Since she got the last word after all.
On Tuesday morning, Isla’s waiting outside my house ten minutes early. I know this because my security cam alerts me that someone’s wandering along the street, so I check it.
I bet Isla wakes before the birds do.
She’s probably already matched some guy with atwenty-item checklist and sent him off to buy a ring. She’s that efficient. Scarily so.
Shaking my head, I sigh—maybe in reluctant admiration—as I watch her from the living room window, while listening to today’s episode ofThe Competitive Edgeon managing your emotions under pressure. My strategy? Put them in a fucking box during the game. I turn off the podcast and watch Isla pace along the sidewalk. She’s smiling and chattering on the phone, wearing a white knit cap with a ridiculous pom-pom on top, her chestnut hair spilling out beneath it in lush waves.
Of course she’s smiling. Of course she’s chattering.
I settle Wanda into her dog bed, then give her a stuffed frog and a squeaky banana. She pounces on one, then growls at the other as I turn on some tunes for her—a playlist I made of The Clash, The Rolling Stones, and The White Stripes, among others. All part of Wanda’s musical schooling.
With Wanda punishing the banana for existing, I head to the front door and grab my navy blue peacoat—San Francisco’s dipped into the thirties, which is unseasonably cold. I pocket my phone, then trot down the front steps.
When Isla spins around and spots me, her eyes widen, flickering in surprise.
Ha. Threw her off her game.
She wasn’t expecting me to be early either. But god bless Nest cams. It’s the small victories that make life worth living. If that makes me an asshole, so be it.
She holds up a finger, signaling she’s still on her call. “Of course. I have a fantastic plan. I’ll call you later. Thanks, Emily.”
Emily.Probably some other poor soul she’s roping into holiday matchmaking. Is Emily a match for me?
She hangs up and beams at me. “Hi, Rowan. How are you?”
“Great. What’s the plan for our”—I stop to sketch air quotes—“get-to-know-medate today?”
She rolls her eyes. “Still not a date.”
“Someday you’ll admit this is all a ruse to get close to me. For now, I’ll compromise and call it a fake date.” I’m not even sure why I’m goading her on the topic so much. But I am sure of this—teasing her is fucking fun.
“I’ll call it a working outing.”
“Right. Sure. So, today’s agenda.” I rub my hands together. “Are we going to hack into the city’s sound system so Christmas music plays year-round?”
“Yes. You’ve figured me out,” she says, deadpan.
“I had a feeling. First, the nonstop music. Then, we’ll put wreaths on every street corner. Next thing I know, I’ll be trapped in a city-wide compulsory Christmas-cookie-decorating contest.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
“Truer words,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “All right, Miss Snow Angel, what holiday torture have you actually devised for me today, then?”
She just smiles, too serenely. “I’d tell you, but…”
“Then you’d have to kill me?”
She scoffs. “If you’re dead, I can’t win our bet.”
Ouch. She’s got a mean streak. Too bad I find it hot. “So if I was dying from the aural torture of listening to Christmas music, you’d save me to win the bet? Just want to make sure I’m clear on your motives.”
She pretends to give that dilemma some thought. “Yes. I would. I’m nothing if not fair.”
“That’s so fair. But death by Christmas music comes on quickly. I’m not sure you’d be able to resuscitate me.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll find something else to play the entire drive up to Cozy Valley. Since you’ve been so…accommodating.”
