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)
“We’re going to a Christmas tree farm.” I keep my voice casual.
The grumbling. Dear god, the grumbling. It rumbles through the car, echoes through the city, reverberates into the halls of time.
“Rowan,” I sigh, “it’s not that bad.”
“I don’t want a tree,” he says flatly.
“It’s not for you. It’s for me. I need a tree.” I pause, letting him absorb that before delivering the part I know will work. “And I thought you could help me.”
His head tilts slightly, wary. “Help you?”
“You know…that thing where you put your big, strapping muscles to good use?” I play up the tease as his jaw tightens—whether in amusement or resignation, I’m not sure yet.
He barely realizes it, but he likes to help. It’s in his nature, baked into him so deeply. “I figured you could carry it for me,” I say, all innocent smiles.
Rowan exhales like a man accepting his fate. “Fine,” he mutters. “But only because you clearly spiked this with some kind of kryptonite to weaken me.” He lifts the latte pointedly before taking another sip.
I grin. Hook, line, and sinker. “Of course I did.”
“What kind did you get?” he asks, eyeing my travel mug in the console.
“A gingerbread coffee. My favorite.”
He flubs his lips. “Mine’s better then.”
I laugh. “I’m sure it is. But I like gingerbread.”
“Of course you do,” he says.
“And I’m surprised you don’t, Mister Sweet Tooth,” I say.
He shrugs, takes another drink, then hums approvingly. He’s quiet as I cruise down a steep hill, the Golden Gate Bridge beckoning us closer. “Want a sip?” he offers.
I shoot him a look as I drive. “Is it as good as advertised?”
“Sure is.”
With one hand on the wheel, I take the cup from him, remembering the way he stole a sip of my Holly Jolly Martini. I can’t quite line up the lip marks the way he did—there’s only one spot to drink from, of course. Still, an unexpected spark of pleasure shoots through me from something as simple as touching where his lips had been.
When I hand the mug back to him, his fingers brush mine. His thumb slides across my palm, and I draw a sharp intake of breath.
Does he react though? Hitch his breath? Avert his gaze? Steal a glance? I want to know so badly, but I keep my eyes on the road. Besides, I shouldn’t want to know. He’s my client—not my date. Not a real date, or a fake date. And I don’t have room for romance in my life right now. Not when I have so many chances to bring love to other people—people who need it and deserve it.
We zip across the bridge, the choppy ocean on one side, the sparkling bay on the other, and we wind through the hills of Sausalito next.
“So, a Christmas tree?” he asks. “I would think a half dozen for you. One for every room.”
“Yes, I live in San Francisco in a six-room home,” I say dryly.
“Fine. How many trees will you get?”
“One, Rowan. One,” I say.
“I’d think you’d need one alone for all the woodland creatures and songbirds that gather near your home.”
I smile. “Please. The woodland creatures live in my home.”
“Of course they do.”
A little while later, as we close in on Cozy Valley, we pass some rolling hills lightly draped in white. It flurried here last night, and the rest of this powdered sugar dusting will probably melt away soon. But for now, the little bit of snow makes me happy. “Look! It’s so picturesque,” I say with a wistful sigh.
“Yeah, if you like dirty, brown snow covering your lawn.”
“It’s not dirty. It’s lovely,” I say, defending the freaking snowfall against this man.
“All in due time.”
I sigh. “Doesn’t the Grinch like snow, Rowan? Ergo, shouldn’t you like it?”
“Because ice, cold, and snow suit me?” he asks with an evil smile.
“You said it.”
“Love it when it falls. But then, like all Christmassy things, it turns into a mess.”
“So it’s a love-hate relationship for you then?”
“Seems that way,” he says.
A mile later, a wooden sign for Cozy Valley appears over the hill. It’s pastel yellow with white scripted letters. An illustrated squirrel is curled up asleep in the V. Cozy, indeed. “You probably hate that squirrel,” I say.
He barks out a laugh. “We’ve already established I like animals. They’re exempt from grinchiness.”
“I wasn’t sure if that extended to woodland creatures,” I say as I flick on the turn signal, exiting the highway and heading into the town.
“Course it does.” He pauses, humming doubtfully. “But why don’t they name this place…Squirrel Town? I’ve always wondered that every time I’m here,” he says, stroking his bearded jawline in contemplation.
“You hang out in Cozy Valley?” My voice pitches up. I wasn’t expecting that. He’s such a city guy.
“A couple times a month. Bunch of my dad friends live here,” he says, then rattles off the names of a hockey player from the Foxes, the quarterback from the Renegades, the shortstop from the Cougars, and so on. “We play bocce ball or cornhole when we get together every couple of weeks. Along with Tyler, even though he lives in the city, of course.”