Chapter 5
FLETCH
The Cobbiton Christmas Market is a real-life Hallmark film set—don’t ask me how I know.
Rows of wooden stalls are trimmed with evergreen garlands and twinkling lights. The scent of roasted chestnuts, cinnamon, and pine needles hangs thick in the air.
I browse the chocolate selection and take a peek at the signature Cobbiton Christmas tree ornaments called “Cornaments.”
A massive tree towers in the center of the square, draped in so many lights that it can probably be seen in the next town over.
And here I am, Fletch Turley, professional hockey player, feeling like a complete idiot with a candy cane pin fastened to my jacket.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, adjusting the pin for the fifth time in as many minutes. I scan the crowd, looking for a woman with a snowflake pin who’s supposedly my perfect match according to the Heartland Happily Ever After blind mail-order bride service.
My thoughts drift to Bree like the snow that periodically flurries from the sky on this overcast day.
Despite my best efforts, I can’t stop thinking about her.
About how she used to look in college—in oversized sweaters.
She’d tie her hair back in a messy bun with a pencil stuck through while she typed away in the newspaper office.
How different she looked at graduation in a simple blue dress and her face more made up than usual, though I’d always thought she was just as pretty all-natural.
And now she’s here in this small town, of all places, accidentally kissing hockey players under mistletoe, er, one hockey player.
That would be me.
Given her reaction, it probably meant less than nothing to her. So why am I fixated on it? Must be something in the air that isn’t snow … or snowflake pins, because I don’t see my future wife. I shake my head, trying to focus. I’m here to meet my match, not daydream about Bree Darling.
As families pass with baby carriages, kids scurry behind with balloons in tow, teens move in a mob, and couples gaze at each other in wonder, I notice someone settle onto the bench by the Christmas tree—exactly where I’m supposed to meet my match.
A woman in a pink coat with her head bent over a notebook occasionally glances up to observe the crowd passing by.
My heart stops.
Bree looks thoughtfully at the market crowd and when she shifts, I spot something glittering. A snowflake pinned to her coat.
This has to be a coincidence. There’s no way ...
I look around and spot Mikey’s blue beanie poking out from behind a gingerbread stall. Hayden is poorly disguised in sunglasses—on a cloudy day—browsing handmade wreaths. Liam is actually wearing a fake mustache while pretending to sample cheese. Well, probably not pretending.
“Very subtle, guys,” I mutter.
They’re here to make sure I don’t back out, but now I’m wondering if they’ve set me up somehow.
How would they even recognize Bree? Then again, this is a small town.
And why would she agree to this? She wouldn’t unless it’s to get back at me for what she deemed “pointless and pompous teasing” back in college.
There’s only one way to find out what’s going on. I take a deep breath and approach the bench. Bree looks up as my shadow falls across her notebook.
Her eyes pop. “Fletch?”
“Bree, funny running into you here,” I say, hoping my voice sounds steady and confident even though this woman makes me tongue-tied. Always has.
She looks different today. Her hair is down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. A light dusting of subtle gold makeup makes her hazel eyes pop. She looks beautiful because she is.
Her gaze drops to my jacket, and I see the exact moment she notices the candy cane pin. Her mouth forms a perfect O.
Mine must be identical as the connection is made.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she whispers.
I point to the snowflake on her coat. “I’m guessing you’re not just really embracing the winter theme?”
She shakes her head slowly. “Heartland Happily Ever After: a modern mail-order matchmaking service?”
Feeling like I stepped on a metal rake, I glance at the email on my phone. “Match HEA-212?”
Bree closes her notebook with a snap. “This is impossible.”
“Or statistically improbable because I’d never need to use a matchmaking service.” I flash a who me? smile.
I get a glare in return. “Oh, so you’re saying I need a matchmaking service?”
“No, I just meant ...”
“Yeah. I get it. Same joke is on me as always, but then explain why you have an email. Did you know it was me? Did you plan it? Is this some kind of long-game gag to humiliate me? As if proclaiming you were going to marry me and embarrassing me when we were in college wasn’t enough?
