His face remains stern, like he has to reinforce the tough-guy image he’s cultivated so well. An image he relishes? Or just anoutfithe wears every day because it fits him—like a well-worn hoodie? I’m not sure why he wears it again and again. I just know he does. But he stripped it off.
“Now though?” I continue. “I see a different side of you. I can see you giving speeches to young hockey players. Motivating them.” The world around us is quiet, containing only a dusting of snow, the chirp of birds in the trees, the distant sound of wind through the firs. I imagine a version of Rowan beyond playing hockey.I see it.Most of all, I believe it. “You’re going to be a great coach someday.”
Something flickers in his expression. A rare hint of asmile breaks through his usual scowl. “Thanks,” he says, his voice quieter than normal. “I appreciate that.”
It’s said without ribbing. Without sarcasm. Just…sincerity.
And for the first time, I feel like I’ve really broken through with him. Like I’m getting somewhere at last. It gives me hope, this moment. It makes me believe that I can deliver on the Christmas miracle of finding him a match, stat.
“You’re going to use this against me, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Of course I am,” I say breezily. Then I point to the tree I’ve been eyeing. “Now, get sawing, Coach Bishop.”
“I will. But under one condition.”
Uh-oh. “What’s that?” I ask warily.
“Why don’t you do your podcast anymore?”
It’s a little out of the blue, but not entirely since we’re talking about our careers, andLove Unscriptedwas a big part of mine. “I swear. It’s exactly what I told you at the auction—I wanted to focus onthis. On matchmaking. I also believe that to do this job well, you have to put your whole heart and soul into it. I didn’t want to be pulled in two directions, serving the goddess of subscribers and downloads,andtrying to get great sound bites on social media to grow the advertisers, all while devoting time to finding love matches. I did it for a while when I was working for another matchmaking company, but once I went out on my own, I knew I needed to do one thing really well—find great matches for my clients at Cupid’s Confidante.”
Rowan seems to give that some real thought, then nods. “I hear you—you want to give it your best.”
“Romance deserves my best. I’m sure you feel the same about hockey.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re always trying to read me.”
I smile. “Of course I am. Like I said, it’s my job.” I take a beat, blow out a breath and let the vulnerable moment pass. “And now, will youpretty pleasefinally cut down the tree?”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” He hands me his coat, rolls up his sleeves, and kneels beside the tree I’ve chosen. His forearms flex, the veins in them standing out as he grips the saw.
Oh. That’s real nice.
And right now what I want more than anything is what I have—this view.
“Pull the tree gently from the cutting side,” he tells me.
This definitely isn’t his first Christmas tree rodeo. I grasp some branches while watching him work.
He sets the blade against the trunk and cuts with clean, efficient strokes—no wasted effort, no hesitation. The rhythm is steady, precise. Muscle memory from years of handling tools and fixing things when needed, I presume.
He looks strong as he cuts. Like he could toss that tree over his shoulder with practiced ease.
The scent of fresh-cut pine rises, sharp in the cold air. And if I didn’t have lumberjack fantasies before? I do now.
The back-and-forth movement, the steady rhythm, the relentless pace…it’s a metaphor all right. Lumberjack porn is my new kink unlocked.
When he’s done, the tree topples into my arms. He sets down the saw, grabs the tree from me, and hoists it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
Yes, sir.
“This why you tricked me into coming? My tree-carrying services?”
“And I’m so glad I did,” I say, licking my lips and momentarily forgetting why it’s a bad idea to flirt with clients.
I swear he lifts it a little higher. Like he’s showboating for me. Letting me enjoy the view once more.
I carry his coat and the saw as we march back along the path toward the farm. “If the coaching thing doesn’t work out, you have a bright future as a lumberjack. You’d look great in flannel,” I say, returning to the safer territory of teasing him.
