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)
But nope. I am a changed man. With Mia off with Natalie, Jason, and their kids, and me here with Isla, I’m the new and improved Rowan, and I’m learning. I might only have a few dating lessons slated with my matchmaker, but I am going to make the most of them. That means giving the woman what she wants—Christmas, Christmas, and more fucking Christmas.
And fine—if in the process I happen to keep her away from that too-charming, too-handsome, too-smart British dude, then I will win the game.
Like I do on the ice, I defended the fuck out of my position, using everything I’ve got—Christmas sweater, Christmas mug, and Christmas competition intel.
Take that, Ollie.
As Isla finishes her coffee, I stand. “Let me rinse that off so you can take it home,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says. I stride to the restroom—then it hits me.
Shit. I left the goal unattended.
A hockey player should never do that. But I’ll look rude if I ask Aurora to wash the mug I bought for Isla, so I’ll make it fast. In the restroom, I rinse the mug, then dry it with some compostable paper towel and head back out. But as I return to the table, it’s like something’s crawling up the back of my neck. The hair on my arms stands on end.
Are you kidding me?
Oliver’s standing there.
At the table.
Talking to her.
Laughing with her.
I loathe him.
When I reach the table, he’s rapping his knuckles on the white wood and saying to Isla: “Here’s your tip—this year, bet against ‘Joy to the World.’ It won two years ago and the same song just can’t win that close together.” He gives me a friendly nod as I’m walking over, like he wasn’t just horning in on my woman, then finishes, “No song’s ever won the caroling competition twice in the span of five years.” He pauses, seems to give that some thought. “Actually, now that I think about it, the guy who won that year was disqualified. Which would mean the song that wound up winning was—”
“‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,’” they say in unison.
What. The fuck. They’re finishing each other’s sentences? And they speak in Christmas carol, no less? This man is a fierce competitor.
“How’s it going, gingerbread man?” I ask my archnemesis when I arrive at the table.
Oliver laughs, then cocks his head. “I like that. I’ll use it. Thanks, mate.”
It wasn’t a fucking compliment.
Isla gestures to public enemy number one. “Oliver and I were just reminiscing about who won the caroling competition a couple of years ago. The whole thing was complicated, but the rendition of ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’ was quite rocking.”
“Truly, it was smashing,” Oliver says. “I even remember there were some singing lumberjacks. And the owner of the new minor league team sang ‘Deck the Halls.’”
“Tried,” Isla corrects. “He tried to sing it.”
This feels like an inside joke I’m not part of. And not for nothing, but I’m a competitive asshole, so even though I hate pears, partridges, and this damn song, I shrug and sing, “On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…a scrimmage on an ice rink.”
Isla whips her gaze to me, her blue eyes wide. “Did you just rhyme partridge?”
I stroke my chin, like I’m considering this feat of language flexibility. “You know…I think I did.”
It feels like I’m skating off with the puck, leaving the opponent in a spray of ice.
Before Oliver can say a word, I nod to the door, where the owner of the minor-league hockey affiliate and his wife stride in followed by an older woman in a Santa hat, a man her age, a Golden Retriever mix, and about a dozen townspeople.
After I take my seat next to Isla, she leans in closer and whispers, “That’s the new mayor.”
Her sweet cherry scent fries my brain. “Who?” I ask, and yeah, points for me for getting a word out with this intoxicating smell swirling near me.
“Mayor Bumblefritz,” Isla says, nodding to the group near the display case, including the woman with the Santa hat, who looks like a traditional Mrs. Claus.
I scrunch my brow. The name Bumblefritz sounds familiar though. I could have sworn I heard it mentioned before. Or maybe saw it on campaign signs in yards a year ago? “Wasn’t she already the mayor?” I ask Isla.
She shakes her head. “Her husband was. She campaigned last year—against him. And against their dog. The Golden mix with her. That’s Nick. He hangs out at the library during the children’s story hour. And she won, beating both of them. She had a great plan for protecting the trees so they couldn’t be bulldozed with new construction. The town loved that.”
“Did that cause any problems between them? When she won?”
“The new Mayor Bumblefritz and the dog? Oh, no Nick was quite happy. He came in second so he’s the vice mayor.”