“Ah, well, everyone has something they’re passionate about. But no, I’m not writing your biography—I want to assess your situation so I can show you how to make it more fun.” Pen poised, I say, “Please describe your problematic situation in great detail.”
“Great detail seems extreme.”
“Okay, then do the best you can.”
Sighing, he moves his hand over the back of his neck. “It’s the holidays.”
“Yes, I was reminded of that by the Christmas plaid on your dad’s pants and the way your mom jingled her bells in my face.”
The smallest of smirks crosses his face. Oooh, look at that—he does have a sense of humor.
“There’s a romanticism to the holidays that I feel is projected onto us.”
“I can agree to that. It’s like the holidays roll around, and all of a sudden single people morph into neon signs for all their coupled-up friends. They take it upon themselves to either try to hook you up so you’re not alone on the holidays, or make you feel about two feet tall because you’re alone.”
“Exactly,” Cooper says, some life popping into his expression. “Why can’t a single person just be . . . single? Can’t that be good enough? Why do they have to be coupled up during the holidays?”
“Very valid point. So, is that what the situation is? You’re single around the holidays?”
“I don’t have a problem with it, but my parents are the ones who are starting to freak out. It’s been over a year since Dealia and I were even together. Apparently, that’s too long. Mom and Dad are worried, which led to tonight’s events.”
“Your parents taking it upon themselves to find you a nice girl on the streets of Seattle.”
“Exactly. And are they doing it out of the kindness of their hearts? Sure. Do they think they’re actually helping? I think they do. I truly think they don’t see how the entire situation is so humiliating.”
“And why precisely is it humiliating?” I ask, tapping my pen on my piece of paper. When he doesn’t answer, I roll my eyes. “You know, Cooper, I can’t possibly figure out how to make this a fun night if you don’t dive deep into the situation. I’m going to need a little more from you.”
He lets out a heavy sigh, drains the rest of his drink, and asks for another. “You want honesty?”
“I would love honesty.” I sip my beer.
When Earl drops off the drink, I’m surprised when Cooper closes the space between us, climbing to the stool next to mine. Instead of facing the bar, he turns toward me, knocking our knees slightly. It’s in this moment that I get a close-up look at his steel-gray eyes. I remember the first time I noticed his eyes—I was just a kid visiting Watchful Wanderers, his family’s outdoor goods store on Marina Island. He was chasing his sister, Palmer, around the hiking boots display. I was watching them curiously as they laughed, knocking over boots. It was the booming, chastising voice of Martin Chance that startled Cooper, freezing him in his tracks and making his eyes wide. I can still vividly see the look on his face, and I remember being . . . mesmerized by the color.
A color so light that his eyes almost felt unreal.
Now that he’s a grown man, his hair has darkened, and his symmetrical face is lined with thick scruff. His eyes have slightly aged, probably from the worry he carries, but it only heightens the intensity in his gaze. And his face has thinned out, carving his jaw in a more prominent line, any portrait artist’s dream. Even though I probably shouldn’t, I can honestly say he’s probably one of the most handsome men I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Pair his looks with the gruff attitude, the grumpy disposition and . . . hell, what am I even saying? I shouldn’t be internally commenting on any of this, on his looks, on his raw sexual magnetism.
Did I say “sexual magnetism”？
Wow, okay.
Deep breaths, Nora.
You can’t possibly be breaking out in a light sweat.
There is no way your heart is pounding a little faster with one glance from him.
And there is no way his voice feels like a warm blanket wrapping around you during a chilly night.
Nope.
Mentally nibbles on lip
Oh God.
I find Cooper Chance attractive—dangerously so.
As this realization sinks in, I force myself back to the matter at hand and focus on the man beside me. With his hand gripping his new glass of whiskey, Cooper twists it against the bar top as his gaze falls to the paper I’ve been writing on.