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)
That tracks with him. He keeps things close to the vest.
“You’re not easy to know.”
He gives a small, soft laugh. “Truer words.” But as he strokes my hair, he adds, “Pot. Kettle.”
“Oh, hush. I’m an open book.”
He scoffs. “In no way are you an open book, Miss Christmas.”
“Didn’t you send me a top-five list of things about me once upon a time?”
“Didn’t you do the same for me? And haven’t you been recording details about me in your planner? And you still said I’m not easy to know.”
Hmm. He has a point. “Fine. You might be right.”
“You admit it then? You’re not easy to know?”
I consider his question a little more. I like to think I’m open. But maybe I only show people what I want them to see. Maybe I don’t let on when I’m sad or unsure. My mother certainly spotted my own skepticism when she asked if I still believed in love for me. I swallow and look him in the eyes again. “Sometimes I don’t let on when I’m afraid or doubtful. Armor, I suppose.”
He slides his hand down my arm. “Yeah. Like recognizes like.”
It’s a bit of a startling comment—the idea that we’re similar when for the longest time, I’d thought we were opposites. I’m the sunshine to his grumpy. I’m the optimist to his pessimist. But maybe we’re not that far apart after all. Just different versions of the same story—we don’t trust easily. “Maybe,” I admit.
I marinate on that for a bit more as I trail my fingers to the other tattoo—Grumpy Cat, on the front of his right shoulder. “And this one your mom did?”
He chuckles with affection, a faraway look in his green eyes. “She drew it one day. Said it was me. I said it wasn’t. She said it belonged on me. I said, ‘Have it your way.’ And she did.”
Warmth spreads through me. “That’s very you too. A little challenge. A little gamesmanship.”
He arches a brow. “Just like you, snow angel. Just like you.”
I wave a dismissive hand, but it’s not as if I’m brushing aside the conversation. It’s that if I keep admitting how we’re similar, I might like him even more. I’m not sure my heart can afford that. “I love how close you are with them.”
“Me too. It’s nice, and I know I’m lucky. Not all the guys on the team have that. Not all my friends do either. And some guys…don’t even have their parents around anymore.”
I think of my friends too. Sabrina’s family gaslit her. Leighton’s mom left her. And Mabel…well, hers are here, but it’s complicated. “We’re lucky like that,” I say, though it hasn’t always felt that way. We’re still carrying wounds, each in our own way.
I blow out a breath that turns into a yawn I didn’t see coming.
Rowan swings his legs out of bed and heads to the doorway where he flicks off the light. Only the far-off glow from the streetlamp and a sliver of moonlight illuminates us when he returns to bed. “Bedtime for you,” he says softly.
“And you. You have a game tomorrow.”
“I do.” He sounds wistful, resigned. Maybe he’s thinking that takes tomorrow out of the running for a date since he’ll be working. He runs a hand over my arm. “We’ll have breakfast together though.”
“Does that mean you’ll wow me with an omelet with mushrooms and fresh-brewed gingerbread-flavored coffee to prove we’ve been fake-dating, since, I don’t know—the Candy Cane Diner?”
He growls. “The Christmas tree farm, Isla.”
“Whatever you say.”
“You’ll be saying it.”
“We’ll see,” I say.
“We sure will.”
I should close my eyes and go to sleep. Let him get his rest too. But with him here, it’s hard not to look. Or to touch.
Even in the dark, he’s heartbreakingly handsome. Or maybe especially because it’s dark. The moonlight highlights his strong cheekbones while a shadow falls across his chiseled jaw, covered in that scruffy beard.
I want to feel it everywhere. Along my thighs. On my stomach. Over my breasts. I reach for his face, running my fingers along his jawline, imagination running wild. I part my lips, then nibble on the corner of them. A breath escapes me. Hot. A little stuttery.
He leans over me. “Good night, snow angel,” he says, then dusts his lips across mine—a melting tease of a kiss.
When he breaks it, he drags his beard across my chin.
My breath hitches.
Then he moves down me, pushing my cami lower and kissing the top of one breast.
It’s like he read my mind. Or maybe he just read my body.
Might as well be an open book.
I set a hand on his shoulder and push him down, down, down.
Before I know it, he’s tugging off my pajama pants, kissing me through my panties, then easing them off.
We don’t speak this time. Everything’s clear in the dark as I push him closer, rope my fingers into his hair, and murmur into the moonlight at the first flick of his tongue.