Chapter 18
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Fletch’s family left yesterday, and the house feels too quiet.
For someone like me who is so solitary, I kind of miss the chaos with the Turley brothers’ booming laughter, the kids’ thundering footsteps, Mama Lisa—as she insisted I call her like Jen and Stacy do, since I’m part of the family—innocent questions about our mail-order bride marriage.
Their departure has left a hollowness that I wasn’t expecting.
Growing up as a late-in-life baby and an only child to parents already set in their ways, family gatherings were always orderly affairs.
Polite conversation, appropriate presents, and scheduled activities.
My parents loved me, but there was always a certain distance.
A coolness that comes from having your life fully established before a child arrives to disrupt it.
The Turleys are different. They spill into spaces, fill them with noise and laughter and arguments that blow over as quickly as they erupt. They hug too hard and ask inappropriate questions and tell embarrassing stories without hesitation.
I liked it more than I should have. Bonus, they bought our half-baked story about love and marriage when they deserve the truth.
My phone rings. It’s Meredith, my editor.
“Bree! Those chapters are brilliant!” she gushes before I can even say hello.
I let out a breath that I didn’t realize was trapped in my lungs. No, in my bones.
“The chemistry between your characters is juicy! The banter and longing—it’s fiery!”
I sink onto the couch, relief washing over me. “Really? I wasn’t sure—”
“I’m serious. Whatever you’re doing differently, keep at it. This is your best work yet.”
We talk for a few more minutes, with me assuring her I’ll meet the new deadline and her encouraging me.
After hanging up, I stare at my laptop screen, at the words I’ve written. Words inspired by stolen glances across a dinner table, by the feeling of Fletch’s hand in mine as we skated, and by the way my heart races when he looks at me a certain way.
Am I using him for inspiration? Is this just research? Or is it truly something more?
I’ve been telling myself a story for years. Love is fiction. Happy endings are fantasy. I’m too practical for romance. But what if I’ve just been too scared? What if the story I’ve been telling myself is the real work of fiction?
The questions make me squirm with discomfort. Because of what it might mean when the real life Heartland HEA thirty-day deadline comes.
“We need more tape!” Hayden calls across the community room at the hockey arena.
Around us, tables are piled high with donated toys, wrapping paper in colorful festive patterns, and half a dozen hockey players awkwardly try to fold corners and tie bows.
The toy drive wrapping party was Fletch’s idea—probably because he couldn’t fathom us doing it all ourselves—but the guys on the team and their families embraced it. Now they’re all here on their day off, along with their wives.
Handing me a roll of tape, a voice beside me says, “I’m Ella, by the way. Jack’s wife.”
“Bree, Fletch’s ...”
She smiles warmly. “Wife. We know. The famous Bree, who finally caught hockey’s most famous ineligible bachelor.”
“Ineligible?”
“Fletch has talked about you. Well, not you specifically, but this girl from college he always said he was going to marry someday. In other words, his future wife. Like he actually wanted to get married and was waiting for his special girl. Some of the guys are very much into remaining solo. Or so they think—”
I nearly drop the stuffed elephant I’m wrapping. “He ... what?”
“Stop me now. I’m rambling.” Ella’s eyes widen.
“No, it’s just that I thought we left it on campus. It followed him here after all these years?”
Her forefinger wiggles slightly from side to side as if she’s trying to piece together whether I am indeed the girl from college.
I assumed he was a player—in every sense of the word. At least, that’s how he seemed back then. But he wanted to get married?
“Bree! We’ve been dying to meet you. How did you and Fletch reconnect?” Another woman appears, introducing herself as Jess, Liam’s wife—I’ve gathered that he’s the captain.
Before I know it, I’m surrounded by the partners of team members, all curious about the woman who married Fletch Turley after he’d apparently spent years telling his teammates he was saving himself for some girl from college.
This also tells me that the women have no idea that we signed up for Heartland Happily Ever After or why.
“Tell us the story. How did it happen?” Ella urges.
“Well,” I start cautiously, unsure where to begin because I no longer know where we stand. “I was on the school paper and was writing a—”
“And I said, ‘I’m going to marry this woman someday,’” Fletch’s voice cuts in as he appears beside me, wrapping an arm around my waist.
Suddenly dizzy at the proximity of his crisp, fresh, minty scent, I lace my arm around him to steady myself and not because I want to be close.
