Chapter 6 #2
Nina squeals. “This is the best thing ever since you’re also going to help me with the ‘Encorn’ skits—vignettes that the actors perform after the main show that usually leaves the crowd roaring with laughter and occasionally are sentimental—performed just after the Christmas pageant.”
“Yes. I know about the post-pageant ‘Encorn’ skits, but how does that make this in any way the best thing ever?”
“We have a plot hole and I need your help. Fletch and the guys from the Knights are working on the set.”
I close my eyes, succumbing to just how bad this is getting. Brushing past this, I say, “This whole thing with the matchmaking service is not just a dating thing. It’s a marriage contract.”
Nina nods. “Yep. Mail-order bride. Those are the terms. But the good news is you’re married to Fletch Turley. The pro hockey player and the guy you kissed right there in the doorway, practically exploding my living room.”
“No, that would be the abundance of Christmas lights. But that means you read the fine print.”
“Duh. I thought you did too. You were sitting right next to me while I filled out the questionnaire.”
“I guess I was distracted,” I murmur.
Nina should read the room and slow her roll, but she doesn’t. “This is even better than the storylines in one of your books.”
“My books have happily ever afters. This is a legal nightmare,” I remind her, wishing this situation away.
She tips her head to one side. “Speaking of legal, doesn’t the contract require you to live together, you know, as married couples do?”
I blink dumbly, shocked by her comment and that she knew about this all along and didn’t call it to my attention. “What?”
“The whole mail-order bride concept, obviously. Traditionally, they would move in with their husbands. Actually, modern couples do the same after exchanging vows. Figured you’d know that.” Her humor is as dry as the ceramic cookie jar on the kitchen counter.
I am in no mood for sarcasm as I feel like I’m being squished under a heap of coal.
“Well, there’s a cohabitation clause in the fine print.” She swallows thickly, confirming her preexisting knowledge of this little fact that she kept from me.
I pull out my phone and frantically search through the contract. Sure enough, in section 9.2, subsection C, it says, Parties agree to cohabitate for the duration of the trial period to ensure true relationship development.
Flopping back on the couch, I groan. “This can’t be happening.”
“You have to move in with him. This is first-person research at its finest.” Nina does not bother to hide her glee.
“You just want your spare bedroom back,” I accuse.
“Maybe. It’s gift-wrapping central. An elf needs space to spread out. But think about it, Bree. You’re like a wartime journalist embedded in a military zone. This is as authentic as research gets!”
I put my head in my hands. “This is—” Fletch’s words echo back to me. “Nuttier than a fruitcake.”
“This is your book coming to life. Come on, let’s pack your things.” She jumps up.
“Now? It’s nearly nine!”
“Even Cinderella had until midnight. Plus, there’s no time like the present.” She starts up the stairs and then chuckles. “Present. Like a gift. Get it?”
Regrettably, I do.
An hour later, we’re standing on Fletch’s porch, me with a suitcase and laptop bag and Nina holding a box of pastries from her bakery.
Fletch opens the door, wearing eyeglasses.
My pulse jingles. “Hi. So it turns out there’s a cohabitation clause in the contract.” I awkwardly fumble my words about how I could’ve waited until the morning to come over.
“Yeah, I just read that.”
Nina thrusts the pastry box at him. “Wedding gift. It was all I had on short notice. Congratulations, you two love birds, or should I say partridges in a pear tree. Never mind, that doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, but you know what I mean.”
“Thanks ... I think?” He accepts the box, then steps aside to let me in.
Fletch’s townhome is neat but sparsely decorated. No Christmas tree and no stockings, but there is a nutcracker on the mantel and a few other random pieces of holiday décor, including blinking LED lights haphazardly hanging around the window frame.
Following my gaze, he says, “Sorry about the lack of holiday spirit. I’ve been meaning to get a tree, but with the injury and trying to keep in form ...”
Nina peers around as if glimpsing the interior of a top-secret lair. “Bree has been a bit of a bah humbug this year, too. Maybe you can cheer each other up.”
I shoot her a glare.
“Well, I’ll leave you newlyweds to get settled. Call me tomorrow, Bree!”
I glance over my shoulder at my so-called best friend. My puppy dog gaze begs her to take me back, but she’s already skipping down the path back toward her house. And just like that, Nina is gone, leaving me standing in Fletch’s living room with a suitcase and a thirty-day marriage contract.
Clearing his throat, he says, “I’d carry you over the threshold, bridal style, but you’re already inside. How about welcome home?”
Breezing past that offer—no, thank you—I say, “I do my best work in the morning. If you don’t mind showing me to my room so I can get some rest …”
He seems to do some calculations in his head and points his finger in several different directions. “I’m not exactly equipped for houseguests …”
“Or a mail-order bride,” I mutter.
Twenty minutes later, I’m balanced on the edge of his bed with a wall of pillows between us, wishing I’d put my foot down and stayed at Nina’s.
But as I drift off to sleep, Fletch’s smile follows me into my dreams. Figuring out how to get out of this terrible situation will have to be a problem for tomorrow.