Chapter 6
After texting with Lane, I handle my phone like I need oven mitts. It’s not actually scalding, but it may as well be.
Earlier, his voice was like sandpaper in the best possible way—rough around the edges but immensely comforting, like he’s the kind of guy who knows how to deal with challenging circumstances without panicking.
Our conversation was perfectly reasonable, suitably adult. We agreed to meet, discuss our options, and fix this situation swiftly and quietly without a fuss.
So why did I feel compelled to text him about how when life happens, I bake, making it so now I feel like I just agreed to jump out of an airplane without checking if my parachute works? It could be because my ears are still a bit blocked from the early morning flight.
I shake my head and focus on getting ready. This isn’t a date. It’s a business meeting. A very strange, potentially life-altering business meeting with a man I sort of accidentally married, but still.
Business.
Except, instead of throwing on my usual uniform of leggings and whatever Busy Bee T-shirt happens to be clean, I find myself standing in front of my closet, considering my options.
The cream cashmere sweater is elegant. The blue blouse makes my eyes pop.
This is ridiculous, because it’s not like we’re going to stay married and I need to keep up appearances.
Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
At the moment, I could use a little assistance.
Where are my girls when I need them? Right, still in Vegas, likely having brunch.
I agreed to the trip on one condition: I got back home as early as possible the next day.
Leaving the bakery, especially in its current indebted state, made me fear I’m failing Bibi.
But the sight of my reflection in the mirror is a situation that needs addressing now.
There are bad hair days, and then there are haystack-hair days. Today is definitely the latter. No wonder I got a few odd looks when I took my hat off on the plane.
Note to self: Don’t sleep in a fancy updo and think it’ll still look good on the second day.
Ten minutes of brushing, smoothing, and applying hair products from Juniper’s salon, I look marginally more human and significantly less like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.
Pizzaz. Sure, Emerson.
This will have to be good enough for a dissolution-of-accidental-marriage meeting.
Why am I so jittery? It’s not as if he wants to give us a shot.
I’m grabbing my keys to head over to the bakery early, aka my happy place, when my phone rings.
Yes, I bake at home, too. No, I never tire of it.
I guess that’s the upside of my life goals going in a very unexpected direction. Considering I also got married by a hypnotist last night, I suppose this is all par for the course—though, women’s hockey is more my sport than golf.
The number isn’t labeled, but it is familiar.
My stomach swims with nerves. The bakery’s landlord is calling. After they increased the monthly cost, I got behind in making payments. They sent a final notice, but because I’m holding out hope that I can make a stack of money materialize, I’ve been avoiding all forms of communication.
Admittedly, not my finest moment.
Ignoring the call, at the same time, someone pounds on my front door hard enough to rattle the Christmas wreath I haven’t taken down yet. My blood pressure shoots through the chimney. Are they here to arrest me?
Someone calls, “Nina Elizabeth Bruun, open this door right now!”
Then I realize it’s Bree.
I barely get the door unlocked before she’s pushing her way inside, followed by what appears to be half the Nebraska Knights’ wives’ auxiliary at my house on Sweet Corn Court.
“We came as soon as we heard,” Jess announces, holding a Bundt cake aloft like it’s a peace offering.
“Heard what?” I ask weakly, though I’m pretty sure I already know.
“That you’re meeting with your husband this afternoon.” Ella parades inside along with Gracie and Jess.
Whit follows behind her with a plate of cookies and a gallon of fresh milk from her cows.
“He’s not my husband,” I protest automatically. “I mean, technically he is, but—”
“But nothing,” Gracie interrupts, her romantic heart practically glowing. “You’re married to Lane Sheridan Junior. Do you have any idea how many women would kill to be in your position?”
“Probably the same number who would kill to get out of it,” I mutter.
Bree gives me a look that could melt steel. “After we hightailed it back here in your hour of celebration, don’t you dare try to act like this is some terrible tragedy. You pushed me into that mail-order bride situation with Fletch, and look how that turned out.”
I knew it!
That’s what I call sneaky revenge. But she couldn’t have known I’d end up married to a hockey player.
That was pure chance. Sure, the odds were high given the guests at the event, but still.
Then again, Lucian Little did ask me if I’d met my true love.
The guy with the green eyes instantly came to mind.
