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)
“Fine. I’ll agree with you there. Anyway, this guy’s an art history professor. Some smart British guy who loves Christmas evidently.”
My jaw clenches. He sounds horrifyingly perfect for Isla. I can barely take it. “He’d better be good to her,” I manage to grit out, even though my mind is spinning like a washing machine thrown off-balance.
Jason claps me on the back. “Just don’t take up all her time. It’d be good to see her dating again too,” he says, then nods to the balcony to gather his kids.
I’m left alone with my jealousy and irritation as I finish my sandwich, then wrap my hand around the mug.
This Abernathy prick would probably quote Jane Austen while decorating gingerbread houses with Isla by the fire as Nat King Cole played and snow fell softly out the window.
I nearly break the handle off the mug.
But Wanda cocks her head my way, shooting me a look of canine concern. Shit. I can’t worry my dog—let alone my kid. I try to let go of my ire. I loosen my grip on the handle, dump the rest into the bin, and carry my dog as I gather my kid—doing my best to forget my brand-new enemy even exists.
Out on the street, Mia twirls happily, her big eyes checking out every storefront, every streetlamp, every Christmas sign. Seeing her like this softens my prickly edges somewhat. That’s the thing about kids. You can’t stew in your jealousy for too long since you need to take care of them.
Then again, as I rewind the last few years of dating, I haven’t felt much jealousy. Over anyone. My dating memories are few and far between, and no one I’ve gone out with has lit a fire in my soul.
You’re not going out with Isla either.
I really need to shove my dating coach from my mind.
I return to the convo Mia and I had in the car before Jason called, thinking briefly, too, of the hate list my friends claimed I had. Would a world-class grinch do this though? “Cupcake, let’s go swing by the train and see what it’s called,” I say.
Mia whirls around and pumps a fist. “Yes!”
Wanda yips excitedly.
Ha. I’m not a hater at all. We pile back into the car, and I take the two of them to the train depot. We pop out and head into the tiny station. Mia points to the red and white sign for the Christmas train ride, hanging by the departures board. “It’s The Sleigh Bell Special. Like my book—”
“Sleigh Bell Scout,” I supply.
She beams. “You remembered.”
I ruffle her hair. “Of course I did. It’s your favorite.”
And like in hockey, when my vision narrows to the ice, the puck, and the action, I spot an opening in the Oliver Abernathy game.
My lips twitch in a grin as the words your favorite echo in my mind.
22
SPECIAL CHRISTMAS ADVISOR
ISLA
The next day I’m heading down Main Street on my way to the Sugar Plum Bakery for a planning meeting for this year’s competition, which I always love to help with. With my phone pressed to my ear, I’m chatting with Mabel about my mother’s idea for me to go on a date with Oliver Abernathy. I’m weighing it like I would consider matches for a client.
Professionally.
With his horn-rimmed glasses and floppy hair, Oliver has a bit of a bookish British charm about him, and I’ve bumped into him before at the bookstore, at holiday parties my parents’ friends have thrown, and while watching caroling in the gazebo at the Best in Snow Winter Games Competition.
A few years back, he leaned in close in the town square and said, “My money’s on the woman singing ‘Blue Christmas.’ Never bet against an Elvis impersonator.”
“Are they taking bets? How exciting.”
“They aren’t, but we could start our own gambling ring.”
“I’m in,” I’d said, and then we high-fived when our horse won.
It was a fun interaction. A friendly one. So why the hell am I not jumping at the chance to go on a date with him?
Probably because I’m so busy. Yes! That has to be it. “If he were a client, I’d rate him an excellent catch,” I tell Mabel, who’s still in San Francisco. “But I just have so much going on that I don’t have the time to date him.”
She scoffs. “Right.”
“The holidays are my busiest season and with the Rowan project, I’m even busier than usual,” I insist, becoming more adamant by the second.
“Isla.” Her tone brooks no argument. “You know the golden rule of dating.”
“Always have an escape plan?”
“Yes.” She laughs, but it fades quickly. “But the real golden rule is—we make time for the people we want to see. It’s the golden rule of life. We usually think we don’t have time, but you can always make time for something you want. Isn’t that true?”