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)
My heart craters. My chest feels like it weighs two tons. I want to tell him he’s not giving me—or us—enough credit. That maybe Mia’s not as fragile as he thinks. That maybe love is worth the risk. But I don’t think he wants to hear that.
Instead, I lift my chin and say, “I understand. But I also know your teammates want you there at the gala. We can go—as friends. Even though it’ll be hard.”
I can’t be the kind of person who abandons him at the end. Even if we’re not together the way I want, I still don’t want him to hurt more.
He blows out a breath but shakes his head. “I can’t make you do that. That feels unfair.”
Well, this whole situation feels unfair, but I don’t say that. “I can handle it. That was the whole point of…all this.”
“But if Mia’s getting attached, you and me going as friends will look the same to her.”
He has a terribly good point. “Right,” I say.
“I have to man up and deal with my teammates. No more faking it. And no more being a grinch and ruining their good time. I’ll deal with them. I’ll make sure they know this isn’t on you—you did what you said you’d do.”
Because that’s what matters? That I was a woman of my word?
But before I can say anything else, Rudy swings open the door and strides out with a silver tray full of dessert ingredients. “Anyone in the mood for some s’mores?”
That’s the last thing I want.
Rowan frowns.
I blanch.
Rudy quickly reads the room. “Maybe another time.”
I look to Rowan, wishing there were another time—but knowing this is the end of the line.
“Thanks, Rudy, but I have to go see a client,” I say, fastening on a professional smile. “Matchmaking emergency. It happens. But thank you so much. Maybe you can make s’mores to sell tomorrow with all the ingredients.”
To Rowan, I say, “I’d better go. Good luck with your holidays.” I pause so I don’t break into tears. “And merry Christmas.”
I go as quickly as I can, holding the waterworks at bay till I leave the alley, hit the street, and then reach the Love Shack.
I shut the door, sink down onto the floor, and cry.
50
THE FESTIVE-EST DADDY
ROWAN
I toss another nutcracker into the red cart.
Then—what’s one more?
I head down the next aisle, scooping up handfuls of lights. Flickering ones. Colorful ones. Icicle lights. Blue. Red. All of them go in the cart. I grab a two-foot-tall red metal reindeer from the next shelf and shove that onto the bottom rack.
Around the corner, I spot some wreaths. I’m definitely going to need one for the front door. Hell, I’ll need one for each bedroom door. One for the deck door. One for the bathroom door. I count them off and load them up.
I probably need these Mr. and Mrs. Claus salt and pepper shakers too. A couple more reindeer stocking hooks won’t hurt. And this snowman-shaped plate—perfect for serving pancakes to my whole family on Christmas morning.
Once the cart’s loaded up, I push it quickly through the big box store the next town over. I glance at the time. I’ve only got thirty minutes to get Mia, but that’s not a problem.
I slip into the self-checkout even though I’ve got easily more than the fifteen-item limit. I’m not supposed to do this. But then again, I’m not really supposed to slam another hockey player into the boards either. If a defenseman always played by the rules, he wouldn’t be any good.
No one stops me. Maybe because they all figure I’ve got the Christmas spirit.
And I do. I seriously fucking do. I have so much Christmas spirit it’s coming out the wazoo. Just look at my cart. It’s proof that everything is fine here. Nope. Everything is great. It’s maximum Christmas, after all.
A few minutes later, I’m heading to my car where I load it all into the back.
Would you look at that? It’s like Christmas threw up in my trunk.
I’m not only a single dad. I’m not only a super-dad. I am a festive-as-fuck dad.
When I get into the driver’s seat, I punch the satellite radio dials till I tune in to a Christmas station. And I blast me some “Run Rudolph Run” till I’m sure I’ll be pissing Christmas spirit tonight.
“Would you look at that?” I say as I hang the fifth—or sixth?—wreath.
Mia bounces. “It’s perfect.”
“Did you see the nutcracker? It’s guarding the fireplace, so when Santa comes down the chimney, he’ll be greeted by a nutcracker. What does the jolly man want more than to say hello to a nutcracker?”
Mia shoots me a skeptical look. “You know I know Santa is you.”
“Is he though? Or is he a magical guy who flies through the sky?”
And if Santa’s real, maybe he can fix the mess I’ve made of my life. But until then, I’m giving my daughter everything I haven’t given her for the last few years. She’s worth it. She’s worth everything.