Chapter 2 #2
An hour later, I’m sitting on Nina’s overstuffed couch, wrapped in a throw blanket and nursing a cup of cocoa that’s bigger than my current bank balance.
If Nina someday has kids, she’s going to be the best mom.
To be honest, this is exactly what I need right now.
Actually, I need to be typing a hundred words a minute, but perhaps the chocolate will motivate me.
She plops down beside me and tucks her feet under her.
“So let me get this straight. You gave up your apartment in Cheyenne and planned to stay in your childhood home while you finish your book because you’re tight on cash.
Now you’re essentially homeless because your roof risks collapsing at the fall of the first snowflake? ”
Sighing, I wish it weren’t so. “That about sums it up. Plus, I blew my emergency fund on four new tires because, apparently, they were as bald as—”
“—as the last guy who asked you out,” Nina finishes, recalling a text I sent her about my dating woes.
Eager for a change of topic, I ask, “Was a Christmas elf turned loose in here after gobbling up an entire container of marshmallows?”
Nina runs the Busy Bee Bakery and makes her own marshmallows. When she was preparing our hot chocolate, she apologized profusely because she was fresh out. Instead, she topped my mug with homemade whipped cream, candy cane bits, and chocolate shavings.
A massive tree dominates one corner, dripping with ornaments, a showpiece in her usually minimalist, Scandinavian-style space. Garlands frame every doorway, and—oh no.
“Is that mistletoe?” I point accusingly at the sprig hanging from the entryway.
Nina reminds me of Cara Badaszek and Pierre Arsenault’s holiday happily ever after, which was the talk of the town last year. “I’m embracing the merry kiss me season. Unlike some people.” My bestie gives me a not-so-subtle side-eye.
“I’m not anti-Christmas. I’m just romantically realistic.”
“Says the woman who writes love stories for a living.”
“Writing about love is different from believing in it.”
The truth is, I write about love because I want it to exist, to be real. I’m just afraid that it’ll never happen for me.
Nina studies me over her cocoa. “You know what would help your book proposal? Actual experience. When was the last time you were kissed, Bree?”
My cheeks instantly burn. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“That long, huh?” Nina’s gaze lights up with that look I’ve known since third grade—the one that precedes terrible ideas.
“Whatever it is, no,” I say.
She rubs her hands together like she’s brewed up a diabolical plan. “I have a proposition. A bet, actually … a dare,” she adds, doubling down.
“No,” I repeat reflexively.
She mock pouts. “You haven’t even heard it!”
“The last time you had that look, we ended up with matching tattoos.”
“And the little stars on my hip and the mini book on yours are adorable.”
I roll my eyes at the ill-conceived idea that getting tattoos would make our dreams come true—Nina to be an astronaut (yes, really) and me to be a writer.
She runs the bakery and seems happy enough.
I reached my goal and am slightly miserable.
I blame that on a stupid, stubborn case of writer’s block.
She sing-songs, “You need a muse.”
“I definitely don’t.”
She claps her hands together. “Here’s the deal. The next person who knocks on that door, you have to kiss under the mistletoe.”
I snort. “Absolutely not.”
She leans forward. “What happened to the Bree who never backed down from a challenge? Besides, it might help with that mail-order bride story you’re stuck on. Think of it as research!”
“That’s ridiculous. No one’s even going to—”
The doorbell rings.
Nina’s eyebrows shoot up as we both freeze.
“No,” I whisper.
“Yes,” she whispers back, a grin spreading across her face.
Eyes bulging with panic, I shake my head.
“How about we sweeten the pot? I just got a Christmas bonus from my online orders and it’ll be enough to cover what you spent on those new tires, so you can still buy Christmas gifts.”
“You’re your own boss.”
“Exactly. It’s not like anyone else was going to give me a bonus.”
But I do need money. This gets me moving. It’s probably just the delivery guy with another package from the online shopping spree for decorations that Nina said she went on last night.
Fueled by chocolate and daring, I give myself a pep talk. I’ve done hard things. What some may say are wild things, all in the name of my craft. I’ve lived at a dude ranch, crossed the Atlantic on a ship, and am not afraid of spiders.
I’ve never backed down from a dare. Plus, I need a little extra cash, even if I will insist on paying Nina back because I consider her generosity a loan. If that means locking lips with a stranger, so be it.
Setting down my empty hot cocoa mug, I tell myself I’m going to kiss the guy outside like my future depends on it. Give him a kiss he’ll never forget. That he’ll be thinking about it for years to come.
I got this.
I march to the door and yank it open with determination. Without giving myself time to reconsider, I reach up, grab the fabric of a dark blue jacket, and press my lips against the stranger’s.
For one suspended moment, the world narrows. All I can think about is the surprising tenderness of his mouth against mine, his fresh, minty scent, and a spark of something I haven’t felt in years.
Then I hear Nina gasp behind me and reality crashes back.
I pull away, mortified, and find myself staring into a pair of warm brown eyes that suddenly widen with recognition. Eyes I know. Eyes that belong to a face that’s matured but is unmistakably familiar.
“Bree Darling?” he says, his asymmetrical smile—slightly higher on the left—spreading slowly across his face.
