“Really? Because your face says otherwise.”
“My face is probably hot from being in a bakery all morning,” I snark.
She says, “I think it was good for you. Think of that sweet smooch as training wheels.”
“Training wheels?”
“For getting back in the saddle.” She pauses. “That metaphor got away from me. Horses don’t have training wheels.”
“Neither do functioning adults who know better than to kiss strangers,” I retort.
“Mr. Hockey Captain from college wasn’t a stranger though, was he?” Her voice turns sly.
I groan. “I’m hoping we can forget about that.”
“Remind me of the story again?” She grins, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her fists.
With a forlorn exhale, I say, “I was covering the championship game for the school paper. He was the star player who scored the winning goal. During the interview, I asked where he saw himself in ten years, and he said?—”
She lets out a fluttery sigh. “‘I’m going to marry you someday.’”
“Wow. Good memory.”
“And you actually put it in the article.”
“It was a direct quote. I was being a professional journalist.”
“And it was quite the talk of the town at the pageant planning meeting.”
I feel my eyes go cartoonishly large. “What do you mean?”
Nina explains that the Nebraska Knights do a lot of volunteer work around Cobbiton and were on set. “It came up.”
I point to the floor. “I’m just going to hideunder the table now.”
“I haven’t swept yet. Anyway, from what I can tell, he’s grown up nicely,” Nina observes casually.
Those hockey players do a fine job filling out a jersey, but I refuse to admit I noticed how Fletch’s broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his shirt, or how his gaze rested steadily yet softly upon mine with a strange kind of familiar hope. Or the crisp, minty scent of him that reminded me of winter mornings.
There’s something magnetic about Fletch Turley—the way he takes up space in a room without trying, the baritone of his laugh, those rough hands that tell the story of his career with their calluses. He’s not just physically imposing, he has a presence that’s hard to ignore.
My phone pings just as I’m about to respond to Nina’s knowing smirk. I fish it out of my bag, grateful for the distraction.
But the distraction evaporates when I see the notification.
From:[email protected]
Subject: Your Mail-Order Match Has Been Selected!
“No way,”I breathe.
Nina, reading over my shoulder, nearly drops her broom. “You’ve been matched. That was fast. Open it.”
I shake my head. She reaches for my phone, but I draw it to my chest because she’s done enough damage—friendly, loving damage, but still.
I open the email, my heart pounding irrationally like I ran a marathon, never mind sprinted. It’s surprisingly detailed—personality analysis, compatibility metrics, and shared interests. The compatibility score is in the top one percent, which seems suspiciously high.
Nina reads aloud over my shoulder, “‘We’ve matched you with someone who shares your love of classic movies, enjoys both quiet evenings and adventure activities, and values honesty above all else.’”