Even in my hazy state, his image was as clear as a biscuit—which I suddenly feel like baking.
The stress is real. But is love at first sight?
“That was completely different. You made that choice as research for your romance novel. I was under hypnosis!” I protest.
“Were you?” Whit narrows her eyes, settling into my favorite armchair like she’s planning to stay awhile. “Because I watched the video, and you looked pretty aware to me.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Because she’s not wrong. The more I think about last night, the more I remember. And what I remember doesn’t feel like hypnosis. It feels like ... free will.
Which is impossible. Right?
Ella calls from my kitchen, “Where do you keep your cocoa? I’m making hot chocolate.”
“Please don’t,” several of us reply.
But it’s too late. Ella is many wonderful things, but a good cook or beverage preparer is not one of them.
Five minutes later, we’re all gathered on my comfy, overstuffed couch with mugs of what can only generously be called cocoa. It’s tepid water filled with lumps of powder and delusions of grandeur. But we drink it anyway because Ella made it with love.
My house is still decorated for Christmas—I never take anything down until Epiphany—so twinkling lights, garland, and the general sense that hope might actually exist in the world surround us. Which feels oddly appropriate given my current situation.
Bree rubs her hands together with the determination of someone who’s not leaving until she gets answers. “Tell us everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell. We were hypnotized and accidentally got married. End of story. Might I remind you, you were there and all of you are responsible for volunteering me.”
Gracie sighs dreamily. “That’s not the end. That’s just the beginning.”
“The beginning of what? A really expensive legal mess?”
“The beginning of your love story,” Jess says as if it’s obvious.
I nearly choke on Ella’s questionable cocoa. “Love story? I don’t even know the guy!”
“But you will,” Whit says pragmatically.
Emerson, whom I hadn’t even noticed was here, says, “You left out a very important part.”
I wrinkle my nose in question.
“Auld, lang, swoon! You didn’t tell them that earlier last night, you saw each other from across the room.
Heart eyes were exchanged. A connection was made.
I could practically see the little love arrows piercing both of you as a pair of invisible magnets drew you together.
Not even a room full of people could keep you apart.
And let’s not forget that you danced.” She emphasizes the last part and then lets out a long and dream-like sigh.
Everyone leans in, not privy to this info.
“Well, yeah. But it was brief. Casual. Dancing with someone for one song isn’t grounds for marriage.”
Dismissing me, Bree adds, “The whole town is buzzing about this. The video is everywhere. People are calling it the most romantic thing they’ve ever seen.”
Leave it to Mrs. Gormely and the rest of the town gossips to spread the word.
“Mrs. Rice told Heidi to tell me how happy she was for you,” Leah adds.
Jess grins. “Grandma Dolly commented that this is exactly the kind of excitement Cobbiton needs.” And by Cobbiton, the nosy nelly means my non-existent love life.
“Margo wants to know if you’re planning a reception,” Ella chimes in.
“The Cobbiton Activities Commission is already talking about decorating Main Street.”
“Isn’t Juniper the head of the CAC?”
“Yes, and she already has Mayor Nishimura’s permission.”
I sink deeper into my couch cushions and flop the back of my hand dramatically over my face. “I haven’t even been married for twenty-four hours. This is already a disaster.”
“This is good for business,” Bree corrects.
I shoot to a seated position. “How so?”
Whit says, “Locals and out of towners alike are going to come to the Busy Bee just to see the woman who married Lane Sheridan Junior in Vegas. The other half is going to come hoping to catch a glimpse of him when he visits.”
“If he visits,” I mutter.
“Oh, he’ll visit,” Gracie says with the confidence of someone who believes in winning over hockey’s most hardened hearts.
I want to argue, but something about the way Lane sounded on the phone—careful but not dismissive, practical but not cold—makes a little ember of hope flare inside, but that’s foolish.
“Speaking of LSJ,” Jess says, her voice taking on a strange tone.
The girls exchange a glance.
Bree says, “Do you know who his father is?”
“His father?”
“Lane Sheridan Senior,” Jess supplies.
Whit says, “The Utah Mustangs ex-captain. Coach now. One of the greatest centers of all time.”
I set down my mug and, like trying to see through puffs of flour in a messy kitchen, the name is familiar. I should know the significance, but it eludes me.
“Jess had a big fat crush on him.” Cara cackles.