Chapter 20
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I stare at the manuscript on my laptop screen, marveling at how much progress I’ve made in the last few days.
Six thousand words yesterday alone. That’s a personal record.
My fingers have ink stains—a quirk from my habit of jotting notes by hand before transferring them to the computer—but my heart feels lighter than it has in years.
My phone rings, displaying my editor’s name. I brace myself, expecting the usual nudge about deadlines, though I’m afraid this time it might come in the form of a shove.
“Bree! These chapters are magnificent!” Meredith’s voice bursts through the speaker without a preamble.
She always gets right to the point, whether it’s about revisions, due dates, or progress.
Her red pen is legendary. Thankfully, I’m on the right side of it for once.
At least, I hope so. This conversation could go in any number of directions.
“The chemistry between Lorna and Drake crackles like lightning on the open prairie. I’ve never seen you write romantic tension this electric before.”
My shoulders drop with relief. “Really? You think it works?”
“Works? It sizzles! Keep going. Don’t stop. This is your best writing yet.”
After we hang up, I sit back and close my eyes, processing her words. What I’m doing differently is simple yet practically inconceivable—at least since I originally created the document that holds my nearly complete manuscript. The same one that remained blank for an embarrassingly long time.
I’m finally writing from experience instead of observation or imagination—nothing wrong with that, but it’s like I required something more to tell this story.
The way Drake gazes at Lorna with that mixture of desire and tenderness? That’s how Fletch looked at me on the pond. The flutter in Lorna’s stomach when their hands brush? That’s what happens to me every time Fletch and I touch.
When he was talking about hockey to the kids with so much patience and passion?
My heart has been skating toward him with no way to stop.
When did his smile become the first thing I look for when I wake up?
Seeing him help with the pageant and caring about our community gives me the feels.
He’s the book boyfriend of my dreams. When did this happen?
I’m falling for Fletch. The worst part is that this realization doesn’t terrify me as much as it should.
I close my laptop and grab my coat. I need to give my eyes a rest and clear my head.
Mom texted earlier, asking me to stop by. When I arrive at Golden Years Village, the scent of slightly burned sugar meets my nose and I instantly worry. Something must be terribly wrong.
“Mom? Are you okay? What are you doing?”
She appears in the doorway wearing an apron—something I’ve never seen before in my life. “Baking.”
I blink a few times because the words do not compute.
“I’m making cookies. They’re a bit overdone but edible, I think.”
I follow her to the kitchenette, where a plate of slightly lumpy and charred chocolate chip cookies sits cooling on the counter.
“What’s the occasion?” I say, when I really want to ask, Should I be concerned for your health and well-being?
But hold back. Not because she needs to watch her waistline.
No, she’s always been slender and isn’t at risk for any diet-related ailments.
It’s because my mother doesn’t do things like bake.
“Try one?” It sounds more like a peace offering than an act of hospitality.
Strange.
I pick up the one that looks the most like a regular chocolate chip cookie. It’s extra crispy around the edges, but the center isn’t burned.
Mom pours me a cup of milk and lets out a sigh so deep and so long it’s as if she’s been holding it in for days, if not years.
“It occurred to me that things are changing. You’re all grown up.
Married now. I thought I should practice baking if there’s a chance I’m going to be a grandmother someday.
I should know how to bake cookies, shouldn’t I? ”
I nearly choke. “You want to be a grandmother?”
She turns to me, her expression softening. “I wasn’t always the mother you deserved, Bree. I was too caught up in my life, too concerned with appearances, and with what others thought. I missed so much.” She hesitates.
My eyes prickle. I’ve recovered from nearly inhaling the cookie, but I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.
“I’m afraid that your father and I never truly showed you what real love looks like.
But this Fletch of yours looks at you the way your father used to look at me.
Before we, well, I haven’t quite figured out what happened and unfortunately, I can’t ask him.
It’s too late. We loved each other, but I think there was a limit to it. I don’t want that for you.”
Tears sting my eyes. Mom has never spoken this openly before.
“I’d like to make up for lost time if you’ll let me,” she adds quietly.
Without thinking, I step forward and wrap my arms around her. She stiffens momentarily, then eases into the embrace. We stand there, two grown women learning how to connect after years of careful distance.
When we part, it’s obvious that we’re both emotional. However, in sync, we both wave our hands dismissively. It’s like I’m looking in a mirror, but then the most unexpected thing happens. We both break into happy laughter, hug again, and spend the next hour chatting.
I don’t know what it’ll look like for my relationship with my mother, but this feels like a good start. A fresh one and I’m grateful.
After leaving Mom’s apartment, I don’t head straight to downtown Cobbiton. Instead, I text Fletch to meet me. I have a surprise for us.
An hour later, I’m loading bags from the bakery into my car along with a thermos of hot chocolate from Coffee Loft and Nina’s borrowed portable speaker. Fletch has been planning everything, fixing everything, bringing me chocolate while I write.
It’s my turn to do something special for him.
When I get home, he’s reviewing game footage on his laptop with the dog snoozing at his feet.
I lace my arms around his neck from behind and peck him on the cheek. “How would you feel if I suggested you get dressed in warm clothes and come somewhere with me?”
He looks up, surprised. “Where—what?”
I waggle my eyebrows. “It’s a surprise.” I’m grinning, feeling less like the careful, controlled Bree and more like a woman who takes chances.
I drive us to the community ice skating rink in the original Knights practice space, dubbed the Barn, which has been replaced by the Ice Palace, a state-of-the-art sports complex nearby.
With the big doors open on either end, the afternoon sunlight sparkles off fresh ice.
There’s a bonfire and kids play in the snow while others skate.