Duh. Plus, this is what couples do. If I were writing a scene where an unlikely pair were trying to pull off a fake relationship, they’d have to show some public displays of affection and they’d definitely tell themselves it didn’t mean anything.
Not even when their hearts drum.
Their knees turn weak and wobble.
They think about a light and very attractive dusting of stubble.
Of lips and kisses.
Or is that just me?
Snapping me back to reality, Fletch adds, “And I’m a man of my word.”
Dragged from the fog of my thoughts, I smile up at him, grateful for the rescue but confused by how the portrayal of his story doesn’t quite mesh with what I remember.
“You were teasing me,” I say, keeping my tone light.
“Only a little.” His eyes meet mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“But then every time I saw you on campus—” I start.
“I knew a good thing when I saw it.”
The women sigh appreciatively.
“So you eloped right after reconnecting?” Jess asks.
“It was a bet,” Fletch says casually.
My heart stops.
“Your husbands and I had a wager,” he continues smoothly, only sharing parts of the story.
I’d imagine the guys would tell their wives everything, but apparently, signing Fletch up for a matchmaking website falls under the bro code.
He says, “I proved them wrong.”
“And I said yes for research. I write romance novels, and I needed to understand what my characters were feeling.”
From nearby, a woman makes a squealing sound of excitement.
Leah, with Mikey, whose family is doing the renovations on my house, says, “That sound could only come from one person. Gracie. She owns Once Upon a Romance in town. We have a book club and are fans of cotton candy love stories.”
Meanwhile, everyone else laughs, thinking we’re joking, and I exhale slowly. We nearly exposed ourselves, but somehow turned it into something that sounded like a couples’ banter … like a plausible reunion.
Gracie is on her way out because she has an appointment, but she gives me her number and insists we connect this week to discuss book signings and all the possibilities of having a published author in town.
She wants to hear all about what she calls ‘Our Marry Little Meet Cute’ over tea.
I’ve walked past the bookstore, but have been afraid that once I break the seal and go inside, I won’t want to leave.
And I have to. I can’t move back to Cobbiton permanently—I have books to write, worlds to explore, and a career to expand. I left this place to chase my dreams. They’re out there somewhere. Not here. They can’t be. Right?
The spotlight off us, I observe Fletch interacting with his teammates.
They have such a strong bond that they don’t even flinch when one teases the other.
They take it on the chin, dish it out, and are still bros.
I imagine the heartache he’s experienced at not being able to play for the last few months.
The dynamics and bonds between them give me a flash of inspiration to bring in Drake’s family more and play up his fellow posse of cowboys to be like a band of brothers.
Fletch and the guys get super competitive, trying to out-wrap each other. He’s struggling with the folds, frantic as if afraid to lose, and I feel bad for whatever kid has to unwrap that monstrosity with its wrinkled paper.
I bump him out of the way with my hip.
“What’s that for?”
“I’m going to show you how it’s done. You don’t want to cause some child to cry on Christmas morning because it looks like Santa was wrapping these gifts while blindfolded after an eggnog-drinking dare.”
The guys chuckle and hoot, cheering me on, making me wonder if maybe sometimes Fletch’s pride gets in the way on the ice … and they see he’s met his match.
For the remainder of the afternoon, we wrap side by side and he occasionally asks for my help rather than forging ahead on his own.
He flashes a smile in my direction when he successfully ties a red ribbon around a package.
Those warm brown eyes crinkle at the corners, and I want more of it. Of him.
With this starting awareness, I realize this isn’t just attraction. It isn’t just chemistry or convenience or research.
This is real.
Later, as we carry the last boxes of wrapped presents to Fletch’s truck for delivery, he says, “We make a good team.”
The parking lot is empty except for us, snowflakes drifting lazily through the halos of the streetlights. My breath clouds in the cold air.
“We do,” I agree. “We almost exposed ourselves back there, though. Close call with your parents, too.”
“But we didn’t. We pulled it off.” He sets down his box, closes the cover over the bed of his truck, and turns to me. The corners of his mouth twitch with amusement.
Meanwhile, I can’t help but take this seriously. “Your teammates seem to think you’ve been pining for me since college.”
Fletch rubs the back of his neck, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as nervousness. “Yeah, about that ...”
“You told them about me? Before this arrangement?”