My stomach swirls with nerves. “Shoot. What do I do?”
“First, let me ask you a question—is it maybe a little more than a crush?”
I pause, giving her question the attention it deserves. Rowan’s gorgeous—heartbreakingly so. He’s an amazing father. He’s a caring man. He’s grumpy, and prickly, and difficult, yet he’s let me see what’s underneath that grouchy exterior. I feel like I understand him more than Idid before. I understand him, too, as someone who’s also been hurt by love.
But this crush is going nowhere. Rowan’s made his feelings clear. “Nothing’s going to come of it. So it really doesn’t matter.”
“That may be true, but at least we know now why you’re not interested in this very eligible bachelor,” she says.
Her words are a gut punch. She’s right…on every account. Even though he’d be a fantastic addition to my roster, I’m not interested in Oliver for me.
“Yeah. I suppose we do know,” I say, admitting that much to Mabel. “And I’ll let my mother know later today.”
“Good plan,” she says, but I don’t feel entirely relieved. There’s still that little matter of this inappropriate crush on my client, who’s also my brother’s friend. There aren’t enough notebooks in Evergreen Falls—and this town has a banging stationery shop—for me to make sense of this conundrum.
Maybe some things just don’t make sense.
For now, I say goodbye to my friend and head straight for the bakery, where I have a mission: the Christmas competition.
As I near the shop, I’m grateful for the distraction this event will bring. Maybe I won’t think about Rowan too much. Or these dating lessons that start tonight. Back at the Ferry Building, I asked him to be real. Authentic. We’ll go on a simple date then. That would be for the best. Just a meal, some conversation, and a chat about hopes and dreams. There.
Easy-peasy. I’ll let him know the plan soon enough.
I arrive at the bakery a few minutes early, and when Ipush open the door, my gaze lands immediately on a man seated at a white wooden table. A man with floppy hair, the kind that makes him look like a European poet. His glasses add to the academic look, and the dimple makes him look friendly. His head’s bent over a book. Points for that too. If he were a client, I could set him up just like that.
It’s a game I play with myself, but as I imagine options for him, my gaze snaps to another man with a beard, haunting green eyes, and arms I want to feel wrapped around me.
I’m not surprised he’s here—with the team wanting players involved in the festivities, it just makes sense. What surprises me is the intensity of my reaction. My stomach swoops. My chest flutters. My pulse spikes.
The second his gaze lands on me, Rowan’s up and out of his chair, striding to the door with that same fire in his eyes I’ve seen on the ice. That laser focus, that winning determination—he’s channeling it now, and for some reason, it’s aimed at me.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks, already reaching for my elbow to guide me out of the bakery.
Okay.
This shouldn’t be hot.
Really, it shouldn’t.
And yet—it very much is.
“What’s going on?” I ask once we’re outside.
“I’ve got secret intel,” he says, his eyes imploring now, his tone passionate. “And I need your help.”
A plea for help? That’s so unlike him. “Sure. What is it? Want me to hang some lights at your house? Decorate a tree? Make gingerbread? I’m your gal.”
“I knew you’d be the right person. It’s about thecompetition. They’re changing the rules,” he says in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone.
“Okay…but how does that affect us? I’m not competing,” I say, starting to get wary. “Is the mayor going to ask me to? Because if so, I’m going to need to practice my snowball throwing. Probably also snowman decorating. Maybe even cookie baking,” I ramble, already psyching myself up. “But I can do this. I can totally do this.”
A rare smile shifts his lips. “Of course you can. But actually, I was wondering if you could help me with the competition. I was asked to help coach a team. Evidently, the organizers are adding coaches for each team to make the event an even bigger deal or something.” Normally, I’d expect Rowan to snort out abah humbugwith a side of Christmas derision. Instead, he says, “And I was wondering if I could enlist you to be my…special Christmas advisor.”
Something inside me lights up. There’s never been a better title in all the land. “I’d love to.”
“Thank you. I definitely need the help,” he adds, but when I come down from the holiday high, something still isn’t quite sitting right with me.
I narrow my eyes his way. “Where is Rowan, and what have you done with him?”
