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)
He scoffs. “That so?”
I sit straighter. “You might have a moose on your sweater, but I have a Christmas moose in my heart.”
Rowan arches a dubious brow. “You have a moose in your heart, Isla?”
Well, that does sound a little silly, but I lean into it. “I do.”
“We should get you to the hospital.”
“You’re assuming it’s a bad thing to have a moose in your heart.”
“How could it be good?”
I double down. “Are you saying there’s something wrong with me?”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Never.”
“Then my heart moose is just fine,” I say.
He spreads an arm across the back of the booth, inching his hand toward my shoulder. “Yeah, I’d say so too.”
He leans closer and swipes a strand of hair from my cheek.
Oh.
That’s not hair. That’s…an eyelash.
“Make a wish, Isla.” He holds out his finger with a tiny eyelash on it. That fizzy feeling returns to my chest as I cycle through wishes and wants.
I want to stop being so attracted to my client.
I want to win the competition.
I want to match him.
I want him to be happy.
But as he waits for me, patiently, his green eyes full of intrigue—and maybe hope—I want something else entirely.
A kiss.
Deeper than the one under the mistletoe.
Longer too.
And…real. So real.
Only I have to stop wanting that.
I blow on the eyelash. I wish to stop feeling so much.
As the lash floats through the air, the server arrives with our dinner.
“Here you go,” Phillipa says, setting plates and glasses down, along with a soda fountain–style glass filled with chocolaty goodness and two straws. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
A pill to resist my client?
“I’m all good,” I say.
When she leaves, Rowan says, “This bet—what are the stakes?”
My heart.
I shake some ketchup onto the plate, grab a fry, and swipe it through the condiment, then give his question some thought. But before I can answer, he says, “Salted caramels.”
I stop with the fry midway to my mouth. “Those are the stakes?”
“They’re your favorite. If you win, I’ll buy you a box of the best salted caramels in town.”
The stakes are simple and real. They aren’t showy or trash-talky. “I do love salted caramel,” I say, then finish the fry.
“I know. You had a hard time not stealing Leighton’s.”
“You remembered?”
“I did,” he says, then takes a bite of his chicken sandwich.
And I’m touched. Surprised too. But am I really surprised? He seems to be remembering things left and right.
“You have a good memory, Rowan,” I say, then let the food distract me.
“I do, but I also remember things that are important to me,” he says—and my stomach flips. “Like you want to go to Kauai on New Year’s.”
Color me impressed. “So I can melt onto the beach and do nothing,” I say.
“You deserve that. And how you like to go to the farmers’ market and that Wild Ginger vegetarian restaurant in the Ferry Building.”
“Yes. Wow.”
“Like I said, I remember things that are important. Like salted caramels.”
“Which brings us back to what are the stakes if you win?”
“Oh, salted caramels satisfy me too,” he says.
“It’s a bet, then,” I say.
He offers a hand to shake and I take it, trying to ignore the tingles that rush down my chest from the feel of his hand touching mine.
When he lets go he reaches for the milkshake glass. “Want the first sip?”
“Sure,” I say, then lean closer and sip from the metal straw, hoping he somehow leans in and drinks at the same time.
Great. Now I’m having some kind of Lady and the Tramp fantasies. This is getting to be a problem.
As we eat and drink—no Lady and the Tramp sharing after all—we talk more about the competition, our next practice date, scheduled for two nights’ time, Evergreen Falls, and what Mia’s up to tonight. She’s spending the evening with some friends in town, making wreaths and paper snowflakes. It’s only when we’re halfway through dinner that I say, “You know, I had this whole plan about how we should make sure you’re real and authentic on a date, but honestly, I’m pretty sure you are tonight.”
“I am,” he says. “I’m definitely being real.”
I don’t even pretend to argue with him. I just agree, because my pulse is kicking up again, and this time I don’t want it to stop. “You are. This is how you should be.”
“It’s easy with you.”
My stomach flips again. “Because I’m a matchmaker? Because you know me?”
He takes his time. Locks eyes with me. Holds my gaze. “Yeah, but also because you’re you.”
The sparks are everywhere in me. Pretty sure I’m all sparks.
I take another drink of the milkshake, then offer it to him, furtively staring at his lips. How do they taste right now? Like chocolate and a cool winter night made warm from all my unchecked desire?
As we finish, a band sets up in the corner of the diner. I tense—it’s the tension you feel from hope—the hope that a date won’t end.