The sound is nearly obscene.
“That’s fucking good,” he says just as I pull onto California Street, my smile settling in for the long haul.
“I’m glad you approve.”
“It’s like a sweet and spicy party in my mouth.”
I crack up. “If I’d known you were this easy, I would’ve been plying you with treats from the start.”
“You found my Achilles’ heel,” he admits, but then squints at me as I slow at a red light. “But this changes nothing. Your plans to manipulate me through sweets will fail.”
I roll my eyes. “Rowan Bishop, you are some kind of grinch,” I tease, but the words are softer than I’d expected.
Because the truth is, he earned his grinchiness the hard way.
When he saw the Christmas lights on my car earlier, something flickered in his eyes. He checked out for a moment, drifting somewhere he clearly didn’t want to go. He’s going to take work, and not just a little. But that’s why I want this matchmaking project to be as painless as possible for him.
Hence the latte. And the plan.
“Sooo.” He stretches out the word as I turn onto Lombard Street, heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going in Cozy Valley?”
I take a deep breath. He’s not going to love this. But wehave a deal—he agreed to let me find him a date for the Christmas Eve gala, and that means he has to engage with the season, at least a little.
“We’re going to a Christmas tree farm.” I keep my voice casual.
The grumbling. Dear god, the grumbling. It rumbles through the car, echoes through the city, reverberates into the halls of time.
“Rowan,” I sigh, “it’s not that bad.”
“I don’t want a tree,” he says flatly.
“It’s not for you. It’s forme. I need a tree.” I pause, letting him absorb that before delivering the part I know will work. “And I thought you could help me.”
His head tilts slightly, wary. “Help you?”
“You know…that thing where you put your big, strapping muscles to good use?” I play up the tease as his jaw tightens—whether in amusement or resignation, I’m not sure yet.
He barely realizes it, but he likes to help. It’s in his nature, baked into him so deeply. “I figured you could carry it for me,” I say, all innocent smiles.
Rowan exhales like a man accepting his fate. “Fine,” he mutters. “But only because you clearly spiked this with some kind of kryptonite to weaken me.” He lifts the latte pointedly before taking another sip.
I grin. Hook, line, and sinker. “Of course I did.”
“What kind did you get?” he asks, eyeing my travel mug in the console.
“A gingerbread coffee. My favorite.”
He flubs his lips. “Mine’s better then.”
I laugh. “I’m sure it is. But I like gingerbread.”
“Of course you do,” he says.
“And I’m surprised you don’t, Mister Sweet Tooth,” I say.
He shrugs, takes another drink, then hums approvingly. He’s quiet as I cruise down a steep hill, the Golden Gate Bridge beckoning us closer. “Want a sip?” he offers.
I shoot him a look as I drive. “Is it as good as advertised?”
