“Sure is.”
With one hand on the wheel, I take the cup from him, remembering the way he stole a sip of my Holly Jolly Martini. I can’t quite line up the lip marks the way he did—there’s only one spot to drink from, of course. Still, an unexpected spark of pleasure shoots through me from something as simple as touching where his lips had been.
When I hand the mug back to him, his fingers brush mine. His thumb slides across my palm, and I draw a sharp intake of breath.
Does he react though? Hitch his breath? Avert his gaze? Steal a glance? I want to know so badly, but I keep my eyes on the road. Besides, I shouldn’t want to know. He’s my client—not my date. Not a real date, or a fake date. And I don’t have room for romance in my life right now. Not when I have so many chances to bring love to other people—people who need itanddeserve it.
We zip across the bridge, the choppy ocean on one side, the sparkling bay on the other, and we wind through the hills of Sausalito next.
“So, a Christmas tree?” he asks. “I would think a half dozen for you. One for every room.”
“Yes, I live in San Francisco in a six-room home,” I say dryly.
“Fine. How many trees will you get?”
“One, Rowan.One,” I say.
“I’d think you’d need one alone for all the woodland creatures and songbirds that gather near your home.”
I smile. “Please. The woodland creatures liveinmy home.”
“Of course they do.”
A little while later, as we close in on Cozy Valley, we pass some rolling hills lightly draped in white. It flurried here last night, and the rest of this powdered sugar dusting will probably melt away soon. But for now, the little bit of snow makes me happy. “Look! It’s so picturesque,” I say with a wistful sigh.
“Yeah, if you like dirty, brown snow covering your lawn.”
“It’s not dirty. It’s lovely,” I say, defending the freaking snowfall against this man.
“All in due time.”
I sigh. “Doesn’t the Grinch like snow, Rowan? Ergo, shouldn’tyoulike it?”
“Because ice, cold, and snow suit me?” he asks with an evil smile.
“You said it.”
“Love it when it falls. But then, like all Christmassy things, it turns into a mess.”
“So it’s a love-hate relationship for you then?”
“Seems that way,” he says.
A mile later, a wooden sign for Cozy Valley appears over the hill. It’s pastel yellow with white scripted letters. An illustrated squirrel is curled up asleep in theV. Cozy, indeed. “You probably hate that squirrel,” I say.
He barks out a laugh. “We’ve already established I like animals. They’re exempt from grinchiness.”
“I wasn’t sure if that extended to woodland creatures,”I say as I flick on the turn signal, exiting the highway and heading into the town.
“Course it does.” He pauses, humming doubtfully. “But why don’t they name this place…Squirrel Town? I’ve always wondered that every time I’m here,” he says, stroking his bearded jawline in contemplation.
“You hang out in Cozy Valley?” My voice pitches up. I wasn’t expecting that. He’s such a city guy.
“A couple times a month. Bunch of my dad friends live here,” he says, then rattles off the names of a hockey player from the Foxes, the quarterback from the Renegades, the shortstop from the Cougars, and so on. “We play bocce ball or cornhole when we get together every couple of weeks. Along with Tyler, even though he lives in the city, of course.”
“Like a single dad’s club? Except Tyler’s no longer single, of course.”
Rowan seems to give that some thought, then almost reluctantly says, “I guess it is a club.”
