“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,” hesays, 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.
