Chapter 25
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Sunlight streams through the windows, catching the glitter of the freshly fallen snow on the windowsill. It’s Christmas morning and my heart feels new.
I blink awake, momentarily disoriented until I feel Fletch’s arm draped protectively around my waist. We didn’t even bother with the pillow wall last night after returning from the pageant, both too exhausted and content to worry about boundaries. After all, we’re married.
He must sense me waking up because he murmurs into my hair, “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper back, turning to face him.
His eyes are still heavy with sleep, his hair adorably mussed. This is what mornings could be like forever, I realize with a flutter in my chest.
Bailey’s cold doggy nose nudges my arm, his tail thumping against the bed.
“Someone’s excited about his presents.” Fletch laughs, sitting up.
“Or bacon for breakfast.”
“And eggs,” he adds.
“Fresh pastries from the bakery.” My mouth waters.
“Come on, wife. Time for Christmas morning.”
The word wife still gives me pause, but in a good way now. No longer a technicality or a research opportunity, but a life I’m choosing.
Downstairs, the Christmas tree lights twinkle, casting colorful patterns across the packages scattered below.
On the mantel hang three stockings—one red with hockey sticks embroidered around the edge for Fletch, one green with dog bones for Bailey, and a midnight blue one decorated with tiny silver stars and books for me.
“When did you get these?” I ask, touching the soft fabric of my stocking.
“When you were still being Miss Grinch.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Mrs. Turley,” I correct.
A smile lifts the corners of his mouth.
“You got a stocking for me so soon?”
“I wanted to spread the Christmas cheer and I was optimistic, I guess.”
My heart squeezes at the thought of him hoping, even before our ‘Encorn’ skit declarations, that I might stay. That we might become more than an outlandish agreement signed online.
Bailey prances around our feet as Fletch hands me a cup of coffee. “Stockings first, then presents. That’s the Turley tradition.”
I can just imagine the chaos at his family’s house … and I look forward to it in the future.
Fletch takes Bailey’s stocking down first, revealing treats, candy cane striped tennis balls, a new chew toy shaped like a gingerbread boy, a plush Christmas pickle that crinkles inside, and a tag for his collar engraved with his name and our address—the Victorian on Cornsilk Drive.
The house where I grew up. I tuck my chin.
When he spots me looking at it in question, Fletch merely winks and takes his stocking next, upending it onto the coffee table like a little kid, well, like a child on Christmas morning.
Out tumble an assortment of chocolate hockey pucks, a new reading glasses case, and at the very bottom, a small velvet box wrapped and tied with ribbon. He looks up at me, eyes wide.
“Open it,” I whisper.
Inside rests a simple gold band. He lifts it, noticing the inscription inside. “‘Married at last,’” he reads aloud, voice thick with emotion.
Suddenly nervous, I say, “I hope it fits. I guessed the size.”
He slips it on his finger, a perfect fit. Pressing a kiss to my forehead, he says, “There’s only one thing that could make this more perfect.”
I tip my head to the side. “What’s that?”
“That you have a matching one.”
It’s my turn to wink. “I did get matching bands for us.”
“Does yours have an inscription?”
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Good. You’re up, let’s see what Santa left for you,” he says, handing me my stocking.
I reach inside, finding chocolates (of course), a beautiful fountain pen, new mini notebooks, Post-its, more chocolate, and at the toe, after I unwrap it, a small velvet box that matches the one I gave him.
My fingers tremble as I pull up the lid, revealing a vintage-style ring with a modest diamond surrounded by a wreath of tiny rubies and emeralds.
“Fletch,” I breathe.
He takes the ring and slides from the couch to one knee. “Bree Darling, I know we did this all backward. A mistletoe kiss, a mail-order bride, temporary marriage, and public declarations. But I want to do this part right.” He takes my hand.
My inhale catches at the sincerity in his eyes.
“Will you stay married to me? For real this time?”
Tears blur my vision as I nod amidst an outpouring of happy laughter. “Yes. Yes, I will.”
Seated perfectly on my finger, the ring catches the Christmas lights. I gaze at it for a long moment before twining our hands together. “It’s perfect. I love it,” I say.
“Like us.” He kisses the top of my hand, then reaches for my phone.
“What are you doing?”
Setting the camera on the mantle, Fletch sets the timer and proceeds to orchestrate a photoshoot. While I appreciate him wanting to capture the moment, when he drapes the white lace dining room tablecloth over my hair, I wonder if he needs another cup of coffee.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking the photos we promised your mother of our wedding day.”