It’s our very own version of a visit to the beach or lake.
I set up our impromptu picnic on a bench, queue up Fletch’s favorite Christmas playlist, and hand him his skates. His eyes dance with delight.
“I brought treats when we get hungry.”
“You did this?” His voice is soft with wonder. “This is the real treat.”
“You’ve been taking care of me since I got here. Fixing my house, making me meals, believing in my writing.” I fold his hand in mine. “I wanted to do something just for you. Something that’s about your joy, not my research or my problems.”
The smile he gives me is worth every ounce of effort. When we skate together in the fading light, I realize that loving someone means giving, not just receiving.
“Thank you for thinking of me,” he says when we’re sitting on the bench later, sharing Nina’s gingerbread cookies.
“It’s slightly selfish,” I admit.
“Why’s that?”
“Because now you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
My lips quirk as I resist a smile. “Like you want to—”
I lean in and drop a kiss on his lips, a perfect conclusion to a perfect afternoon.
He draws me close.
Smiling against my mouth, he says, “You should be selfish more often.”
So I kiss him again.
Fletch has a hockey meeting that evening and after getting the dog fed and settled, I drive through downtown Cobbiton, noticing how my inner “bah humbugs” have gradually transformed into “ho ho hos.” Storefronts twinkle with fairy lights, and I catch myself humming along to the Christmas music playing from outdoor speakers. I’m starting to sound like Fletch.
Speaking of him, we’d posted “Missing Dog” signs all over town when we first found our canine companion, but no one has claimed him. I spot one of our flyers, tattered by recent snow and wind, and stop to take it down.
I think I want the dog to be ours.
Which means there is a we.
An us.
A Fletch and me.
On 4th Street, I find myself window shopping, pausing in front of displays I would have hurried past weeks ago.
When I reach Once Upon a Romance, through the glass printed with Season’s Readings and a huge Christmas tree built of books, Gracie waves enthusiastically, beckoning me inside.
When I step into the shop, scented with paper and almond spice, she gushes, “The famous Bree Darling! I’ve been hoping you’d stop by.”
“Famous? Hardly. I’m just a small-town girl.”
“Maybe so, but you’ve made all the lists. It’s not every day we get a celebrity around here.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Except for the regular parade of NHL hockey players.”
Her lips bunch with a smile. “You have a point. But they rarely come in here.”
“You’re right. I don’t expect they read romance.” I cannot imagine Fletch curled up with the dog and a love story on a snowy afternoon. Instead, he’d be reviewing hockey footage videos on his phone.
Gracie and I chat about possibly setting up an author event after the New Year. As I describe my current work-in-progress, I realize how excited I am about it now—how much I believe in this story.
“Your fans will love it, especially the locals, once they realize Cobbiton’s newest famous couple provided inspiration.”
I open my mouth to object, but maybe she’s right.
I’m still smiling when I leave the bookstore and pass the jewelry shop next door. Through the window, I spot a couple who radiate new love.
I instinctively reach for my notebook, jotting down details of their interaction—the tenderness in his movements, her subtle lean into his touch. My writerly quirk is secretly collecting other people’s romantic moments like precious gems.
My gaze drifts to their entwined hands, matching rings gleaming. Then to my own ringless finger.
I’ve written several engagement and wedding scenes, but I didn’t get to experience either of those, even though I’m married.
Stepping inside, I’m surprised to see Hudson, one of Fletch’s teammates, selecting a charm bracelet.
Ella and Jess, Jack and Liam’s wives, respectively, stand nearby as if in on the covert Christmas gift operation.
At least, that’s where my imagination goes.
I’m guessing he needed help selecting the perfect present.
They greet me and, in short order, I learn that he wasn’t sure whether Leah would like a thick or thin bracelet, silver or gold, but he already had the charms selected.
Jess says, “The solution was obvious. A medium-thickness bracelet.”
“Composed of silver and gold,” Ella finishes.
“They had to special order it, but it arrived just in time. I wanted the girls to approve it. Leah can be particular.”
“I won’t tell her you said that,” Ella says.
Jess makes a lip-locking motion.
“What brings you here?” Hudson asks as if he knows something … something about my marital situation that the girls don’t.
My cheeks flush. “Oh, um, just browsing.”
“For the perfect gift for your beau?” Leah asks.
“Speaking of Beau, as in Beau Hammer, Margo said Mrs. Darling reached out, asking about her availability to plan a wedding reception,” Jess says.
Ella says, “Since you guys didn’t have a public ceremony, we’d all love to celebrate with you.”
“Meddling mothers, am I right?” I murmur.
We chat for a few more minutes while Ella and Jess laugh about their kids’ Christmas wish lists.
Even though Fletch and I have a secret, I feel like these people could become friends. Cobbiton could be home again.
What if I stayed? The thought comes unbidden and settles around me like a warm blanket.
What if this temporary arrangement became permanent? What if I gave myself permission to believe in the very thing I write about?
And what if I left? I’d be walking away from Fletch and a whole life. A community, women who could become real friends. A place where I belong, not just exist on the margins.
I’ve spent so long telling myself I don’t need that kind of connection. That I’m fine on my own, just me and my laptop and my characters. I realize what I’ve been missing. What I’ve been too scared to reach for.
I stare at my ink-stained fingers, thinking of Fletch’s hands—how they bear the subtle marks of his athletic career, telling the story of long practices and intense games. How secure I feel when they hold mine.
The Christmas lights reflect in the jewelry store window, making the case full of wedding bands sparkle and gleam. For the first time in my adult life, I let myself imagine a future that looks nothing like I’d planned—and everything like I’ve secretly wanted.
Maybe it’s time to rewrite my own story’s ending.