Chapter 4
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I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for two hours. The words swim before my eyes, mocking me with their clunkiness, the mismatched metaphors, their inadequacy.
My heroine, Lorna, is supposed to be having her first meeting with her mail-order groom, but everything I write sounds stiff and unbelievable.
“This is hopeless,” I mutter, closing my laptop with a pout.
Nina glances over from where she’s wiping down the display case at the Busy Bee, her bakery that smells of cinnamon and comfort. I’ve been camped at a corner table all morning, nursing the same cup of tea that went cold hours ago.
“Writer’s block?” she asks sympathetically.
“Writer’s canyon,” I correct.
“I have chocolate.”
“I’ve eaten my allotment for the … year.”
She laughs like I’m joking and refills the napkins at the coffee station.
“I can’t make this mail-order bride plot feel authentic. It’s too contrived.” My voice ventures toward a whine and I’m not proud of that.
Nina raises an eyebrow. “Says the woman who’s been running from romance her entire adult life.”
Like a toddler, I protest, “I don’t run from romance. I just don’t believe in the kind I write about.” No, I sprint.
“Exactly my point.” She flips the Open sign to Closed and turns the lock.
I huff, paging through my notes with ink-stained fingers, desperate for something to leap out at me, swat me across the head, and say, This is the missing piece to the romance puzzle, now get writing!
“You can’t write what you don’t believe. You need some firsthand experience,” Nina says over her shoulder.
“Are we really going to have this conversation again?”
She raises an eyebrow. “I thought we already came up with a solution.”
I squinch up my face because it was an ill-conceived idea fueled by copious amounts of hot chocolate. I really should probably lay off the stuff.
“You’re not backing out now. We already filled out all those questionnaires.”
I regret agreeing to Nina’s ill-conceived idea for how to break my writer’s block.
The kind publishers love to put in marketing materials. The author lived as a mail-order bride to write this authentic romance!
I put Heartland Happily Ever After: a modern mail-order matchmaking service, out of mind.
I skimmed the details while Nina, insistent this was the solution, filled out most of the questionnaire for me. I was too tired and desperate to read the fine print.
What I did pay attention to was that they offered a stipend for participants.
Enough to cover this month’s student loan payment, buy groceries, and keep me afloat while I finish this book.
And if I can write about the experience of being matched through a service like this, maybe Meredith will see that I haven’t lost my edge.
That I can still deliver something fresh and authentic.
“I know, but—” I begin.
“No buts, except for that cute one in those jeans. I need to get a pair,” Nina interrupts, sliding into the chair across from me.
“They’re from a thrift store in Wyoming. Second hand—” Along with everything else in my life lately, including but not limited to love.
“Think about it from a historical perspective. Your character, Lorna, is basically what they used to call a picture bride, right? Women who married men they’d never met based on exchanged photographs and letters back in the old days?”
“Yes, but—”
She cocks her head, daring me to object again. “This service matches people based on personality profiles rather than photos. It’s practically the same concept, just with algorithms instead of sepia-toned images and handwritten letters.”
I tip my head from side to side—my body and mind arguing about relenting.
Physical me is interested in survival and to do that, I need a place to live, which means earning money since I already spent my last advance on basic living expenses and tuition payments.
Mental and emotional me will stubbornly stay bogged down and keep dreaming until the cows come home—or not, because I don’t have one of those at present.
Well, I do, but the Victorian on Cornsilk is a dump.
She taps my closed laptop. “This is legitimate research and probably a tax write-off.”
As if that’s the worst of my problems.
I sigh. “I just don’t think I’m cut out for a blind date marriage, I mean, that’s the end game, right? What if the guy is weird?”
“Or the man of your dreams.”
“Yes, let’s not forget about the not-so-little detail of marriage,” I practically bark the last part because what is little about marrying someone? Nothing. That’s what.
“Just think, a happily ever after.”
“Or he could be dangerous?”
“Love always is.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“But it would be a scheduled meeting in public, not at a secluded cabin in the woods,” Nina points out.
“What if he’s an ogre?”
Her gaze slants and she looks at me carefully. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about Fletch. Had the man not looked at you with longing in his eyes, I’d break girl code and chase him down myself.”
I hoot a laugh. “He has the personality of an ogre, so I’d recommend avoiding him at all costs.” But he is undeniably handsome with that dimple in his chin, the crooked smile, and with eyes as delicious and devilish as chocolate.
Nina claps her hands on her thighs. “If that’s the case, mail-order hubby here we come. And don’t worry, I’ll be nearby if you need rescuing.”
Rescuing me from these thoughts about a guy who’s irrelevant to me? More like as irrelevant as my ever-increasingly pink cheeks. Scrambling, I shove away all things Fletch Turley. The guy is a menace … to my emotions.
With a wink, Nina says, “I know you’re thinking about him.”
“Actually, I was wondering what was in the package he dropped off.”
“See, I was right.”
“For the record, I find it hard to believe he looked at me with longing. Pfft.”
Breezing by my comment, apparently also deemed irrelevant, Nina now appeals to my financially desperate situation. “In the Heartland agreement, there was mention of a new couple stipend paid for by the groom and/or his sponsor, even though that’s not very romantic. It could help you out right now.”
I fiddle with my empty teacup, retreating to my pity party corner. “I write romance. I don’t live it.”
“That’s exactly the problem. You’ve spent your whole life as the sidekick in the romantic comedy, never the lead.” Nina gives me a look that’s equal parts affection and exasperation.
