Chapter 11
FLETCH
For the past three days, the only evidence I have that Bree still lives in the townhouse is the sound of clickety-clackety typing coming from the home office and the occasional empty coffee mug left in the sink.
She’s in what she calls the “writing cave,” which I imagine is the equivalent of when I get in the “zone” on the ice.
She even has a fanciful Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the doorknob.
I leave trays of food outside the door—sammies, fruit, cookies from the bakery, chocolate from the Swiss stall at the Christmas Market, and more coffee—and they disappear when I’m not looking.
The dog and I have fallen into our own routine. After getting things started on the top secret project on Cornsilk Drive, Dasher and I enjoy morning playtime and walks, which he loves despite his still-recovering condition, then breakfast.
Even though I haven’t seen much of Bree in the last few days, knowing that she’s here, combined with man’s best friend keeping me company, makes this place feel more like a home than it ever has.
Truth be told, I was starting to drift into a slump since I’m still on the injury list, and Bree and the dog have lifted me out of it, possibly as much as we’ve helped him.
In addition to posting about our rescue on social media and asking fans for Christmas-themed name suggestions, we’ve put up signs everywhere. Not a single person has contacted us with a reliable claim on Dasher. Meanwhile, Bree calls him Dickens. Poor guy must be getting confused.
“What do you think of Noel for a name?” I ask the dog as we return from our walk. “Or maybe Kris Kringle?”
He tilts his head, unimpressed.
“Yeah, you’re right. We should consult Bree.”
As if summoned by her name, the office door cracks open.
She emerges, blinking like she’s been in the cave for months instead of days.
Her hair is piled in a messy bun, tendrils escaping around her face.
She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that’s slipped off one shoulder, revealing a delicate collarbone that magnetizes my gaze.
Why can’t I stop staring at her smooth skin?
“Did I hear my name?” she asks, voice slightly raspy from disuse.
“I was just telling the dog that we should get your opinion on his potential names,” I say, trying not to imagine how good she’d look in my hockey jersey.
She raises both eyebrows. “Have you gotten any good feedback from fans?”
Does it mean something that her opinion is the only one that matters?
“I’ve narrowed it down to Noel, Kris, Comet, or Clementine.”
“Clementine?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, you know, from the song. ‘Oh my darling, oh my darling...’” I sing off-key, causing the dog to tilt his head with renewed interest.
“I’m familiar with the song, but it’s not particularly Christmassy.”
I spontaneously switch the words, “Oh, Bree Darling, oh Bree Darling, will you be my Valentine?”
Her face creases with laughter. “Wow. New heights, Fletch. New heights.”
“Of adoration for me? I know, I know. I’m irresistible.” I splay my hand across my chest.
She doesn’t roll her eyes. Instead, they crescent with a smile.
Composing myself, I say, “One fan suggested it because clementines or oranges are traditional Christmas stocking stuffers. Plus, it’s cute.”
Bree crouches down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “What do you think, boy? Are you a Clementine?”
He makes a whining sound.
“I’d say that is not a winner.” I laugh.
“Or is he just responding to the first human contact he’s had all day?” Bree straightens up, but she’s smiling.
“Not true. He made several friends at the Christmas Market. We walked over there because I needed to reward your emergence from the writing cave with a treat. I bought an assortment of homemade marshmallows in fun flavors.” I wag the cellophane bag tied with red, green, and gold ribbon for her to see.
“How festive,” she says dryly.
“But you like them. Nina left some the other day and they’re gone. I didn’t eat them. The dog didn’t eat them. So …”
“You noticed that?”
“I notice a lot of things about you, Bree Turley.” The words come out more earnestly than I intend, having remembered that technically she’s no longer Bree Darling. That is, if she takes my name.
A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Chocolate sounds perfect.”
“Hot chocolate?” I ask, also having noticed she consumes a lot of the regular stuff in all forms—squares, bars, morsels.
“If you insist.”
As I heat the milk, I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She’s kneeling on the floor with the dog, running her fingers through his fur and murmuring to him. She looks more relaxed, less guarded than when we first started this arrangement.
I join them by the Christmas tree and place a steaming mug in front of her with the marshmallows in a bowl on the coffee table. “How’s the writing going?”
“Actually, really well. I’m making serious progress. At this rate, I’ll meet my double deadline.” She wraps her hands around the mug, inhaling the chocolate steam.
“Double deadline?”
“I missed the first one, meaning I have to double down to meet this one.”
Without prompting, she tells me about Lorna Sorrento and Drake Miller, who made money in prospecting, but that doesn’t keep him warm on cold western nights. It’s like she’s still in her story world and I lean in, rapt, totally drawn into the world she’s created.
Who knew I’d enjoy cowboy romance? Or maybe it’s just the storyteller.
As if surfacing from her thoughts, Bree asks, “How have you been keeping busy?”
“Oh, you know. Dog walks. Training. Secret projects.”
She freezes mid-sip. “What was that last one?”
“Training?” I try, failing to look innocent.