I tip my head back and laugh. “But we’re in your house.”
He winks. “I know a guy who can make these look authentic.”
“Seriously?” I think about how this whole thing started, so I could write an authentic mail-order bride story.
“The timeline of our relationship is between you, me, and the Christmas tree. But it’s better if we don’t get too many nosy questions. Right? Plus, we’ll always remember our first Christmas together.”
We both laugh and take a couple more goofy shots for our own album.
After exchanging our other gifts—books for me (he had Gracie’s help), hockey gear for him (thanks to half the team who clamored with suggestions), and a framed copy of that college newspaper article where it all began, we get ready for the day.
After church service, we go to Golden Years Village. It’s festive with decorations. My mother greets us with uncharacteristic warmth, immediately noticing the rings on my finger.
“So it’s official now?” she asks.
“It always was,” Fletch says, squeezing my hand.
I add, “It’s our marry little Christmas.”
My mother serves her slightly less burned Christmas cookies while Fletch regales her with stories of Turley family Christmases. Bailey curls at our feet, finally responding consistently to his name now that he’s officially ours.
When my mother presents me with my grandmother’s antique stained glass Tiffany lamp, for “our new home,” I feel something healing inside me that I didn’t know was broken.
After we leave, as Fletch drives home, I catch him peeking at me with a tenderness that takes my breath away.
“What?” I adjust my scarf.
“Just thinking about how lucky I am,” he says.
We pass Sweet Corn Court and arrive on a familiar road. The houses are decorated for Christmas on Cornsilk Drive until we turn into a familiar driveway that’s recently been plowed.
The house where I grew up stands proudly now with its pale green paint, white trim, and two giant red ribbons framing the muted red front door.
Fletch dangles the key between us. “Your eyes are as wide as a pair of sledding saucers. We haven’t discussed our wedding yet, and you might be sick of winter, but a ski chalet could still be a nice trip to take—with an abundance of opportunities for us to keep each other warm.”
“Not a bad idea,” I reply with a giggle.
When we get inside, I gasp. “Someone is going to be so happy. Lucky, even.”
“What do you mean?”
“This probably isn’t the best time of year to put it on the market, but we have to sell it. I have to pay you back.”
He freezes, expression serious. “Bree. Not. A. Chance. Welcome home. Unless you prefer the townhouse.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Or you’re not letting yourself. I spoke to your mother. The place is all yours. No debt owed. We can live here if you want,” Fletch explains.
“We,” I say, but it isn’t a question. My smile grows as I consider the possibility.
He shows me all the changes the A-2 Carpentry Crew made.
“It’s practically a different place from where I grew up. It’s airy, bright, welcoming.”
“It’s the home you deserve. Oh, and one more thing.” Fletch leads me to what he calls the home office, complete with a library.
My squeal of joy can probably be heard from Cobbtopia.
I love it. I can’t stop hugging him. I don’t want to.
“Remember how I said I was lucky? It’s that I found someone who sees beyond the jokes and the dumb jock hockey player. Who sees me.”
I step closer, placing my palm against his cheek. “And I never thought I deserved this kind of love. I wrote about it for others, but couldn’t imagine it for myself.”
“You deserve everything,” he says fiercely.
As we reach the front door, I glance up and laugh. There, hanging from the doorframe, is a sprig of mistletoe—the catalyst that started this whole thing.
Fletch follows my gaze and smiles. “Well, it’s tradition,” he says, pulling me close. Just before our lips meet, he whispers, “I always said I’d marry you someday, Bree.”
This kiss is different from our first mistletoe encounter—no dare, no surprise, no hesitation, no shocked reaction. Just promise and certainty and love.
When we finally pull apart, I smile up at him. “You know, for a hockey player, you’re pretty good with words.”
“For a romance novelist, you’re pretty good at showing me how you really feel,” he counters.
Bailey barks impatiently at our feet, ready for his Christmas walk.
“Come on,” I say, opening the door to the winter wonderland outside. “Our story is just beginning.”
Standing in the doorway of my childhood home—transformed, beautiful, full of light—hope fills Fletch’s eyes, I feel so much love.
He did this for me. Not for show, not because he had to. He did it because he wants me to have a place where I belong. Where love lives. I finally understand that love isn’t distant and conditional. Love is this. It’s us choosing each other day after day.
As we step out into the crisp Christmas afternoon, hand in hand with our rescue dog leading the way, I know that the happily ever after I’ve written for Lorna and Drake pales in comparison to the one I’m living.
Some love stories are even better than fiction.