own disastrous romantic crash-and-burn last year. This is my way of putting good romantic vibes out into the world, so that others can find the kind of love that’s real, on the up-and-up, and not full of secrets. The kind of love I’d imagined when I pictured my own perfect holiday. The kind of romance I want to bring to others. But then, a surge of annoyance rushes into me as I remember Rowan’s earlier words. I give him a pointed stare. “Or, as you said, the most pointless thing you’ve ever seen.”