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)
“You’re not,” Isla says, her tone gentle, but firm too. “Not at all. And I’m sure we’ll get you home on time.”
I’m not convinced though. I roll through other options. The easiest thing is to text Mia and ask her to go home with Tyler or Sabrina when they pick up their kids, but that has ‘bad dad’ written all over it. My job is literally to be there for my daughter.
Isla takes one hand off the wheel and sets it on my biceps. “If I drive you straight to the school instead of your house, we can pick her up together. That’ll save you time, and we should make it, no problem.”
I’ve had to figure out single parenting for close to five years now, and not once have I ever had to ask a woman I’m attracted to to help with my kid. “You sure? You’ve got the tree on the car. Don’t you need to get it in water soon?”
Her smile is reassuring as she says, “Within six to eight hours of cutting, so the tree should be just fine. And yes, of course I’m sure we can pick her up. I’d love to help,” she says as we cruise over the last hill in Sausalito.
I know she means it. I do, but still, some part of me takes over my mouth and says, “But this doesn’t mean I’m going to like dating.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Rowan, just let me do a nice thing.”
Fair point. “Fine. You’re right. I’m a dick.”
“You said it,” she says, pointing at me.
“I did,” I say, and when she zippily maneuvers the car onto the narrowing lanes of the Golden Gate Bridge, I turn to her, stripping the sarcasm from my tone. “Seriously, I appreciate it, Isla. I do.” And then I enter the school’s name into her GPS. “Whenever I’m in town, I try to pick her up myself. It’s a lot for a kid, you know? With my schedule and being a single parent and all. Her mom’s out of the picture entirely, so Mia bounces around a lot between my parents and me. I want to show up for her. I usually don’t misjudge time.”
“It’s okay. It happens. We’ve got this,” she says with an easy confidence, navigating traffic like a cab driver in New York City, making smart and savvy turns, finding the side streets before Waze tells her to.
It’s ridiculously sexy—her moxie behind the wheel, but also her calm demeanor. I think back to the words I used the other night to describe her. “Hey, Isla,” I say.
“Yes?” she asks as she weaves around an idling truck on Van Ness.
“The other night I was going to call you persistent.”
“What stopped you?”
“It didn’t feel like the right word.”
“Okay,” she says, seeming a little wary.
“Unstoppable is more like it,” I say.
And her smile right now is precisely that.
Five minutes later, she taps the turn signal with a triumphant flick of her fingers, then pulls up in front of Mia’s school with time to spare.
I whistle my approval. “Formula One has nothing on you.”
Her blue eyes twinkle. “In a past life I was a race car driver.”
“From the candy cane punch to the side-street swagger, you’re a regular Ms. Fix-It,” I say.
She bobs a shoulder. “Thank you.”
Maybe I’ve been a little hard on her with the whole matchmaking thing. She’s only trying to help me, even though I don’t believe in romance. “No, thank you,” I say, then I text Mia, making sure she knows to look for a red car with Christmas lights on it and a big, bushy tree on the roof.
When my kiddo hops into the vehicle a few minutes later, Mia points to the roof. “We’re getting a tree?” Her voice shoots to Mars, packed with so much hope it nearly takes me out.
“No, cupcake. Isla was just helping me out with picking you up after I helped her carry a Christmas tree. Plus, you already have Matilda,” I point out. We shopped for the secondhand artificial tree at Goodwill the year after Regina took off. I didn’t want a tree ever again; Mia did, so Matilda—as Mia named her—got a new home at our place. Matilda is a three-foot high artificial tree that fits perfectly in the corner of her room where she sets it up every year. Perfectly out of my line of sight too. “And we have stockings,” I point out. Or really, one stocking—hers. I don’t want anything for Christmas. Ever.
“But a tree for both of us would be so great,” Mia says as she slings on her seat belt. “Now that I know you can carry one, after all.”
Isla’s jaw drops and she jerks her gaze toward me, mouthing, “You pretend you can’t carry a tree?”
“No!” I take a beat, then mutter. “I just maybe, possibly mentioned that tall trees are really heavy.”