ISLA
Hold my beer.
Or in this case, my Holly Jolly Martini.
Men like my brother’s best friend—down on love—don’t scare me. In fact, I thrive on the naysayers. Their pessimism only fuels my optimism. Makes me want to prove them wrong even more.
Rowan might be gruff and thorny, but I’ve been in the dating trenches long enough to handle every kind of personality. I’ve matched the eternal skeptics, the hopeless romantics, and everyone in between.
Because at the heart of it, the truth of love is universal—everyone wants to love and be loved.
It’s that simple. Everything else is only window dressing.
The guys are gone now and it’s just Rowan and me at this table in the corner of the room, hidden from the eyes of the few other patrons lingering in the bar.
After taking a dainty sip of the fantastic concoction I ordered—savoring the vanilla vodka and white chocolate liqueur—I slide the glass to the side of the table and flipopen my planner, unhooking the red ribbon from the middle page with a deliberate flourish.
Rowan scoffs like he’s never seen anything like it before. “What in Santa’s ass is that?”
I meet his skeptical gaze, undeterred. “It’s a planner. You use it to plan things. Like, say, your day, your month, or your projects. In this case, you’re the project.”
He growls. Actually growls. Then he tips his chin toward the shiny red cover. “And you have seasonal planners?”
What a silly question. “Of course I do.”
He points at it again. “You don’t use a—I don’t know—iPad? Phone? Computer?”
I glance dramatically around the bar, taking in the glittering garlands draped along the brick walls, the twinkle lights casting a warm glow over the polished wood table, and the oversized Christmas tree dominating the lounge area, its ornaments catching the flicker of the nearby fireplace. “Oops, wherever did I leave my laptop?” I quip, before fixing him with a no-nonsense stare. “No. I’m old-school when it comes to writing down a client’s likes and dislikes, crafting bios, and getting to know them.” I lean forward, meeting his gaze. “Writing by hand makes this more personal. And that’s what matchmaking is—it’s the opposite of a dating app. It’s personal, it’s intimate, and it works.” I brandish my favorite pen—this ballpoint leaves no streaks. “You can’t backspace over someone’s hopes and dreams with a pen.”
He shifts in his seat, clearly trying to find a way to argue without sounding like a jerk. Eventually, he mutters, begrudgingly, “Fine, that makes sense.”
I uncap the pen with a triumphant smile. “Good. Because the holidays fly by, and we’ve got exactly one dayleft in November and twenty-three in December to make this happen since the gala is on Christmas Eve.”
“Don’t remind me,” he says.
“Oh, but I will. Many times, surely,” I say with a smile as I click the pen once and tap it against the planner. I love this kind of deep-dive work. This is precisely what I wasn’t able to do on the podcast, since I only had a few minutes with each caller to give advice and feedback. “Okay, Rowan. We have a lot of work to do in a short amount of time. I need to know likes and dislikes, wishes and wants. But I find the best way to start is this—what’s your perfect outcome from this dating adventure?”
Rowan shudders.
It’s not for show; it seems real and full of hurt, coming from the depths of him, and my heart softens.
I only know the broad strokes of his romantic story, heard in passing from my brother. Rowan and his ex, Mia’s mom, were together for a good while, but nearly five years ago, she simply took off. As someone who’s been left, I understand. I feel the pain of my own failed love story sometimes, all the ways I was foolishly deceived by my ex. But I refuse to wallow in that failure, especially when my business depends on success in romance. That’s why I give my all to clients—I believe that everyone deserves love.
Including people who think it doesn’t exist, like this man.
I give Rowan a reassuring smile, hoping to soothe the wound. “This can be agooddating adventure.”
“Just like ‘nut’ and ‘cracker,’ those are words that don’t go together,” he says.
I’ve got my work cut out for me, but that only drives me on. “I hear you. But even so, tell me what you want toaccomplish. And don’t tell me you’re here under duress; I already know that part.”
“You want to know my goal?”
“Yes,” I say, hopeful I can get him there.
“My biggest goal right now?”
“I would love to know,” I say, ready and waiting.
