Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
She tilts her head and looks at me askance.
Oh, crud. She thinks I’ve lost my mind. Why didn’t I pick something more universally beloved? I scan the list again, not panicking at all. “But maybe I should bid on this…gift basket of jams.”
The man harrumphs. “In my day, we didn’t have jam.”
I struggle to think of a reply to this unlikely claim. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a stream of red punch cascading into a large pot of poinsettias and choke back a horrified laugh at Rowan’s predicament. Must keep my attention on the faux-fur woman and the auction excitement.
“There’s also an afternoon at this brand-new restaurant with fire pits where you can roast your own chestnuts.” I beam at the woman. “Who doesn’t want chestnuts roasting on an open fire?”
The woman adjusts her bolero with a dramatic flick. “Darling, who wants little nuts when you can have a life-size nutcracker? Is it a proper forty-eight inches though?”
She actually wants a life-size nutcracker? My eyes dart to the item, quickly finding the number. “It’s your lucky night! It is exactly four feet tall. And the accompanying nutcracker friends are thirty-six inches tall, from the toes of their shoes to the top of their hats.”
She snaps her gaze to her companion. “Arthur, be a dear and bid on that for me. And I don’t want to hear a word about how they didn’t have nutcrackers back in your day.”
“They didn’t, though,” he mutters.
She rolls her eyes and turns back to me. “Next thing you know, he’ll be telling me they didn’t have punch then either.” She looks at the table and frowns in confusion at the large, crystal-bowl-size space next to the punch glasses and ladle. “Speaking of punch…”
“We were just about to top it off.” I gesture vaguely in the direction of the bar.
The woman eyes me up and down, perhaps wondering why I’m dressed like a guest and not a server, but then she shrugs. “I appreciate that, but I’d rather mine be self-spiked.” She reaches into her little vintage handbag and takes out the tiniest silver flask I’ve ever seen, waggling it and winking at me. “I’ll be back to handle that part myself.”
She sashays off with her husband in tow, and a moment later, the ruggedly handsome hockey star returns with the now-empty crystal bowl.
“I saw the opponent barreling down my forward, I had to improvise,” he explains in hockey terms. “Couldn’t be seen lugging punch around. Now we’re just helpfully bringing an empty bowl to the bartender.”
“Let’s do it,” I say brightly, relieved to have pulled off that distraction. But what if he consigned the poinsettias to an early death? “I hope you don’t kill them with your tainted punch.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “No one likes poinsettias.”
“I like poinsettias,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Really?”
“Yes! They’re pretty!”
He rubs the back of his neck, looking more sheepish than smug now. “Plants like water. Punch is mostly water.”
But while he gets an A for effort, it’ll be easier if I handle the rest myself. I reach for the punch bowl. “I’ll take it from here.” I keep my tone light since I don’t want to let on I’m a little peeved.
He holds tight though. “Nope. My fuck-up. My fix. I’m in it till the bitter end.”
“Killing a plant is hardly a fix,” I say.
“It’s all good.” Rowan gestures to the poinsettia, which looks healthier than it did before, as if mocking me. “See?” he points out. “Also, you’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”
His full lips curve again into a cocky grin, while his green-eyed gaze holds mine for longer than necessary. Why do frustrating men need to be so sexy? It’s unfair the way his tailored slacks define his muscular thighs, not to mention the snug fit of his custom dress shirt. The net effect makes my stomach do a traitorous flip.
I fight off the wave of tingles and raise my chin. “Fine, but let me take the lead this time.”
He sweeps out an arm. “Lead the way, Miss Christmas.” He sounds like he’s having too much fun. It’s best for me to be all business though.
We head to the bar, where I’m prepared to beg the bartender in the nicest, sweetest way for copious amounts of cranberry juice and Sprite.
When we arrive, there’s no line. Hurray for small miracles. But there is a gleaming silver tip jar that might be an obstacle in my sweet-talk plan.
Rowan sets down the bowl, grabs his wallet, and fishes out a big bill, speaking before I even get a chance.
“Hey, man. How you doing?” he asks, sliding into bro-banter friendliness.
“Good. And you?” the man asks.
“We’ll be real excellent if you can mix us some new punch, stat? And, ideally, don’t say a word about why we need it.” Rowan tips his chin my way. “My friend will give you an amazing recipe.”