ROWAN
Two minutes and thirty-nine seconds later, I’m trotting back down the cobbled alley, boots clomping, then I’m turning into Rudy’s back patio as Isla buttons her coat with a crisp finality.
Her forehead is pinched. Her eyes, wary.
But I’ve got a solution for that. I thrust out two cups of hot cocoa as I weave through the tables. I’ve also got a brilliant idea, but it’ll require a little show and tell. Hence, the drinks. “A date is more than just an orgasm, right?”
The doubt vanishes from her blue eyes. “A quickie and a quickie,” she says, taking one of the offered drinks.
We sit at one of the tables. “Did you think I was leaving?”
“No.” But she doesn’t sound like she believes that.
“I said I’d be right back,” I point out.
“I know,” she says, lifting the cup and sniffing it, then shaking her head like she’s trying to shake off those doubts. “It just threw me off. But that’s me, not you.”
“I wouldn’t want to do that,” I say, reassuring her—because even if it is her, I still don’t want her to worryabout a single thing. “Throw you off or make you think I wouldn’t come back.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She takes a sip of the hot cocoa, then lets out an approving sigh. “This is the good stuff.”
“Orgasms and chocolate—how am I doing on the dating front?”
“Ten out of ten tonight,” she says.
I’m about to stretch my arms above my head and preen when it hits me. If I ace these practice dates, she might think I’ve graduated from her school. No way do I want the lessons with her to end. I haven’t dated like this before—with someone who asks me to be honest. With someone who gives honesty. “This is new to me, Isla,” I admit. “The whole talking openly like this part. Don’t let the hot cocoa fool you.”
“It’s new to me too. Doingthat.”She gestures back toward the bench where she fucked my fingers. “With a client.”
Yeah, I had a feeling that was sticking with her, like a pebble in a shoe. “I won’t tell,” I say.
“No kidding you won’t tell.” As she takes another sip, her gaze turns contemplative—guilty, even. “I feel…like I failed though.”
“Because I don’t want to date anyone else?”
“Yes.”
I take a fortifying drink of the sweet stuff, then set it on the table. “You didn’t fail. If anything, I failed. I’m no good at this romance stuff. I told you that. I’m just not sure it’s ever going to be my thing.”
Sadness flickers in her eyes. “You really believe that?”
I blow out a breath. I give her question some real thought. “What happened with my ex…it was pretty bad,” Isay—and hell, that’s vulnerable, isn’t it? “For me. And for Mia.”
Isla reaches for my free hand and squeezes it. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”
My stomach twists. I don’t want to serve up the whole sad story of the way we were left. But I also want Isla to know where I’m coming from with romance, with dating, with lessons. I feel pulled and stretched in two different directions—do I keep the story to myself or share it?
I weigh the choices in my palms, and I’m honestly not sure which option is better. When I’m on the ice though, I don’t have all day to wonder what to do. Out there, you have to make split-second decisions. Pass to a teammate for a scoring chance or keep possession. Pressure the opponent to force a turnover or clear the crease for the goalie.
You don’t know what would happen if you made another choice. You make the best one you can in the moment, and you move the hell on. One of my strongest suits as a player is I don’t dwell on the past. Maybe I could learn a thing or two from the way I play hockey.
I blow out a breath, then tell the story I’ve only ever shared with my parents and Jason. “I was going to propose to her on Christmas morning. I had the ring and everything. She loved Christmas so when I woke up early to head downstairs and make sure everything was in place for Mia, I wasn’t that worried that Regina wasn’t in bed. Then I spotted an envelope poking out of my stocking. Inside it was a goodbye letter,” I say, biting out the words. The memory doesn’t sting like it used to. It’s not raw and tender anymore. It’s a scar though, long and jagged.
“Oh Rowan,” Isla says, her eyes full of sympathy.
“We’d met shortly after college, started dating, thenshe got pregnant pretty quickly. And she said in her letter that after four years of doing nothing but parenting, she was heading off todiscover herselfat last. It was her present to herself, she’d said. It was whatyounger Reginawould have wanted.”
I can feel the crinkle of the paper, see the loopy ink of her handwriting, smell the pine from the tree she’d picked out. I can hear, too, the terrified drumbeat of my heart as reality sank in with each terrible word I’d read. “She said she was going to backpack and make art—what she’d always wanted. Marriage wasn’t part of her dream. And besides,Mia would always be taken care of with me, thanks to my career.”