I wince, knowing she’s right. I’m always the best friend, the confidante, the shoulder to cry on. Never the one with the epic love story. And if I’m honest with myself, maybe that’s why my writing has hit a wall.
Nina inhales a slow breath. “Is this about Isaac? Or Chris?”
The names still sting, even years later. Isaac used me for trigonometry help in high school before publicly announcing he thought I was cool but wasn’t interested in dating a “walking textbook.” Chris, a college boyfriend, moved on because I was “too in my head” and “not spontaneous enough.”
“Not everything is about my tragic romantic history,” I say, but we both know it’s a lie.
“Speaking of romance … if you’d rather, we could talk about that kiss under the mistletoe?” Even though Nina is arguably one of the friendliest people in Cobbiton—ask any of her customers—she has a diabolical streak.
My cheeks darken. “You dared me. It was a bet. Thanks for helping me replenish my bank account. But we all know that the kiss meant nothing.”
“Really? Because your face says otherwise.”
“My face is probably hot from being in a bakery all morning,” I snark.
She says, “I think it was good for you. Think of that sweet smooch as training wheels.”
“Training wheels?”
“For getting back in the saddle.” She pauses. “That metaphor got away from me. Horses don’t have training wheels.”
“Neither do functioning adults who know better than to kiss strangers,” I retort.
“Mr. Hockey Captain from college wasn’t a stranger though, was he?” Her voice turns sly.
I groan. “I’m hoping we can forget about that.”
“Remind me of the story again?” She grins, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her fists.
With a forlorn exhale, I say, “I was covering the championship game for the school paper. He was the star player who scored the winning goal. During the interview, I asked where he saw himself in ten years, and he said—”
She lets out a fluttery sigh. “‘I’m going to marry you someday.’”
“Wow. Good memory.”
“And you actually put it in the article.”
“It was a direct quote. I was being a professional journalist.”
“And it was quite the talk of the town at the pageant planning meeting.”
I feel my eyes go cartoonishly large. “What do you mean?”
Nina explains that the Nebraska Knights do a lot of volunteer work around Cobbiton and were on set. “It came up.”
I point to the floor. “I’m just going to hide under the table now.”
“I haven’t swept yet. Anyway, from what I can tell, he’s grown up nicely,” Nina observes casually.
Those hockey players do a fine job filling out a jersey, but I refuse to admit I noticed how Fletch’s broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his shirt, or how his gaze rested steadily yet softly upon mine with a strange kind of familiar hope.
Or the crisp, minty scent of him that reminded me of winter mornings.
There’s something magnetic about Fletch Turley—the way he takes up space in a room without trying, the baritone of his laugh, those rough hands that tell the story of his career with their calluses. He’s not just physically imposing, he has a presence that’s hard to ignore.
My phone pings just as I’m about to respond to Nina’s knowing smirk. I fish it out of my bag, grateful for the distraction.
But the distraction evaporates when I see the notification.
From: HeartlandHEA@
Subject: Your Mail-Order Match Has Been Selected!
“No way,” I breathe.
Nina, reading over my shoulder, nearly drops her broom. “You’ve been matched. That was fast. Open it.”
I shake my head. She reaches for my phone, but I draw it to my chest because she’s done enough damage—friendly, loving damage, but still.
I open the email, my heart pounding irrationally like I ran a marathon, never mind sprinted. It’s surprisingly detailed—personality analysis, compatibility metrics, and shared interests. The compatibility score is in the top one percent, which seems suspiciously high.
Nina reads aloud over my shoulder, “‘We’ve matched you with someone who shares your love of classic movies, enjoys both quiet evenings and adventure activities, and values honesty above all else.’”
No name. No photo. Just a match number and instructions for a public first meeting.
“This is a sign that you’re going to get your book written,” Nina says, squeezing my upper arm.
“Or the algorithm is just doing what it was designed to do,” I counter.
“Try to make it sound less romantic, why don’t you?” Nina takes my empty teacup from the table.
I scroll further down in the email and my stomach sinks. “There’s a significant cancellation fee if I back out now that I’ve been matched.”
“See? It’s meant to be. Plus, think about Lorna. Your readers—and thereby your fictional mail-order bride—deserve your first-hand account of a true mail-order marriage, don’t they?”
I can’t argue with that. My characters are central figures in my life—sometimes more real to me than actual humans. I do owe it to them and my readers to get this right.
But there’s something else, something I’m reluctant to admit even to myself.
A tiny, persistent voice wondering if maybe there’s a reason I write about love finding unlikely heroines.
Perhaps some small part of me still hopes it could happen, even to someone who’s always been too serious, too bookish, and too much in her head.
At last, I say, “Fine. One meeting. For research.”
“For research,” Nina agrees with a knowing smile.
Or a lifetime of marriage misery.
“Be sure to wear the green sweater that brings out your eyes. You know, for Lorna.” She winks.
As we leave the bakery, I find myself wondering what kind of man the algorithm matched me with. Someone serious and bookish like me? Or my opposite—spontaneous and adventurous?
And why, despite this potentially perfect match waiting for me, can I not stop thinking about the feel of Fletch’s lips against mine? The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled? The ridiculous promise made in a college interview that somehow still makes my heart skip?
“It’s just research. Nothing more,” I remind myself firmly as we step into the cold December afternoon.
But deep down, in the part of me that creates happily ever afters for a living, for the first time in years, that flutter of anticipation in my stomach feels remarkably like hope.