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)
I want it to keep going.
Maybe he senses that. Or maybe he just wants the same thing I do, because he glances at the band—three strong guys in T-shirts that say The Mistle Bros.
He turns back to me. “You want real?”
“I do.”
“Then we should dance.”
25
BE MORE REAL
ROWAN
I hold out a hand across the booth, ready and eager for the next part of the night.
Playing dirty, so to speak.
But Isla nibbles on the corner of her lips. She’s torn—clearly. She glances around the diner. Is she weighing how it might look if she’s dancing with a client in public?
But I anticipated that. And, like a good D-man, I’ve got a plan to defend my turf. A little competition, if you will. I lower my hand, resting it on the table as I arch a brow. “Are you worried you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?”
That earns me the eye roll I expected as she snaps her gaze back to mine. “Please, Rowan.”
“You have nothing to worry about. You have excellent self-restraint,” I say dryly. “But if it makes you feel better, I promise I’ll behave too.”
She heaves a sigh. “I thought you were being real on this practice date.”
The thing is—I am. Being real means listening to your date, and I’ve listened to her in all sorts of ways. Isla has always loved a challenge. That’s her real and I want to give it to her. “Oh, I’m being real all right. It’ll be hard, but I’ll be so good.”
Maybe. It’s debatable if I can be good. But I keep that thought to myself as one of The Mistle Bros tunes his guitar while another tests the mic.
Isla squares her shoulders. “I bet it’ll be no problem for me to behave.”
“Isla, I thought we were keeping it real.”
She stares at me like she wants to punch me. It’s ridiculously hot. Hotter even when she says, “Rowan, you’re infuriating.”
“And you wouldn’t have it any other way. Need I remind you of the fourth item on the list of five things I know about you?” I clear my throat and quote it back to her. “You’re a formidable competitor and would absolutely destroy me on game night—then gift-wrap my defeat and put it under the tree, tied up neatly with a red ribbon.”
“I remember that,” she says, a little wary, but a lot intrigued. “Why are you mentioning it?”
“Show me. Show me how damn good you are at resisting,” I say, goading her, offering her my hand once more like it’s a fait accompli.
As the guitar-playing lumberjack strums a chord, Isla takes my hand. “I’m the best at resisting,” she says with a stubborn lift of her pretty chin.
Yup, this is her real.
“Then this will be as easy as hanging an ornament on a low branch,” I say, tugging her out of the booth.
I guide her over to a corner of the diner reserved for dancing. We join the other couples as the band plays the opening notes of a Christmas tune I didn’t know existed until this afternoon. I do hate Christmas music.
Correction.
Hated.
It’s possible Christmas music might have its uses.
I wrap my hands around her hips, savoring the feel of her beneath my palms even through all these layers. She drapes hers over my shoulders, tilting her head and listening to the music. “Oh! This is Luther Vandross’s ‘A Kiss for Christmas,’” she adds, quickly, her eyes sparkling.
I act as if I just learned that detail. “Ah. And I take it you approve of the tune?”
“It’s on one of my Christmas playlists.”
I had a feeling.
I fight off a smirk—there’s no need for smugness now—as we sway.
The song is smooth, sensual, a holiday seduction. But I don’t listen closely for very long. Holding her is far more interesting. My hands fit perfectly around her hips. Her fingers on my shoulders heat my skin. I catch a hint of that cherry scent that drives me wild. When the couple next to us moves closer to each other, I think fuck it. That’s my cue to do the same.
I ease closer, curling one hand tighter around her. She rolls her lips together.
I rub my thumb in a small, lazy circle along her hip bone. Her eyes float closed for a second—a delicious second where I want to high-five myself.
Yes, Isla likes sexy holiday music and the way I touch her.
When she opens her eyes, they flicker with heat.
And Isla likes winning, too, so I lean into that. “You’re doing such a good job,” I say, praising her as the lead singer does his best Luther Vandross impression, crooning about pouring another glass of wine and lighting up the fireplace.
“At dancing?” she asks, sounding breathy, feathery.
“Yes, but resisting too,” I say, holding her close.
“Told you so.”
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t tempt her. I should back off. Say goodnight. But if anyone’s dating Isla here in Evergreen Falls—fake, real, or practice—it damn well better be me.