“What’s wrong? Did I upset you?”
She locks eyes with me, concern in hers. “Why would you upset me?”
“Because…” I blow out a breath. “I was kind of a dick there at the end.”
“You weren’t. I promise.”
It’s an exoneration, and I’m grateful. But still, I want to clear the air. “I don’t know. I kind of was. I was sort of all—fine, whatever.”
“It’s okay. I ruined the vibe. It’s just,” she says, then stops, and sighs, “earlier, my mom was asking if I still believe in love, and it made me wonder…”
I’m careful as I ask the hard question. “If you do?”
“Yeah,” she says, frowning. “I mean, I do. I’m a matchmaker. It’s just…”
“What is it?” I ask softly.
“Sometimes…the past hurts,” she whispers. “You know?”
My throat tightens, and I do know. “All too well.”
“Sometimes I think about how it felt to be lied to, and my chest aches a little.”
Hell, I feel the same. “I get it,” I say, stripping away the teasing, the sarcasm, the attitude.
She lowers her face. “And sometimes the present hurts too.”
I didn’t realize she was ever sad. Isla’s always been the happy sunshine woman, capable and ready to spread cheer at a moment’s notice. Able to solve any problem. Handle any situation. It’s her matchmaker persona.
But I have a hockey player persona—tough, unruffled,grumpy. I understand the roles we have to play thanks to our jobs.
Right now, I drop the persona, asking gently, “Did it hurt tonight?”
“It didn’t.” She frowns, though, her tone desperate. “But I want to do my job. I’m setting up dates for you in the coming week. This is what I was hired to do. I want to be good at it. It’s just hard sometimes when—” She reaches for my hand, slides her fingers through mine, saying, “When I want things I can’t have.”
My chest goes up in flames. My heart slams against my ribs. “Same,” I say roughly, as the lights wink on and off in the winter night.
Her thumb traces a faint circle against my hand. One, two, three. Like I did to her hip bone earlier. It turns me on beyond reason. It’s the best anything’s felt in a long,longtime.
All I want is more of her, but I won’t push. I suspect this is all she’ll allow. She lets go. “I can coach you, Rowan. But I can’t keep setting you up if I?—”
She doesn’t say it. Doesn’t have to. I hear it anyway.If I want to kiss you.
“I didn’t mean to pressure you tonight.” Only, I was absolutely trying to seduce her. Then, fuck it. Might as well tell her I was playing dirty. “Not gonna lie—I wanted you to have a great time tonight. A better time than you’ll have with Oliver,” I bite out, his name bitter on my tongue.
“You know about that?” she asks, pulling back.
I can’t strip the jealousy from my tone. “Jason mentioned it. When is the date?”
A smile spreads on her face, slow and satisfied. “About that…”
I jump on those two words. “About what, Isla?”
Her smile changes shape. Turns a little wicked. “This explains everything.”
“Explains what?”
“You. You were peacocking earlier in the bakery.”
