Chapter 6
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I’m in a complete daze as we leave the Christmas Market.
Just when I was warming to the idea of the holiday season, the festive lights now seem a bit too bright, the jolly carols a touch too loud.
My mind keeps replaying what just happened: the snowflake pin, the candy cane pin, the matchmaking service, Mayor Nishimura, the contract . ..
“You okay? You’ve been quiet for the last three minutes.” Fletch’s breath puffs soft clouds in the cold December air.
Is he counting? “This is either the most diabolical way you could possibly try to rage bait me like you always did or ...”
Something like concern or apology crosses his stupid, handsome face as he holds up his hands in surrender. “Definitely not that. Promise.”
I huff. “This is just so …” It’s like my brain has entered low-power mode and I can’t think of what to say. Fletch doesn’t make me tongue tied. Not a chance.
“Surreal?” he offers.
“That’s one word for it,” I agree, realizing that, once more, my words are failing me.
What happened to Bree, master of the English language? A human thesaurus? Able to craft compelling love stories with the touch of her pen … or keyboard?
We’ve reached the edge of the market, standing at the intersection where I suppose we’ll part ways—me to Nina’s, him to his house—wherever that is. In the glow of the streetlights, with snowflakes beginning to drift lazily from the evening sky, it feels like we’re on a stage or inside a snow globe.
Except this isn’t theater. This is my actual life, which has somehow veered wildly off course in the span of a single day.
“So, I guess I’ll call you tomorrow and we can figure out—” His phone rings, cutting him off. He glances at the screen and grimaces. “It’s my lawyer calling back. Kind of late. I should take this.”
I nod, secretly relieved for the momentary reprieve from having to figure out what comes next and the possibility that he has good news and there’s a loophole that allows us to exit this mess quietly and quickly.
There is no world, real or fictional, in which Fletch Turley and I would work as a couple.
A tinny and indistinct voice sounds through his phone. I can’t make out the details.
Fletch says, “Yeah. Glad you found it so amusing, but thanks for following up.”
His eyebrows knit together, then shoot up toward his hairline.
“What do you mean? We’re what?” he practically shouts.
There’s a long pause as he listens, his eyes growing wider by the second. He looks at me, then quickly away, then back at me.
“That can’t be right. We just met. Well, reconnected. We knew each other in college, but—”
Another pause.
“Digital signatures are legally binding? But we didn’t—I mean, clicking ‘agree’ could leave some room for interpretation ...”
There’s an unpleasant churning inside. Whatever the lawyer is saying, it can’t be good.
“Okay. Yeah. Send me the documents. Thanks.” Fletch ends the call and stares at his phone as if it’s a lump of coal.
Trepidation curls inside like a ribbon. “What did he say?”
Fletch takes a deep breath, then meets my eyes.
“My lawyer said this was the most interesting case he’d taken in a while and that includes the karaoke thing.
Anyway, he looked into it further, and the contract we signed with the Heartland Happily Ever After service isn’t just an agreement to date. It’s ... a bit more binding than that.”
“How much more binding?” My voice rises an octave.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Apparently, the fine print states that by accepting the match and meeting in person, we’ve entered into a ...”
“Contract. Yes, that was established.”
“Yes, but there is more.”
I lean in, unsure if “by more” he means they’ve arranged dates for us like on a reality TV show or if we have to face a Christmas-themed, game-show-like challenge.
“Bree, we’ve entered into a marital contract.”
I stare at him, blinking as if the concept does not compute.
“We’re legally married.” He says it so matter-of-factly that for a moment I think he’s joking.
I shake my head. “That’s not possible. People can’t just get married by clicking ‘I agree’ on a website.”
“Within the Cobbiton jurisdiction and per the Heartland Happily Ever After policy, they, er, we can. According to my lawyer, about twenty years ago, the county pushed through a local ordinance to ‘revitalize traditional values through modern means’ or something. The matchmaking service operates under that law.”
“That can’t be legal.”
He shrugs. “The lawyer confirmed that it is.”
“State law supersedes local ordinances.”
This time, he shakes his head. “I’m afraid not in this instance.”
I say, “We can make Mayor Nishimura undo it.”
He nods as if that’s a lofty idea. “But in the meantime ...”
Sipping air as if through a straw, I finish his thought, “In the meantime, as far as Cobbiton is concerned, we’re married.”
