Chapter 22
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“This scene needs more punchlines,” Nina says, frowning at our script pages for the ‘Encorn’ skits. We’re huddled at a corner table in the Busy Bee, surrounded by half-empty coffee mugs, crumpled sticky notes, and a plate that previously held honey butter Linzer cookies.
I tap my pen against my notebook, trying to focus.
Fletch is at practice. He’s only been gone an hour and I already find myself wondering when he’ll be back. Checking my phone for texts. Missing the sound of his ever-present laughter.
This is dangerous territory. Missing someone after an hour apart isn’t research. It is something else entirely.
Oblivious to my inner monologue, Nina swishes her lips from side to side. “Maybe the wise guys from Cobbiton Car Repair could debate about whether chocolate was really the best gift option?”
“Is there any debating that?”
She laughs. “Good point.”
“Let’s see. Since you’re the proud owner of this bakery, there could be a debate between pastries and pie.”
“Mrs. Kim might think I’m declaring a baked goods war.”
“It’s all in good fun. Plus, she only opens her stall once a year at the Christmas Market.”
“She’s so cruel. My pumpkin pie cravings start on September first.”
“You have a professional kitchen. You could make them.”
“But they’re not the same as hers.”
“Hmm. I’m tempted to tell her that.”
“You wouldn’t.”
I bounce my eyebrows.
Nina grins at me a beat longer than usual. It’s like she notices that my smile is a bit brighter. My eyes, slightly sparklier. I’m joking around. Okay, to be real, when I got to town, I wasn’t smiling at all and was feeling rather dull and gloomy, so it’s probably easy to spot the difference.
But to acknowledge it is something else … and it feels good.
Turning back to our brainstorming, Nina’s hand slides across the page as she writes quickly. “This is perfect. I’m going to work it in and then Winston, the delivery driver who’ll still be dressed as a cabbie, can chime in with something about carrying their packages across the desert.”
“Do you mean Winston, the guy you’d intended for me to kiss under the mistletoe?”
She scrunches up her face. “Yes.”
“I’ve seen him around town. He’s like twice my age.”
“But charming and single. He probably hasn’t been kissed in years.”
“Nina!” I toss a crumb at her and she dodges it.
She holds up her hands in surrender. “Promise, I’ll never try to play matchmaker again.” Her eyes twinkle.
“Well, you probably won’t have to.”
We both laugh as my mind drifts back to Fletch when I caught him reading my book yesterday evening, wearing glasses and looking devastatingly handsome, completely absorbed in the story I created. No one has ever taken my writing that seriously before—not even me sometimes.
“Earth to Bree.” Nina waves her hand in front of my face.
I blink, surfacing.
“You’re a thousand miles away.”
I sigh, setting down my pen. “Sorry. I’m just ... distracted.”
“By a certain hockey player, perhaps?” Her eyebrows dance suggestively.
“Yes, but I can’t finish my book,” I blurt.
Nina’s expression shifts to concern. “Writer’s block again?”
“No. That’s the weird part. The words are flowing better than ever. I just can’t write the ending because I don’t know how …”
I run my fingers through my hair because I know exactly how to end that sentence, unlike what to do to conclude Drake and Lorna’s book—they get a guaranteed HEA. The problem is, I don’t know what’s going to happen when the thirty-day mail-order bride trial period ends in reality.
Nina shifts, turning her full attention to me, serious now, a friend ready to lend an ear or some advice. “Want to walk through it together?”
Biting my lip, I nod. This is the kind of moment when I need someone to hold my hand.
“It’s about you, Fletch, and the future, right?”
Taking a deep inhale, I explain. “If I stay in Cobbiton and let myself believe this thing with him could be real ...”
“And you write that as Lorna and Drake’s conclusion, you’re afraid your life may take a sudden detour, heading in a different direction, and you won’t get a happy ending,” Nina finishes for me.
“Exactly.”
She reaches across the table and takes my hands in hers. “As I see it, the speed bumps come down to fear. Fletch has obviously fallen for you, so if you push him away and run from love, you’re just perpetuating your own loneliness.”
I wish I had my Do Not Disturb sign right now, but she doesn’t let me protest with my list of what ifs or buts and continues.
“You could leave town after your thirty days are up, go back to your nomadic writing existence, and always wonder what might have been …”
My chest tightens and I nod slowly.
She continues, “Or stay here, where you have friends, love, and a whole reading community rooting you on and ready to embrace you.”
A deep breath fills my lungs and I feel lighter, brighter, better than I have all day. Well, except when Fletch left a little gift bag on my desk filled with seasonal-inspired tea flavors and a mug with a typewriter image where the keys spell my name on the handle.
