Chapter 9 #2
I watch her as she speaks, struck by the animation on her face and the quick movements of her hands as she takes notes.
This Bree—invested and engaged—is yet another facet of the complex woman I’m beginning to know.
Warmth unfurls in my chest like I’m streaking toward a goal with the defense riding me, but there’s no stopping, even though I know I’m dangerously close to losing the puck.
Nothing like living on the edge—of my skates or life.
Taking a sip of my Snickerdoodle latte with whipped cream, I suggest, “We could also organize a gift-wrapping event for everything we collect to get the community involved.”
“Good idea.” She jots it down in her notebook.
After a few more minutes brainstorming the details, I say, “We should get the tree before picking up the dog.”
An hour later, we’ve selected a seven-foot spruce that the lot attendant helps us secure in my truck bed.
Bree seems moderately disinterested. Between the fresh, piney smell, how cheerful everyone is, and “Dashing through the Snow” playing in the background, I don’t understand why she’s not smiling at least.
Next, we take a detour to the grocery store. I fill a cart with dinner ingredients, decorations, and dog supplies—treats, bowls, and a bed.
She adds a few chew toys to the basket.
I lift an eyebrow, curious and pleased she’s getting in on the action. “What? He’s been abandoned once. He deserves something nice.”
So does she.
When we return to the vet, I’m about to suggest the name Dasher to Bree.
I hesitate because naming him seems a little too close to confirming our commitment.
I realize when the dog greets us with wild enthusiasm, practically leaping into my arms, I already have (and not just to the dog). “He likes you,” Bree says.
“Of course, I’m a likable guy.”
“Is that so? I’d say your biggest fan is—”
Her sharp expression suggests she’s about to accuse me of being my biggest fan, when the vet looks between the two of us like a cat batting a toy.
Backpedaling, Bree blurts, “Me.”
Shocked, I ask, “Is that so?”
Her mouth works as she struggles to say something without revealing to the vet that the dog’s temporary home is anything but stable and his foster parents’ marriage is a sham.
The vet says, “He’s going to need special food for a while to help him gain weight and these supplements.” She hands me a bottle of pills. “Otherwise, he’s in surprisingly good shape. Just needs some TLC.”
We thank the vet and promise to keep her posted.
The dog sits between Bree and me in the truck, resting his chin on my leg and his rump against her thigh.
She keeps her hands folded in her lap and I wonder if she’s afraid that if she lets good things into her life, they’ll disappear.
Or that she believes she just deserves a bland, beige life and plain black tea when there are festive Christmas flavors with caramel and cinnamon to drink.
Back at my house, we bring in the tree and all our purchases. The dog explores cautiously, sniffing every corner before settling beside the fireplace with a contented sigh.
Unpacking the pet supplies, I say, “He needs a name. We can’t just keep calling him ‘The Dog.’ I was thinking Dasher.”
“Like the reindeer? We can’t name the dog after another animal.”
“You must come up with character names all the time. Any suggestions?”
Bree watches him thoughtfully. “It’s a painstaking process. It’s hard not to use the names of people I know and I try to avoid using popular names for antagonists. For this guy, what about Dickens?”
“Dickens?”
“It’s Christmas, and he’s like a character from a Dickens novel—poor, overlooked, but ultimately finding—” She goes quiet.
“A family? A happy ending? Love?” I supply.
She shrugs.
I smile, oddly touched by her choice. “Dickens is good. But I still like Dasher.”
“That suggests he might run away.” Her tone is tight again, like she’s afraid of good things slipping through her fingers.
“You have a point.” I open my phone and the social media app my fans gravitate toward and say hello, then pan to the as-yet-to-be-decorated tree, and then the dog, narrating all the while.
“Okay, everyone. Drop your Christmas rescue dog name suggestions in the comments and we’ll vote.”
Bree watches me in stunned silence. “Did you just post that online?”
“Don’t you talk to your fans?”
“In the written form. I don’t show my face.” She seems to shrink like a turtle into its shell.
It’s then that I realize that I’m the classic extrovert and she tends toward the opposite.
I pretend to pinch her cheek and say, “But it’s such a pretty face.”
Her skin flushes. I can’t suppress my smirk because it’s true.
“You can’t just post photos and videos of me online.”
“Afraid to tarnish your reputation, being seen with the likes of me?”
“No, but—”
“Are you in the witness protection program? Because if that’s the case, this will be wiped from the internet immediately. There are ways. Promise.”
A smile plays peekaboo on her lips. “Definitely not that.”
“Then what’s the problem? Can’t a husband show off his wife?”
“Fletch, I’m not like that.”
“We’ve very much established the whole marriage thing.”
She bunches up her mouth. “I mean that I don’t really have a public-facing persona.”
“You’re a bestselling author. I’ve seen the stats.”
“You looked me up?”
“And saw lots of information about your career. Come to think of it, there weren’t many images of you other than your official author photo.”
“And that’s the way I like it.”
“Why?”
She hunches with a shrug.
My jaw lowers. “Bree, is it because—?” I look from the slippers on her feet, up the length of her legs clad in form-fitting black leggings, to her oversized sweater, and the twist of her hair on top of her head, then drag in a long, deep breath.
“Actually, you’re right. It’s better if you don’t post photos of yourself online.”
Her lips drop into a pout. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t want another man looking at you and seeing what I see …” Or experience what the sight of her is doing to me. I think I now understand why Frosty the Snowman melted.
She crosses her arms in front of her chest, ready to let me have it, when she must recognize something in my expression. The only word I can come up with to describe it is desire. But that won’t do. She won’t stand for it.
Also, likely, she’s a living, breathing thesaurus, so she has a better synonym or could show it rather than tell.
But if I remain here a second longer, I’m going to show her just how beautiful I think she is, even without a sprig of mistletoe hanging over our heads. I’ll certainly be using my mouth, but not my words.
Her melted chocolate scent fills the room.
Our gazes collide. In her eyes, I see a twinkle, a spark and suddenly I feel unsteady inside.
She leans closer. Then, with a shake of her head, she rocks back. “Oh … Oh!” Pointing over her shoulder, she says, “I should, um, you know, car insurance. Crab Rangoon. Chicken sandwich. I never had a crush on you. Goodbye.” She scurries down the hall.
“Is Bree Darling flustered?” I call after her.
The home office door clicks closed. I cannot help the smile on my face.
This might turn out to be less of a punishment after losing the bet than the guys wagered.