” She runs a hand roughly through her hair, chest heaving with frustration.
This is not how I want this to go. I never meant to hurt her if that’s what happened. “What? No, of course not,” I answer honestly.
Nostrils on the edge of flaring, she stares me down. For a moment, I get lost in her gaze.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Did you know it was me?”
“Obviously not. Return to sender. Address unknown.”
“It’s a mail-order marriage service in theory, but not literally. You can’t return me for an exchange or refund.”
An awkward silence falls between us as the visitors and vendors at the market continue their cheerful bustle, completely oblivious to our mutual shock.
Now, what are we going to do about it?
Shifting from foot to foot, I say, “Well, since we’re both here ... would you like some mulled cider?”
Bree hesitates, then shivers. “I could use something warm.”
Five minutes later, we’re sitting at a picnic table at Mrs. Claus’s Café—an outdoor eating area open to anyone at the market. Steaming cups of spiced cider wait patiently between us.
Having changed locations and somehow managed to remain upright—for a second there, I thought she was going to commandeer a reindeer and trample me—the situation is no less bizarre.
So I take a gamble and strike up a conversation like we’re here on purpose.
“So, you signed up for a matchmaking service?”
Frowning, she says, “It’s just research for my book. I’m writing about mail-order brides. Nina thought this would help with authenticity.”
“Ah. That makes sense.” Sort of, but it doesn’t answer the question about what happens once she’s married to the guy she’s matched with … who would be me.
“What’s your excuse?” she asks, wrapping her hands around her paper cup.
I grimace, unsure whether I should reveal what landed me here. At this rate, it’s best to go with pure honesty. “Lost a bet with the team during the Ho Ho Hockey charity game. If I didn’t get the top score for goals made, the guys got to decide my future.”
“Let me guess, you didn’t score?”
“Lost by one point. The elf ears distracted me.” I refuse to admit that it was to a retired player. Can’t let anyone think I’ve lost my game while on injury leave.
She snorts as if she doesn’t believe it—not my reason for being part of this lunacy or my claim that I’d marry her someday.
I say, “To be honest, I wasn’t going to follow through with this, but there’s a cancellation fee, plus the guys would never let me live it down.”
Bree’s eyebrows dip. “I was hoping I imagined that.”
“We’d both owe it even if only one of us backs out.”
“Were you planning on backing out?”
Before I can respond, a booming voice interrupts us. “Well, if it isn’t Cobbiton’s most exciting new couple!”
We both look up to see Mayor Nishimura approaching our table, beaming with holiday cheer in a red coat and green scarf.
I stand to shake her hand. “Mayor Nishimura. Nice to see you. But we’re not—”
Mayor Nishimura clasps her hands together. “Fletch Turley, one of our very own hockey heroes, and Bree Darling, our celebrated author! This is exactly the kind of local celebrity power couple our holiday events need.”
“I’m sorry?” Bree says, confused.
Over the mayor’s shoulder, I spot three very guilty-looking figures that are about the height and build of Knights players.
The mayor says, “The Cobbiton Activities Commission is in desperate need of two people to organize and execute the toy drive this year—Allison Curtain-Wallace abruptly left the state and Miles Long has shingles. You two would be perfect. The famous hockey player and the bestselling romance novelist. Everyone will be thrilled.”
“Oh, I don’t know if—” Bree begins.
Steamrolling us with enthusiasm, Mayor Nishimura continues, “The kickoff is next week. You are going to bring a sack full of Santa’s joy to so many children!” With that, she’s off in a flurry, leaving us staring after her.
I glare at the guys and before they disappear into the crowd, I see three knowing smirks. Oh, they are going to get it—stick and puck style.
“Did we just get volunteered for something?” she asks.
“Volun-told?” I plop back down on the picnic table bench. “I think we did. Mayor Nishimura can be passionate.”
Bree looks down at her cider. “This is already getting complicated.”
“You can say that again.” I take a drink, letting the warmth of the spiced cider settle me as silence drops between us.
After a beat, I say, “So, about this matchmaking contract thing.”