“Fletch.”
“Okay, so I may have enlisted some of my teammates to help with your parents’ house.” I brace for her anger, but instead, she just looks stunned.
“You’re fixing it up? But that’s too much. I can’t—”
“My teammate’s family, Mikey Cruz, has a contracting business.
His dad is semi-retired and usually takes December off for Advent and family time, but had driven past that house numerous times, wishing he could give it a makeover.
Well, his wife said that every time they drove by, and maybe he was tired of hearing about the fixer-upper. ”
She blinks blankly as if I’m speaking a foreign language.
“Anyway, we evaluated what needs to happen inside and out. It’s a long list. But we did preliminary repairs to the roof and replaced some damaged siding to protect it from the elements this winter. There are some plumbing and wiring issues, plus—” I hesitate, unsure if I’ve overstepped.
Bree remains quiet.
“I hope that’s okay. Maybe I should have asked first.”
She sets down her mug. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because ...” I search for an explanation that won’t reveal too much. “Because I can. Because you needed help. Because perhaps you deserve a house where love can live—”
Liquid brims in her eyes and she quickly looks away, giving the dog attention.
“Bree, is it—?”
She wipes her cheeks and turns back to me. Studying my face like she’s trying to solve a puzzle, she simply says, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I hold her gaze.
The tension in her shoulders eases as if something old yet seismic has shifted between us. Like the terrain she thought she knew isn’t the wasteland she expected.
“The guys are curious about you, by the way. They keep asking how my ‘mail-order bride arrangement’ is working out.”
Bree almost chokes on her cocoa. “What did you tell them?”
“That I got lucky with the algorithm.” I wink, and she rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling again and it lingers until we say goodnight many hours later—I can hear it in her voice through the wall of pillows that separates us.
The next day, Bree and I head downtown for toy drive shopping. Armed with a wish list and the donation money from the mayor’s office, we fill carts with puzzles, art supplies, science kits, and enough stuffed animals to start a small zoo.
“Every child deserves something special for Christmas, not just the easy-to-shop-for ones,” I explain when Bree questions the complexity of a particular robotics set. “I would’ve loved this when I was a kid.”
She gives me a curious look. “You’re like a kid on a permanent Christmas morning.”
“Best time of the year. Magic is in the air. Anything seems possible.”
After loading our haul into the truck, we return to the townhouse and then take the dog on a late afternoon stroll through the Christmas Market. As daylight fades, it’s a winter wonderland, all twinkling lights and fresh snow from last night’s dusting.
“It’s beautiful,” Bree admits, looking up at the massive town Christmas tree glowing under the flocked branches.
I lean my shoulder into her, wondering if I can wrap my arm around her or if we could hold hands like a real couple. Is that too far?
Her hand slides into mine, sending a jolt through me that I try to conceal. Bree is holding my hand? Of her own free will? Maybe we were both mistaken about things.
As we start toward the exit under the Merry Kiss Me arch, she glances over her shoulder with a wistful look in her eye.
“See? Even you can’t resist Christmas charm,” I say.
Her gaze flicks to mine. “Oh, I can resist.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Is that so? But can you resist this?” I scoop up a handful of snow, pack it into a ball, and toss it.
The snowball catches her on the arm and her mouth drops open in shock. “You did not just—”
My laughter is cut short by a perfectly aimed snowball to my chest. Before I know it, we’re engaged in full combat, dodging behind trees and benches, lobbing snowy missiles at each other while the dog nips at the exploding snowballs, yapping happily.
I chase Bree behind the gazebo, catching her around the waist as she tries to escape.
We’re both breathless with laughter, cheeks flushed from cold and exertion. When she turns in my arms to smash a final snowball on top of my head, our faces end up inches apart.
The laughter fades. Her hazel eyes, flecked with chips of amber I’ve never noticed before, drop to my lips. I lean in slightly, drawn by something I can’t name. The space closes between us and I’m certain she can feel the thunder of my pulse.
A group of carolers starts singing nearby, snapping us out of the moment.
Bree steps back, brushing snow from her coat with sudden intensity. “We should get the dog home and warm,” she says, voice slightly higher than normal.
“Right. Of course.” I try to ignore the stirring in my chest, the lingering warmth where her body pressed against mine.
Once back at the house, the dog dozes by the fire. Bree reviews the toy wish list, checking it twice. I steal glances at her profile. The slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, and the way she absently tucks her hair behind her ear while tapping the pen against the counter.
For the first time since this charade began, I find myself truly wondering and hoping that this could become something real. That the pretend marriage forced upon us might evolve into something we both actually want.
Bree blurts, “Car insurance. I mean, chicken sandwich.” Wincing and then biting her lip, she says, “That’s what I want for dinner. In case you were wondering.”
“Car insurance?”
But it’s a rhetorical question because I think Bree is flustered in the best of ways.
Either we’re on the same wavelength and trying to avoid the inevitable with silly distractions or she’s just really hungry for a sammie.