The Mistle Bros slide into the next song: Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me.”
People come and go on the dance floor around us. I barely notice them. Pretty sure Isla’s in this bubble too. As I clasp her tighter, the electricity between us cracks and pops. The air is charged. I lift a hand and sweep a strand of hair off her neck, cataloguing her shivery reaction as we sway to an Elvis-esque rendition of “Santa Claus is Back in Town.”
This is merely a practice date, I tell myself.
But it feels thoroughly real at the end of the tune when the singer pumps his hips to the line about coming down the chimney, and Isla whispers my name in a throaty voice, “Rowan.”
It’s full of heat and longing. Yes, fucking yes. Playing dirty worked. If she didn’t drive, maybe I can drive her home and kiss the fuck out of her in the name of practice dating. Let her feel the imprint of my lips when she goes out with that other guy.
“Yes, Isla?” I ask.
But her hands fly off my shoulders and she wrenches back, all businesslike and clinical. “You did great tonight,” Isla says cheerfully. “Good job. Amazing job. Incredible practice.” She swings her gaze to the door. “I should…go.”
It’s like an icy-cold bucket of reality poured over my head. “All right. Practice date is over,” I bite out as the song warbles on, and I stand stupidly on the dance floor wondering what the hell just happened.
“Yes. It is,” she says, her voice tight.
No clue why she’s brushing me off but she clearly is. She turns, and we shuffle through tables on the way to our booth. She grabs her scarf and coat.
I’m chilled to the bone, and I say nothing as I pay the bill, snag my jacket, and walk her out of the diner. It’s as cold as an ice rink tonight. Fitting. I scan the street, hunting for those infernal Christmas lights on her red car. I’m sure it’s somewhere nearby—then I can put her in it and say goodbye.
“Where’s your car?” I ask, but it comes out gruff.
“I didn’t drive.” She sounds…nervous? Upset?
Oh, shit. I can’t be that guy—the one who ends a date pissed off because she didn’t kiss him. The one who thinks she owes him something for a dance. That’s not me. That’s never been me.
“I can get a Lyft, though,” she adds quickly, apologetically.
I snap out of my very momentary funk. “No. Don’t. Let me drive you.” I sound borderline desperate, but…I am.
“That would be great,” she says, seeming relieved. “The Lyft sometimes takes forever.”
We head to my car, and I open the passenger door, wanting to kick myself for having been so curt. Inside, I’mquiet. I don’t know what to say. I feel like an ass for thinking we were going to kiss—for being annoyed, even for a second, that we didn’t. Who the fuck am I?
I chew on my irritation as I wind my way up the hills to her family’s house. Jason’s not here—there wasn’t enough room for him, Natalie, and the kids, so they rented a cabin.
When we reach her parents’ home, I cut the engine. The porch light’s on, but the house seems quiet and still. Festive, though, since colored lights flicker on the bushes. Blue and white icicles blink on and off along the roof, and a white and silver decorative reindeer stands tall in the front yard.
“I can see where you get it,” I say.
Moonlight casts a soft glow across her face and her faint smile. “My parents are festive. And very much in love,” she says, then winces. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”
I don’t either, but she sounds…thrown off. I really need to try harder. Not to seduce her. But to listen. “That’s good though. That they’re happy.”
“Is it?”
“Well, yeah,” I say, emphatic since she seems so…uncertain.
“I thought you didn’t believe in that,” she says, but sadness weighs down her words, and I hardly ever hear that from her.
“I believe in it for other people,” I say, then tilt my head, studying her face, trying to read her. Her blue eyes are more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen them. “But don’t you?”
She nibbles on her lips and takes a second too long to answer. “I do.”
“Isla,” I press, like I’m calling her on it.
She shakes her head. “It’s fine.”