The fact hangs between us like a mountain covered in snow, immovable and unscalable.
“So now what?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.
I expect him to look as horrified as I feel. Instead, a slow, lopsided smile spreads across his face—the same cocky and confident one I remember from college.
“Well, Mrs. Turley …”
I step backward. This can’t be real.
His eyes twinkle with amusement. “I guess we should discuss the honeymoon.”
My cheeks warm despite the cold December air. “This isn’t funny. And I would never take your name—if this were real, which it’s not.”
“How about a hyphen? Darling-Turley has a ring to it,” he continues, undeterred.
“It most definitely does not. Anyway, how are you so calm about this?” I demand.
His smile softens. “Bree, we already agreed to pretend to be a couple until Christmas. This doesn’t really change anything except for making Mayor Nishimura very happy.”
“And being married! That might work for some people, but I do not subscribe to true love and happily ever after in real life.”
Fletch’s upper lip twitches as he tucks his chin, but he quickly rearranges his features.
“A temporary marriage that could be annulled in thirty days. Meanwhile, you get your research, I fulfill my Ho Ho Hockey charity bet obligation, and neither of us pays penalties. Plus, you just mentioned you don’t believe in love anyway, so what’s the difference? ”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. He’s not entirely wrong.
“I should go back to Nina’s. I need to think.”
A deep breath lifts his chest. “I’ll walk you. I live just down the street, anyway.”
Side by side, we plod down the street in awkward silence, the thin layer of fresh snow crunching beneath our boots.
The houses along Sweet Corn Court are decked out in holiday splendor—colorful lights, inflatable snowmen, and nativity scenes.
All except one, which stands dark and undecorated midway down the block.
Fletch follows my gaze. “That’s mine. Haven’t had time to put up too many decorations yet.”
I nod, unable to think of anything to say that wouldn’t make me sound like a big ole Grinch. My brain is still stuck on the word married.
We reach Nina’s porch, and I’m acutely aware of the mistletoe still hanging inside the doorway—the catalyst for this whole bizarre situation. My cheeks blaze at the memory of our kiss.
Fletch rocks back on his heels. “Well, goodnight, I guess?”
“Goodnight,” I repeat.
The awkwardness continues, suspended as if we’re not sure whether we should shake hands again as we, a married couple, part ways, hug, or kiss. No, not that. Anything but that.
Despite the low temperature, suddenly, I’m sweltering under my jacket.
Breaking the silence, I say, “This is by far the strangest research I’ve ever done for a book.”
His laugh is deep, causing a little thump, thump sensation in my chest. I press my hand there, reminding my heart to behave.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks.
Before I can answer, the front door flies open, revealing Nina in her reindeer pajamas, eyes wide with excitement.
Clasping my wrist, she drags me over the threshold. “I saw you two coming up the walk. Tell me everything!”
I look back at Fletch, whose amused expression doesn’t falter.
Mine is as wobbly as my knees were after the original mistletoe kiss that took place here in this very doorway.
I manage to say, “I’ll, um, call you.”
“Looking forward to it,” he replies, and with a small wave, he turns and heads back down the path.
Nina practically pushes me onto the couch and buzzes beside me like a busy bee. A nosy one, too, but a very good friend for letting me stay here. But still, she’s partly to blame for this absurdity.
Also, she was supposed to stand guard at the market in case my match was a weirdo—status pending—but was called away for Christmas pageant duties. I assured her I’d be fine, what with being in public and all at the market. But how do I explain what only Fletch’s teammates witnessed?
“Well? How was your match? Wait. That was Fletch. Why was he walking you home?” Her eyebrows pinch together.
I take a shaky breath. “Fletch was my match.”
Nina’s mouth drops open, practically hitting the basement level. “No way.”
“Yes way. The algorithm matched us. We’re apparently ‘highly compatible,’” I make air quotes around the words for emphasis.
“That’s actually kind of perfect,” Nina says, grinning.
“I adamantly disagree, but it gets worse. Mayor Nishimura saw us together and basically announced to the entire Christmas Market that we’re Cobbiton’s newest power couple, given his NHL status and my being an author.
” A career I’m increasingly feeling like an impostor in since I can’t manage to get my thoughts straight, never mind write a cohesive sentence.
“This is wild.”
“You’re telling me. She volunteered us to lead the town toy drive. Together. The two of us.”