Wilder nods. “No problem. I’ll take care of it.”
The billionaire makes a few phone calls, chats a few people up, then returns. “You’ve got thirty minutes. I suggest you go now.” Then he turns to me. “And good luck. I’ve been there before. Sometimes you have to go big to win her back.”
“You do,” I say.
Then we pile into a couple of cars and head to Main Street.
Wilder called in a hell of a Christmas Eve favor. He asked the shopkeepers from the Mistletoe Emporium, the stationery store, the bookshop, and even the sundry shop to open up for a Christmas Eve groveler.
They stand in line outside their stores, handing out the orders we called in. One by one, I thank them. “Merry Christmas,” I say—and I mean it.
This isn’t just a big gesture. It’s a promise to Isla that I listened. And that I won’t walk away this time.
When I’m done, my teammates send me back to my car.
“It’s on you now. Don’t fuck this up,” Miles says.
“Also, you owe us,” Wesley adds. “We slipped out ofthe gala to help you. Next year you’d better stay the whole time—with Isla.”
It’s a terrifying thought. And a wonderful one too.
“That’s the goal,” I say. “That’s the big goal.”
54
THE BIG THREE
ISLA
Neatly, I fold the final scarf into a packing cube, then nest it properly in the remaining spot in my suitcase. I close it, then zip it up at last. Everything I’ve used at the unloved shack has been put away. I’ve straightened the kitchen where Rowan cooked for me, washed the towels and sheets we used and left them folded for the next guest, and made the bed.
I pull out the collapsible handle of my pink suitcase, take a final breath, and say goodbye to a wonderful holiday season that ended…with a lump of coal in my stocking. But sometimes, you just have to look on the bright side. I have salted caramels, and an amazing plant-a-tree organization received a fantastic donation.
That has to be enough. So what if my heart is broken?
I glance down at my phone one more time, rereading the email about the donation. My heart stupidly softens. I run a hand over the note, wishing—just wishing—it were different. But it’s not a love letter. It’s an apology note, and that has to be okay.
As I head to the front door, my friends’ voices echo in my head like a Greek chorus.
Did you tell him?
But what difference would it have made? Salted caramels and huge donations aside, the man is still afraid to take a chance.
Time to move on.
When I yank open the door, I startle. There’s a notebook on the front porch, and it’s covered in illustrations of…hammocks. And palm trees. And waves. It’s teal, like the sea.
I pick it up, my brow scrunching. I look around for the Christmas elf. Maybe Mia left it for me? Seems like something she’d do.
Except there are Post-it tabs sticking out of it, and each one says…Isla’s big three.
Hastily, I flip it open to the first one and the page has the words on it:Someone who makes time for you.
I lift my face again, looking around. But I don’t see anyone. Yet I know this is Rowan’s handwriting. He’s quoting me back to me.
Is this another apology gift, like the salted caramels?
I turn the page to the next tab mark and read:Someone who listens to you.
