Chapter 10
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What starts as a peaceful evening devolves into Christmas chaos. At least, that’s what my mother would say.
We eat pasta with white sauce. It contains little flecks of red pepper and green basil, along with salad and garlic bread that Fletch prepared.
A surprisingly delicious meal, and as he pointed out, festive.
Then the dog is wearing a collar of sparkly garland—also his doing.
Fletch has another strand wrapped around my neck like a feather boa, and he’s dancing around the living room, singing “Jingle Bell Rock” at the top of his lungs.
The dog howls as if they’re performing a duet.
“Join us!” Fletch calls out, extending his hand to me.
I shake my head, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “Someone has to be the adult here.”
“Overrated,” he replies, swinging Dickens in a gentle circle that makes the dog’s tail wag frantically.
Even though I don’t believe in love at first sight, the dog has a bad case of it because he already adores Fletch.
He calls to me, “Come on, Bree. Live a little.”
I continue unwrapping ornaments from their tissue paper, positioning them by size and color before placing them on the tree.
It’s how my father always did it—organized and efficient.
Meanwhile, Fletch’s approach is to grab whatever catches his eye and find a spot for it, creating a jumbled but somehow charming arrangement.
“You’re overthinking it,” he says, watching me deliberate over the placement of a glass ball.
“But it has to look good.”
“It sparkles, it glows, it’s fun. Of course, it’s going to look good. Anyway, Christmas decorating isn’t an exact science.”
“Everything has a proper place,” I counter.
Fletch grins. “Even me?”
The question catches me off guard, and I’m not sure how to respond. Does Fletch Turley have a proper place in my life? Even temporarily?
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he grabs my hand and spins me toward him. Before I can protest, he’s whirling me around the living room, garland trailing behind us like a glittery wake behind a boat, sparkling in the sunshine.
“I can’t dance,” I protest weakly.
“Everyone can dance. Just let the music move you.” He demonstrates, shifting from side to side, lopsided smile on display, eyes fixed on me.
To my surprise, I find myself relaxing into the movement, letting Fletch guide me in a ridiculous interpretation of a waltz to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” When he dips me unexpectedly, a laugh escapes my throat—rusty but real.
Fletch’s face lights up. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Had what in me?”
“Fun. You’ve been holding it in. Like a sneeze.”
I laugh again, and it feels good—like stretching a muscle I’d forgotten I had.
He rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “It’s good to hear you laugh. Feels good to sing again, too.”
“Are performing serenades a regular activity for you?”
“I wish I could say my jaw injury happened on the ice, but it was at karaoke night.”
“At the Fish Bowl?”
“Got in a bit of a tussle with a guy.”
“Why?”
I wince. “Didn’t realize the girl I was singing with had a boyfriend.”
“So you are a cad.”
“Nothing of the sort.” He stops defending himself as if confident in the truth.
I lean my head to one side, expressing doubt, but inviting him to explain.
He says, “The dude broke my jaw. Had to have it wired shut for weeks. Couldn’t talk, couldn’t sing, couldn’t eat solid food.”
“Does that interfere with your playing?”
“Coach Badaszek is extremely cautious when it comes to injuries, not wanting a minor setback to turn into a major one.”
I find myself studying his face with new interest—the strong line of his jaw, the slight asymmetry of his grin, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he looks at me. All of it makes him seem more human, tolerable. Handsome.
“You know,” he says, pulling me back into our impromptu dance, “you should consider writing hockey romance. I hear it’s pretty popular.”
“It is?” I’m genuinely surprised.
“If it’s not, it should be.” He winks. “As your mother said, there’s a lot of me to love.”
I gasp. “She didn’t say that.”
“No, but she thought it when I gave her that big hug. Seemed like she needed it.”
He’s got that right and finding myself in his big, capable arms now, I suddenly want to know what it would feel like to sink into his embrace.
As if reading my mind, he winks again, playful and somehow not at all annoying.
Oh my, pumpkin pie.
My mind is muddled by this music. I meant totally annoying.
Based on our college experience and thinking about my mother’s comments about the two of us, I expected Fletch to take up all the space in a room—his personality is as outsized as his athletic build.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he seems to create space, making room for me, the dog, and for the Christmas chaos he’s orchestrating.
It’s nice. Nicer than I want to admit.
“In the congratulations packet from Heartland HEA, there are some bonding exercises,” he says.
