He taps his chest. “I’m right here.”
But—wait. Is he wearing…? I tilt my head, studying his sweater, or as much as I can see of it. “Rowan. What is that?”
He reaches for the lapels of his peacoat. “This? Just a coat.”
“No. Under it.”
“Oh, check this out. My teammates got it for me,” he says, amused.
He parts the coat, and I burst out laughing, pointing at him. “You’re wearing a Christmas sweater.”
Not just any Christmas sweater. It’s raunchy and ridiculous—Santa kneeling by a tree, setting down a gift, his pants riding low enough to reveal a black thong. He mentioned something about Santa’s ass and a thong the other night. I guess he meant this sweater.
“This is…so not you,” I say.
“Maybe it’s the new me,” he says. “The Evergreen Falls me.”
I’m not sold, even though I do like this side of him. “Really? You’re trying on a whole new personality for December? Soon you’re going to tell me you want a pear tart.”
“That won’t happen. But you can’t fault a guy for trying, can you? I’m just trying to get into the spirit. You did say I should try harder at dating.”
Maybe he’s turning over a new mistletoe leaf. “I like the sound of that,” I say—hesitant, but hopeful.
“Also, I got you a gingerbread coffee.” He nods toward the bakery.
“You did?”
“The flavored coffee. You like it, right?”
“Yes, I do. But how did you remember?”
I only drank that once with him—the day we went to the Christmas tree farm. “You told me it’s your favorite,” he says.
“It is,” I say, touched.
“And to think, we’re not even on our practice date yet.”
“Speaking of, why don’t we just go to the Candy Cane Diner tonight?”
With a smile that’s damn near dazzling—is thisRowan? Does he smile like that? With so much sunshine?—he says, “Sounds perfect.”
He guides me back inside with a hand on my elbow.
When we reach the counter, Aurora beams from behind it, blonde hair framing her fair complexion in soft, beachy waves, clipped back on the side with delicate silver barrettes in the shape of mistletoe. “So good to see you, Isla. I didn’t realize you were the Christmas angel Rowan was talking about.”
“Christmas angel?”
“He said he was ordering for someone special. And I have your very special Christmas coffee,” she says in her pretty French accent.
“Oh, that sounds great,” I say, still confused but also delighted.
Rowan parks an elbow against the display case stuffed with yuletide logs, fruitcakes, pear tarts, and all sorts of Christmas cookies. “I was just telling her how much you love Christmas and how I wanted you to have something special,” Rowan says, casual but cool as Aurora slides over a white ceramic mug painted with tiny Christmas lights.
He reaches for it. “It’s yours. The mug. I picked it up for you at the Mistletoe Emporium,” Rowan says. “Made by a local artist, and I know your favorite color is…Christmas lights.”
Who is this man? Giving me Christmas gifts. Ordering my favorite coffee. Wearing a Santa sweater that’s irreverent in a way that actually makes sense for him.
It’s like he’s trying to Christmas-seduce me.