“Right. Let me check the fine print.” Bree pulls out her phone.
We spend the next twenty minutes going through the terms and conditions we both apparently agreed to without reading carefully. Well, the guys supposedly did and Bree’s friend Nina encouraged her to sign up, so surely she did, too.
Shaking her head with incredulity, she says, “This isn’t just a dating service, it’s a full commitment contract.”
“With financial penalties and,” I squint at the screen, “a minimum thirty-day trial period?”
“That would take us through Christmas,” Bree confirms, looking stunned.
I double-check and she’s correct.
“If we back out early, not only is there the cancellation fee, but we have to reimburse any benefits received.”
“Benefits?” I ask.
She bites her lip as if hesitant to admit something. “I got an advance stipend. It’ll solve my immediate money problems—credit card balance, holiday gifts, and give me time to finish my book.”
I grunt. “The guys said that if I followed through, they’d donate ten grand each to the children’s charity. They didn’t mention any pocket money. But it’s part of our team’s holiday initiative, so it’s for a good cause.”
Bree sets her phone down. “So we’re both stuck.”
“It seems that way. Unless ...”
“Unless?”
I take a lungful of air. “Unless we go through with it. Just for thirty days, which brings us into the new year,” I reiterate for her sake.
Jaw lowering, Bree stares at me. “You can’t be serious. Pretend to be in a relationship? With each other? That’s—”
“Nuttier than a fruitcake?” I lean forward. “Is it though? We already know each other. We’re both stuck in this contract. And it’s only for what—just about four weeks?”
I can see her thinking it over, weighing her options.
I hold my breath, but I’m not sure why. I could handle the expense for both of us if it came down to it and dip into savings, which is substantial, but with the unknown about when Badaszek will let me back on the ice, I’m feeling uncertain about my financial future.
Plus, if I were going to do that, I’d want it to be for a worthwhile investment, like a house.
“I suppose it would be valuable first-hand research to see how these arrangements work ...”
“Exactly. And we’d be helping those kids through the toy drive.”
“My mother would be thrilled. She’s been after me to find someone for years,” Bree adds, almost to herself.
“And the guys would finally stop trying to fix my love life.”
We look at each other, the realization settling between us that we’re actually considering this insane plan.
Breaking the spell, I pull out my phone. “I should call my lawyer. Make sure there’s nothing else we’re missing.”
Twenty minutes, and one slightly amused attorney offering legal consultation later, we’re both sitting in stunned silence on a bench as carolers pass by, singing “Ding Dong Merrily on High.”
Bree lets out a long-held breath. “It’s settled. We’re doing this.”
“Pretending to be matched by the mail-order bride service.”
“For research and financial reasons only,” she clarifies.
“Absolutely.”
“With clear boundaries.”
“Of course.”
“And it ends after Christmas.”
I nod, trying to ignore the strange disappointment that statement brings. “Agreed.”
Around us, the Christmas Market continues its cheerful business. Children laugh as they visit Santa’s workshop. Couples stroll hand in hand, admiring the lights. It all feels surreal.
I extend my hand. “Well, I guess we have a deal, Mrs. Hockey Captain.”
Bree rolls her eyes but takes my hand. Her fingers are warm, soft against my callused palm.
“Don’t push your luck, Rink Rat,” she replies, using what I liked to think of as a term of endearment back in college.
I can’t help but smile as our gazes lock because there’s no denying that I’m thinking about that mistletoe kiss. “You know, I always did say I was going to marry you someday.”
Her eyes widen, but before she can respond, a raucous cheer erupts from behind the gingerbread stall. Liam, Mikey, and Hayden have apparently given up all pretense of subtlety and are now openly celebrating with high-fives.
“Your teammates are ridiculous,” Bree observes.
“Yes, they are. But they’re about to donate a lot of money to a charitable cause for children, so I can’t be too mad at them.”
Bree sighs and looks down at our still-joined palms. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”
I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “I don’t know. Marry Christmas, Bree.”
Despite the absurdity of the situation—or maybe because of it—I wonder if Santa put me on the good list after all.