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)
It’s the sound he made the first night at the bar. The same one at the bookstore.
And—I realize, as my pulse speeds—I like the sound. A lot.
The only solution is to toss a barb back at him. “It’ll be tough though, since you don’t even know what I want in a date.”
“Tell me then,” he says, surprising me.
I didn’t expect him to actually ask. Or really, demand. While I could give him a flippant answer, like I want someone tall, ripped, and opinionated, I opt for the unvarnished truth. It’ll make it easier for him to be truthful with me if I am with him. “I’m not looking for romance right now, but if I were, my big three are…someone who makes time for me, listens to me, and isn’t afraid to say he’s sorry.”
Basically, the opposite of my ex. I keep that part to myself though. I’m not sure I’m ready to be that vulnerable, with Rowan or anyone.
He nods thoughtfully, seeming to take that in. “You deserve that,” he says, a plain and simple answer.
“Thanks,” I say, and he holds my gaze for a few more seconds, his eyes pensive.
Until, an evil smile takes over. “If he’s all those things, plus he reeks of old sneakers and chews like a cow, and clips his toenails on planes, you’d still want him?”
I narrow my eyes. “You really are going to make me pay if you have to find a date for me, aren’t you?”
He steps closer and runs a fingertip down my nose—light, teasing, but somehow devastating. My stomach flips from that simple touch, and I roll my lips together to seal in a soft sigh. “But I thought there wasn’t a chance you would lose,” he murmurs, his voice a low, smoky whisper.
A shiver races through me. Again. Images of him pinning me against a tree touch down. Then against the snow.
Shake it off, Isla. Shake it off.
I square my shoulders, trying to steady my racing heart. “Oh, I’m going to win, Rowan. I’m so going to win.”
And if I’m going to win, I need more data—which is exactly why I’m here with him at this tree farm. To get to know him better and then ace the matchmaking. I’m pretty sure I’m going to pick the tree across from me—with its lush branches and proud height—but I need a few key details about Rowan to make my matches fast. So rather than grabbing the tree and going, I say, “But don’t try to trick me again. I want to get to know you more. Have you ever thought about life after hockey?”
He shudders, like he’s in a horror movie. “Why would you say such an awful thing? Life after hockey? You’re mean.”
I smile. “You really love what you do, don’t you?”
“Don’t you?”
“Absolutely addicted to it.”
“Same here,” he says.
“But don’t you have to think about it?” I press. “What comes next?”
“Woman, have you ever met a topic you can leave alone?”
“No. Especially when I see that it’s kind of a sore spot for you,” I say, sensing something there—something worth exploring. Sore spots often cover up our raw emotions. And if I want to find this man everlasting love, it’s best if I know the good, the bad, and the sore spots.
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t have sore spots.”
“Seriously, Rowan. If you really don’t want to talk about it, fine, I respect that. But it does make me curious. It’s something I think about a lot. It’s something that comes up with Jason all the time. When he talks about what’s going on with his business and his clients, planning for the future is inevitable.” I pause, then add, a bit more gently, “Surely it’s something that’s crossed your mind.”
His expression hardens. “Are you saying it’s time for me to hang up my skates?”
I crack up. “I am not critiquing your hockey skills. Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re one of the top defenders in the league, aren’t you? You’ll play forever.”
“That’s the goal. Or at least forever in hockey years.”
“Let’s say you play until you’re forty, which is what—fifteen years away?”
His gaze cuts to me, and he’s clearly unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m twenty-five with a nine-year-old.”
I laugh. “Okay, fine. But really—is there life after hockey for you?” My voice softens, a little more vulnerable. I want him to know I appreciate that this isn’t an easy thing to discuss. “Is it hard for you to think about?”
He exhales. “Yeah. Honestly, it kind of is.”
I stay quiet, letting him speak.
“I mean, you dedicate your whole life to this,” he continues against the backdrop of endless trees, a thin blanket of white, and all this stillness. “You put on skates when you’re three or four. You start learning how to skate backward, how to shoot, how to pass.” He mimes swinging a stick. “Then you spend the next fifteen years perfecting it—through juniors, through college. And if you’re lucky—if you’re good, if you’re elite—you get to play in the NHL. And you hope it’s not just for a game. You hope it’s for a season. Then another one. And then another.”