After I put the box of plates and napkins on the table, I join her, taking one strand from her and wrapping it around my forearm in a loop, elbow to palm.
She lets out a long exhale, then deals me a disappointed look. “You really hate this so much? All ofthis? Even the penguins in Santa caps?”
With her free hand she gestures to the scene of my matchmaking subterfuge, but she clearly means Christmas too. She knows the answer to all her questions, so I turn the questions back at her.
“You really don’t trust me that much? That you’d arrange for a plant on a cookie swap date? That’s like having a double agent.”
Defiant, she counters with, “Was I wrong?”
“Do two wrongs make a right?” I toss back as I twist the strand around my arm again.
“Emily actuallyisone of my clients. I’m legitimately trying to find her a match.”
Emily.
Wait a fucking minute.
How did I miss that name? I overheard Isla chatting with an Emily the other day on the phone, before we left for the Christmas tree farm. I narrow my eyes. “You were plotting this back on Tuesday afternoon? When you brought me that magic cinnamon nutmeg latte to trick me into liking Christmas?”
She shoots me a withering look. “Rowan, I brought you the latte to be nice.”
“And I’m helping to be nice.”
“Accusing me of colluding isn’t nice.”
“If the shoe fits,” I say, holding my ground.
But she stares me down silently, hauling in a breath through her nostrils, then letting it out slowly, like she needs to cool her head. “I was calling her then about a plan for a date,” she says, biting out the word. “One I’m sending her on tomorrow night with a restaurant owner. I hadn’t even planned the cookie swap till Tuesday night at your house.”
And…fuck. I’m an ass. “Okay, but can you blame me? You did say you coached her on what to say tonight. The evidence added up.”
She releases another frustrated breath. “I had anotherwoman coming tonight originally. A funny single mom named Kana. But she had to back out at the last minute this morning, so I called Emily to fill in. As for how to handle you, yes, I coached her because I had to know if you were actually trying,” she insists, but there’s a touch of sadness in her voice now too. “Rowan, if you were truly trying to make this matchmaking work, you wouldn’t have picked her.”
Dammit. She said that before, but the way she says it this time, so simply, tugs on my cold heart. A morsel of guilt wedges in there too. Sure, we tried to one-up each other, but Isla was still trying to find a love match for me. I was sabotaging her, having fun deliberately fucking up her play.
Well, I’m a defenseman. My job is to stop shit.
“I’m sorry I accused you of colluding,” I say sincerely.
Isla accepts it with a thoughtful nod. “I appreciate you saying that.”
Trouble is, arguing with her is too fun. I’m not sure I want to stop. Not when I catch her gaze drifting to my forearm as I loop the strands. Interesting.
Come to think of it, she was checking me out during the cookie swap as I was raising those sugary treats to my mouth. Does Isla Marlowe have a thing for forearms?
I bet she does, and I’m going to test it.
Ignoring the million reasons why I should walk out that door, I take one more offered loop of lights and wrap it around my forearm in tantalizingly slow motion. With avid eyes, she stares at me, like you’d stare at someone through a shop window as they make taffy in a vat—transfixed. When I’ve looped all the lights, I take the woven strand off my arm and hand it to her. “Here you go, Miss Christmas.”
She utters a shaky, “Thank you.”
That breathy note is a real good sound, coming from her. It sends a jolt of lust down my spine. I shouldn’t like it so much, considering she’s mad as a viper at me.
Even if she likes my arms.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. I’m aware that while I apologized for the accusation, I also should say I’m sorry for the sabotage. This would be the right time to say it. But something stops me again.
Maybe because I like all that intense emotion from her directed at me?
