“Tell me you’re going,” he says without preamble.
“I don’t know, bro. A blind date at the Christmas Market? It seems a little desperate.” Plus, there’s Bree. How long is she in town? Why is she here? Does she live nearby?
“It’s not desperate, it’s romantic. Besides, what have you got to lose? If she’s terrible, you’ll just be married for the rest of your lives. But what if she’s amazing?”
His words drift lazily as I continue to surface from sleep before reality slams into my mind.
“Marriage?” I ask.
“The compatibility score and the description sound promising.”
“So you read the email?” I ask.
“Liam was copied on it.”
“I take it he forwarded it to you.” And the rest of the guys on the team who’re in on this bet.
Mikey chuckles. “Think of it like a team full of accountability partners.”
I grunt.
“That’s the spirit!” he says as if the sound I made was anything approximating agreement.
“What’ll happen if I don’t show up?”
“Penalties. Dire ones,” he says darkly.
However, how would they know? Never mind. I’ll be watching for sizable men staking out the Christmas Market, making sure that I’m on time and if I’m not, they’ll be ready to assault me with a team tackle.
Mikey adds, “Hey, at least it’ll take your mind off Bree Darling.”
I’ll need a dash of good luck for that. Unfortunately, lately, I’m just attracting dumb luck.
I recently dropped my phone in the toilet and found someone’s wallet behind it. My truck got a flat tire in front of Cobbiton Car Repair. The list goes on.
The next day, after my workout and a shower, I attach the candy cane pin to my jacket pocket and study my reflection. I can’t help but wonder if I’m making a mistake. Part of me wants to walk down the street right now, knock on Nina’s door, and ask Bree out properly. Clear the air about that stupid interview comment all those years ago. See if our mistletoe kiss could lead to something real.
Instead, I’m letting my friends push me into a blind marriage match with a woman who could very well be a wackadoodle. Then again, I’m no stranger to being impulsive and thinking about the consequences later.
There was the time I made a fake report card. My mother didn’t buy it for a second and not only was I grounded, but I had to show my teacher and explain myself.
Once, in high school, I accepted a dare to only wear myunderwear to class. Let’s just say I didn’t make it past first period and banked a week’s worth of detention in Mr. Peng’s classroom, which perpetually smelled like tuna fish.
My brothers say that I’m a shoot-first, aim-later kind of guy. Maybe so, but not when it comes to hockey. On the ice, I’m a master at precision. But the rest of my life? Fine. Guilty as charged.
“Give it a chance. Maybe this match will be the one,” I tell my reflection.
It can’t be any worse than when I took a woman mini-golfing and she got a little overly enthusiastic when swinging the club. It lodged into the windshield of my college hockey coach’s beloved Bronco.
As I try to get excited about meeting my mystery mail-order bride, Bree’s face continues to appear in my mind. The way her eyebrows furrowed when she recognized me. The slight panic in her eyes after the kiss.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Bree is the past. This match—whoever she is—could be my future.
That is, if Heartland Happily Ever Afters knows what it’s doing.
I certainly don’t.
CHAPTER 4
