“Let’s do it,” I say brightly, relieved to have pulled off that distraction. But what if he consigned the poinsettiasto an early death? “I hope you don’t kill them with your tainted punch.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “No one likes poinsettias.”
“Ilike poinsettias,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Really?”
“Yes! They’re pretty!”
He rubs the back of his neck, looking more sheepish than smug now. “Plants like water. Punch is mostly water.”
But while he gets an A for effort, it’ll be easier if I handle the rest myself. I reach for the punch bowl. “I’ll take it from here.” I keep my tone light since I don’t want to let on I’m a little peeved.
He holds tight though. “Nope. My fuck-up. My fix. I’m in it till the bitter end.”
“Killing a plant is hardly a fix,” I say.
“It’s all good.” Rowan gestures to the poinsettia, which looks healthier than it did before, as if mocking me. “See?” he points out. “Also, you’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”
His full lips curve again into a cocky grin, while his green-eyed gaze holds mine for longer than necessary. Why do frustrating men need to be so sexy? It’s unfair the way his tailored slacks define his muscular thighs, not to mention the snug fit of his custom dress shirt. The net effect makes my stomach do a traitorous flip.
I fight off the wave of tingles and raise my chin. “Fine, but let me take the lead this time.”
He sweeps out an arm. “Lead the way, Miss Christmas.” He sounds like he’s having too much fun. It’s best for me to be all business though.
We head to the bar, where I’m prepared to beg the bartender in the nicest, sweetest way for copious amounts of cranberry juice and Sprite.
When we arrive, there’s no line. Hurray for small miracles. But there is a gleaming silver tip jar that might be an obstacle in my sweet-talk plan.
Rowan sets down the bowl, grabs his wallet, and fishes out a big bill, speaking before I even get a chance.
“Hey, man. How you doing?” he asks, sliding into bro-banter friendliness.
“Good. And you?” the man asks.
“We’ll be real excellent if you can mix us some new punch, stat? And, ideally, don’t say a word about why we need it.” Rowan tips his chin my way. “My friend will give you an amazing recipe.”
The stoic beanpole of a barman, decked out in a white shirt and red vest, gives Rowan a crisp nod and an “Of course.”
I hadn’t thought about tipping the bartender extra for an extra-big ask. I suppose I’m glad Rowan did, avoiding a lot of awkwardness. “Cranberry juice and Sprite make an excellent punch mix.” I give the bartender the exact ratios. “It’s a sparkly punch.”
“Sounds good.”
As the bartender empties a couple of bottles of juice and one of soda, I’m doubly glad Rowan thought to grease the wheels. That’s a lot of replacement punch.
The bartender slides the bowl toward Rowan when he’s done. “Need help carrying it?”
Rowan shakes his head. “I’ve got this,” he says, cool and in control. But then he peers at the concoction, hums doubtfully, and scratches his jaw.
“What is it?” I ask, suddenly uneasy. “It can’t be worse, right?”
With a glint in his green eyes, he says, “Candy cane-infused punch. That would be perfect, wouldn't it?”
I groan, but my laughter slips out despite myself. “Do you have a thing for candy canes?”
“I like sweet things,” he says unapologetically, his gaze lingering on mine before he shifts his focus to the bartender. “Can you add a fresh candy cane? That’ll really make this sing.”
The bartender doesn’t blink, grabbing a candy cane and hooking it neatly on the side of the bowl. “There you go. Happy holidays,” he says, sliding the hundred-dollar bill smoothly into his pocket, with a smile that says it’s a very happy holiday indeed now.