My mouth parts. “Of course it’s you.” I cover my face with my hands, laughing despite my mortification. “Of course I’d dare-kiss my college nemesis under mistletoe. This is very on-brand for my life. What’s next? I trip and fall into the Christmas tree and have you catch me?”
His laughter mingles with mine. “College nemesis?”
“The guy who teased me mercilessly?” I’m smiling now, the absurdity of the situation hitting me. “You know what? This is perfect. This is exactly the kind of ridiculous meet cute I’d reject in a manuscript for being too unbelievable—and yet here we are.”
“Meet cute?”
“The kiss.” My blush reaches my toes.
He says, “Well, that was a mighty fine holiday welcome.”
My stomach drops as I practically drown in a flood of memories.
Hockey star.
College newspaper.
“I’ll marry you someday.”
The interview that became a campus joke.
“Fletch Turley.” My tone is half whine, half plea for help.
“As if you could forget.” And he’s as cocky as ever.
I’m still reeling from the kiss. From what I did. “I—I thought you were the delivery guy.”
He holds up a small package in his very large hand. “Close. Just dropping this off. It was left at my door by mistake.” His eyes flick upward to the mistletoe, then back to me, and the dimple in his chin deepens as his smile grows. “I’m not complaining about the mix-up.”
Behind me, Nina makes a choking sound that might be suppressed laughter.
“This isn’t—” I stammer. “I didn’t—”
“Bree never backs down from a bet,” Nina supplies helpfully, appearing at my shoulder.
Fletch’s eyebrow raises. “Still the same Bree, then. Fearless.”
Never mind a hole in the roof, I want to sink through the floorboards.
This is not happening. The momentary attraction I felt was clearly temporary insanity.
Holiday stress. Deadline doom. A big ‘ole mug of liquid chocolate and whipped cream on an empty stomach. Definitely not the reawakening of a crush that lasted all of twenty-four glorious hours—a crush I’d buried years ago.
“Thanks for the package,” I say, snatching it from his hand. Our fingers brush and a thrill of excitement does not tingle through me. No, it’s the heat of embarrassment, same as ever. “Sorry about the ... misunderstanding.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat. “No apology necessary. Though next time, maybe we could try dinner first.”
My cheeks blaze. “There won’t be a next time.”
“We’ll see,” he says with infuriating confidence, backing down the porch steps.
My lips move, but for someone whose job it is to use her words, none come out.
He adds, “Welcome home, Bree. I have a feeling this Christmas is going to be merry interesting.”
As I close the door, I want to holler, Good riddance, but wait … did he just say very or merry?
More like holly-hollow and unjolly.
Except, for the first time in what feels like years, my fingers are burning to write. Not about mail-order brides or cowboys. Instead, about a hockey player with an asymmetrical smile who once made a ridiculous promise.
One that will not be happening. Not today. Not ever.
The next morning, after I’ve had coffee and attempted to write (unsuccessfully), Nina appears with her laptop and an expression I know too well—the one that means she has an idea.
“I’ve been thinking about your writer’s block,” she says, settling onto the couch beside me.
I puff my cheeks with a breath because that’s not my preferred topic of conversation before chocolate, despite the fact that it’s all I can think about.
She lifts her hands in preemptive surrender. “Hear me out. You need something fresh. Something you’ve never done before and that requires research.”
She pulls up a website on her laptop titled Heartland Happily Ever After.
“What exactly is this?” I squint at the screen.
She waves dismissively. “Just a matchmaking service with the usual stuff like a sophisticated matching algorithm, compatibility testing, trial period.”
“Do I want to know why you’re well-versed in matchmaking standards?”
Ignoring me, she continues, “Here’s the interesting part.” She points to a section labeled Participant Benefits. “They offer a stipend of five thousand dollars, Bree. It’s enough to cover your bills and buy you time to write.”
Five thousand dollars. Bills with red words of warning on them flash through my mind.
“And I just have to ... go on some dates?”
“Meet your match, see if you’re compatible, do the trial period thing.
It’s basically extended dating with research benefits.
” Nina’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “Come on, how many of your historical heroines would love a setup like this? You get to live your book! Think of it as immersive research—publishers love that angle.”
It sounds so simple. So reasonable. A meet cute with financial benefits and research potential. And if I can tell Meredith I actually participated in a modern matchmaking service for research, I might just be able to salvage my career or crash and burn.
“I don’t know, Nina. It feels desperate.”
“You’ve been telling me for years that love isn’t real. That it only exists in your books.” She crosses her arms. “So prove it. Sign up, go through the process, and if you still don’t believe in love after thirty days, I’ll never bug you about it again.”
I stare at her. “That’s manipulative.”
“That’s a challenge. And you never back down from a challenge.” Her grin is knowing.
With a sinking feeling, I already know what’s going to happen.
“Besides, if you’re right—if love really is just fiction—then you’ll walk away with five thousand dollars, a finished manuscript, and the satisfaction of being able to say ‘I told you so’ for the rest of your life.”
When she puts it that way ...
“Fine, I’ll do it. But when this proves me right, you have to admit I was correct all along and give me free cookies from the bakery for the rest of my life.”
“I can arrange that.”
However, it seems too sweet, too good to be true. What if I’ve been wrong all along?