No name. No photo. Just a match number and instructions for a public first meeting.
“This is a sign that you’re going to get your book written,” Nina says, squeezing my upper arm.
“Or the algorithm is just doing what it was designed to do,” I counter.
“Try to make it sound less romantic, why don’t you?” Nina takes my empty teacup from the table.
I scroll further down in the email and my stomach sinks. “There’s a significant cancellation fee if I back out now that I’ve been matched.”
“See? It’s meant to be. Plus, think about Lorna. Your readers—and thereby your fictional mail-order bride—deserve your first-hand account of a true mail-order marriage, don’t they?”
I can’t argue with that. My characters are central figures in my life—sometimes more real to me than actual humans. I do owe it to them and my readers to get this right.
But there’s something else, something I’m reluctant to admit even to myself. A tiny, persistent voice wondering if maybe there’s a reason I write about love finding unlikely heroines. Perhaps some small part of me still hopes it could happen, even to someone who’s always been too serious, too bookish, and too much in her head.
At last, I say, “Fine. One meeting. For research.”
“For research,” Nina agrees with a knowing smile.
Or a lifetime of marriage misery.
“Be sure to wear the green sweater that brings out your eyes. You know, for Lorna.” She winks.
As we leave the bakery, I find myself wondering what kind of man the algorithm matched me with. Someone serious and bookish like me? Or my opposite—spontaneous and adventurous?
And why, despite this potentially perfect match waiting for me, can I not stop thinking about the feel of Fletch’s lips against mine? The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled? The ridiculous promise made in a college interview that somehow still makes my heart skip?
“It’s just research. Nothing more,” I remind myself firmly as we step into the cold December afternoon.
But deep down, in the part of me that creates happily ever afters for a living, for the first time in years, that flutter of anticipation in my stomach feels remarkably like hope.
CHAPTER 5
FLETCH
The Cobbiton ChristmasMarket is a real-life Hallmark film set—don’t ask me how I know.
Rows of wooden stalls are trimmed with evergreen garlands and twinkling lights. The scent of roasted chestnuts, cinnamon, and pine needles hangs thick in the air.
I browse the chocolate selection and take a peek at the signature Cobbiton Christmas tree ornaments called “Cornaments.”
A massive tree towers in the center of the square, draped in so many lights that it can probably be seen in the next town over.
And here I am, Fletch Turley, professional hockey player, feeling like a complete idiot with a candy cane pin fastened to my jacket.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, adjusting the pin for the fifth time in as many minutes. I scan the crowd, looking for a woman with a snowflake pin who’s supposedly my perfect match according to the Heartland Happily Ever After blind mail-order bride service.
My thoughts drift to Bree like the snow that periodically flurries from the sky on this overcast day. Despite my best efforts, I can’t stop thinking about her. About how she used to look in college—in oversized sweaters. She’d tie her hair back in a messy bun with a pencil stuck through while she typed away in the newspaper office. How different she looked at graduation in a simple blue dress and her face more made up than usual, though I’d always thought she was just as pretty all-natural.
And now she’s here in this small town, of all places, accidentally kissing hockey players under mistletoe, er, one hockey player.
That would be me.
Given her reaction, it probably meant less than nothing to her. So why am I fixated on it? Must be something in the air that isn’t snow … or snowflake pins, because I don’t see my future wife. I shake my head, trying to focus. I’m here to meet my match, not daydream about Bree Darling.
As families pass with baby carriages, kids scurry behind with balloons in tow, teens move in a mob, and couples gaze at each other in wonder, I notice someone settle onto the bench by the Christmas tree—exactly where I’m supposed to meet my match.
A woman in a pink coat with her head bent over a notebook occasionally glances up to observe the crowd passing by.