When she puts it that way, it sounds obvious. “But what if it doesn’t work out? What if it’s all holiday sparkle and mistletoe, until January shows up with its winter gloom and we realize we’re completely wrong for each other?”
“First, talk to Leah about the Happy Hockey Days event in January.”
I tip my head to the side in question.
She plows ahead. “Second, what if you and Fletch are perfect together and you miss it because you’re too afraid to try?”
I slouch back, but she doesn’t let go of my hands. She doesn’t let me off the hook.
“You write about brave heroines taking chances on love. Maybe it’s time you followed their example.”
Her words hit home. Hit hard. Right in the smacker. How many times have I created characters who face their fears, take risks, and find happiness? How many happily ever afters have I crafted while convinced they weren’t possible for me?
I let out a shaky breath. “The worst part is I’ve been so wrong about everything.” The admission feels like lemon juice on a paper cut.
Nina leans in, listening and holding a space for me to speak.
“I told myself love wasn’t real because it was easier than admitting I was scared. I wrote romance while simultaneously refusing to believe in it. How silly is that?”
Nina squeezes my hands but doesn’t interrupt.
“Fletch has been showing me love in a hundred different ways—fixing my house, reading my books, defending me to Derek, being patient with the paper fortress I’d built around myself—and I kept telling myself it was all just part of our arrangement.
Like I was an impartial researcher instead of a terrified woman falling in love.
” I laugh, but it’s watery. “I’m the worst romance author ever. I write about what I don’t believe in.”
“Believed,” Nina corrects gently. “Past tense.”
“Yeah.” I wipe my eyes. “Past tense. Because I was wrong. And I’m tired of being wrong. I’m tired of being the skeptic who misses out on everything beautiful because she’s too busy protecting herself.”
Then it all becomes clear like a plot bunny poking its fuzzy little head out of its hole for daylight. “I’m using deadlines as an excuse. Hiding behind my work to avoid being vulnerable.”
“Bingo. So what are you going to do about it?” Nina gets up and refills our coffees.
I let out a shaky breath as an idea forms—something unexpected and perfect. “I think I need to write a new skit for after the pageant.”
“We already have enough ‘Encorns—’”
“This one isn’t specifically for the audience. It’s for Fletch. A grand gesture, I guess.” My cheeks are warm and there’s no denying my smile.
Nina’s eyes light up. “Like what?”
“A mail-order bride and groom skit, but with a twist. It won’t expose our arrangement to everyone, but he’ll know what I’m really saying.” I start rapidly jotting down notes, almost unable to keep up with how fast the ideas come.
“Which is …?”
I look up at my friend, suddenly certain. “That I want to stay. That I believe this could be real.”
Nina claps her hands. “About time! And the book ending?”
“I’m finishing it tonight. Lorna and Drake are getting the happily ever after they deserve—one that feels authentic, not formulaic.” I gather my notes, energy coursing through me, my fingers itching for the keyboard.
“And you?” Nina asks softly.
I pause, pen hovering over the paper. “I’m giving myself permission to hope for the same. ’Tis the season, right?”
After finishing our planning session, I wander through town, mentally rehearsing what I’ll say in my skit. The Christmas lights seem brighter, the holiday music sweeter. I find myself humming along to carols I would have rolled my eyes at a month ago.
After taking Bailey on a long walk to settle my restless energy and right my thoughts, I’m back at Fletch’s townhouse.
He’s increased training and practice times ahead of his big return to the ice early next year.
I know he’ll be busier, gone more often, but cowboys were too, and with my newfound writing muse, I think I’ll make good use of my time.
I settle at the kitchen table with my laptop. For hours, I pour my heart into writing the final chapters of my manuscript.
Lorna and Drake’s love story transforms as I type, becoming richer, more complex, and more honest. The mail-order marriage that began as a practical arrangement evolves into something neither character expected—something real and lasting.
When I finally type “The End,” tears prick my eyes. For the first time in my writing career, I believe in the love story I’ve created. Because I’m living my own version of it.
Now I just need to find the courage to tell Fletch. To show him that this Christmas, I’m ready to give him the most precious gift I have—my trust in us.
I start drafting my pageant ‘Encorn’ skit, smiling as the words flow once more. Nina was right—it’s time to be as brave as my heroines. Time to risk my heart for a chance at true happiness.
After nearly three decades of doubting love, of keeping people at arm’s length, of believing romance only existed in the pages of my books—all of it might have been leading me here. To this town, to this moment, to Fletch.
Home.
“I’m staying,” I whisper to the empty room, trying the words out loud. They feel right. They feel like coming home.
Bailey trots over and looks up at me, expression eager. I crouch down and give him the happiest of pets and scratches, certain that I’ve made the right decision.