I freeze. Those two words hang in the air like a puck mid-slap shot. I didn’t even know anyone was there, let alone someone with a voice sodangerouslyfamiliar.
I look up, and yep, it’s Isla Marlowe, Jason’s sister. Waves of lush chestnut hair. Bright blue eyes. Glossy lips. A red sweater with a snowflake right across her chest. She’s the absolutelastperson I expected to see here. She’s also the person I’ve had an irritating, annoying, infuriating crush on for longer than I want to admit. I used to listen to her dating podcast religiously while I worked out. Then a year ago, I realized I was addicted to the sound of her voice, not just the advice she doled out to callers, and forced myself to stop listening.
Facing her now, I want to sayhey.Something casual, maybe even cocky. But I’ve forgotten about the candy cane. When I open my mouth, it launches with a spectaculartwangand plops dead-center in the punch bowl.
There’s a long moment of silent horror as we stare at the candy, bobbing like a shepherd’s crook in a red sea of Christmas punch.
My reflexes kick in, and lightning fast, I grab the ladle,scoop the candy cane out, and look for someplace to put it. If no one noticed, then no harm, no foul, right?
I look for a place to stash the evidence, but Isla reaches across the table and wraps a slim hand around my forearm. “Rowan! You can’t just do that.”
“Um, five-second rule. Pretty sure we were still in the window.”
“It was in your mouth! The punch is already ruined.”
I don’t think, I just say, “My mouth doesn’t ruin anything, sweetheart.”
Her gaze drops to my lips for a second, then she snaps her focus back to my eyes. For a beat, the silence stretches between us. Not sure what she’s thinking. But what I’m thinking?
It’s a problem.
Because you can’t do a damn thing about a crush on your best friend’s sister.
2
THE PUNCH PLAN
ISLA
On the one hand, I can’t believe Jason’s best friend would say something so rude about a fantastic matchmaking package.
On the other hand, I won’t let irritation get the best of me. Especially since there’s a bigger problem—defiled Christmas punch. I can fix this mishap in no time.
With my hand on his strong, toned forearm, I flash Rowan my brightest crisis-management smile. “It’s no big deal. We’ll just?—”
I break off, noticing Rowan’s white-knuckled grip on the ladle, like it’s a hockey stick he won’t relinquish. “You need to drop the candy cane, Rowan. Then we’ll toss the whole thing and get a fresh bowl of punch.” My tone is cheery but reassuring. He’s my brother’s top-earning client, not just his best friend. “Easy-peasy.”
The burly hockey star peers at me like I have antlers, then tightens his hold on the ladle. “But we’re not punch makers.”
“Well, we can’t just leave it like this,” I say.
His jaw works like he’s biting back some sarcastic comment—or maybe the rest of the candy cane. His green eyes narrow. “So your plan is what, Miss Christmas?”
I smile, knowing you catch more flies with honey. “Thank you. I wear that title with pride.”
“Of course you do.”
I ignore his dry tone and the strong set of his jaw. I ignore, too, how his stubble makes me wonder if it’s soft to the touch, and how his eyes sparkle with mischief even when his expression is stern. Deliciously stern, if you want to know.
“Step two,” I say, “we fix this. Quick, discreet, and with as little public embarrassment as possible.”
He raises a skeptical brow, the scar cutting across one eyebrow arching too. “Because nothing screams subtle like launching a candy cane into a bowl of Christmas-red punch in a room full of guests.”
“Oh, please. No one saw you,” I counter with a breezy wave. One projectile candy won’t ruin the party. Not when my burgeoning business is offering a fabulous item for auction. “I’ve been watching this table, and luck is shining on us. Trust me. I’m a former party planner.”
Rowan holds up a finger. “Or, hear me out. We’ll put up a sign that saysNo punch. You’re screwed.”
“Absolutely not! And,” I remind him, “your agent would be very mad at you for that.”