“Is participation mandatory?”
“You can consider it research.”
“Okay, name one.”
“We’re supposed to stare into each other’s eyes for five minutes.”
“Like a game of chicken?” Or like the hypnotist videos I see on social media, who supposedly uses this method to get people to fall in love. Seems real to me, which is fascinating, but it can’t be. Because no way am I going to fall for Fletch.
His throat bobs. “Supposedly, the unflinching contact releases hormones and—”
I playfully shove him. “I am not doing anything with you that involves hormones. What are we, fifteen?”
“No, it’s just—” His brown eyes hook mine.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but I find myself blinking, slowly, dazedly. It’s like I’m in a trance, but the good kind, and I imagine it’s much like what the hypnotist who is all the rage right now explained in a podcast interview I listened to while driving to Cobbiton.
My thoughts stray into unknown territory and I have the odd, impulsive desire to pick up where we left off when I’d leaned in … and mush my face into his. Wait, that can’t be right. I’d never kiss Fletch Turley.
Oh, wait. I already have.
At some point, one of us moves, breathes, remembers that we’re supposed to be at odds because of the college incident, breaking the spell.
However, what should’ve been a stare down softens something inside me, melts an icy layer, and, dare I say, makes me wonder what it would be like to be under the mistletoe again.
The next morning, I wake up early and slip into the home office, sliding my Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob.
Maybe if I get started before getting distracted, I’ll be able to produce some words that don’t include, I don’t know what to write repeatedly.
The logic is that if you just start, you’ll figure out how to continue.
Not lately.
However, an hour later, I have a page.
I hear Fletch moving around downstairs. I made a full pot of coffee, not just my usual single cup. Hopefully, it’s still warm for him. Taking a sip, I made it stronger than I normally drink it, the way he takes it.
I push the distracting thought about Fletch’s coffee preferences away and return to my manuscript.
My mail-order bride is starting to see her husband as more than just a business arrangement, and I’m finding it surprisingly easy to write about her conflicted emotions.
I wonder why.
An hour after that, I draft three more pages. When I’m nearly at the end of the chapter—it’s sloppy but can be revised—my stomach rumbles at the scent of toast that comes from downstairs.
Through the kitchen window, I spot Fletch and the dog in the backyard playing. A note sits beside a plate on the counter that says, Merry Lunch-mas. I didn’t want to interrupt, but figured you’d be hungry. H&K, Fletch
H&K? I rack my brain until I land on hugs and kisses. My body seizes and my stomach leaps. Maybe I’m hungrier than I thought.
Despite my mother’s desire to keep up appearances, she never made my school lunch. I’ve always fended for myself. This simple sammie, as he calls sandwiches, makes a neglected part of my heart smile. Like I’m being taken care of, when usually, the heroines in my books do the caretaking.
But is it edible?
With a grin, I dig into the toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich and immediately want another.
I leave a reply.
Thanks for the Lunch-mas sammie. It hit the spot. XO Bree
That’s too cutesy, flirty. Chilled panic rushes through me and I cross that out and then crumple up the piece of paper. I’m afraid of crossing a personal boundary. Instead, I just scrawl, Thanks for the sandwich.
By mid-afternoon, Nina texts, asking to meet so I can help her with a sticky spot on the ‘Encorn’ skits scripts.
I walk down the street to her house. The moment her front door opens—side note: it’s wrapped like a Christmas gift and features a wreath covered in bows, and lights—she badgers me for the “fresh tea.”
Tempting me with freshly baked spritz cookies—because she knows my weakness is chocolate and home-baked sweets—she asks about what’s been going on with my mail-order groom.
Where to start? I offer sparse details, not wanting to make a big deal out of it because it isn’t one.
As my editor says, It’s a nothing-burger.
Though in her last email, she commented that if I didn’t come along with a manuscript soon, there would be a something-burger on our hands.
When Nina and I arrive at the theater, I spot Fletch with the set-building crew.
My stomach leaps again. Could I still be hungry?
Maybe I ate too many cookies. It has nothing to do with how I kind of confessed the crush on Fletch that-never-was.
No chance that my entire body, inside and out, heated up to volcanic temperatures when Fletch and I were talking after he posted a story of us to his social media last night.
No way, Santa’s sleigh.
I’m focusing on the theater and the pageant only.