My heart stops.
Bree looks thoughtfully at the market crowd and when she shifts, I spot something glittering. A snowflake pinned to her coat.
This has to be a coincidence. There’s no way ...
I look around and spot Mikey’s blue beanie poking out from behind a gingerbread stall. Hayden is poorly disguised in sunglasses—on a cloudy day—browsing handmade wreaths.Liam is actually wearing a fake mustache while pretending to sample cheese. Well, probably not pretending.
“Very subtle, guys,” I mutter.
They’re here to make sure I don’t back out, but now I’m wondering if they’ve set me up somehow.
How would they even recognize Bree? Then again, this is a small town.
And why would she agree to this? She wouldn’t unless it’s to get back at me for what she deemed “pointless and pompous teasing” back in college.
There’s only one way to find out what’s going on. I take a deep breath and approach the bench. Bree looks up as my shadow falls across her notebook.
Her eyes pop. “Fletch?”
“Bree, funny running into you here,” I say, hoping my voice sounds steady and confident even though this woman makes me tongue-tied. Always has.
She looks different today. Her hair is down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. A light dusting of subtle gold makeup makes her hazel eyes pop. She looks beautiful because she is.
Her gaze drops to my jacket, and I see the exact moment she notices the candy cane pin. Her mouth forms a perfectO.
Mine must be identical as the connection is made.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she whispers.
I point to the snowflake on her coat. “I’m guessing you’re not just really embracing the winter theme?”
She shakes her head slowly. “Heartland Happily Ever After: a modern mail-order matchmaking service?”
Feeling like I stepped on a metal rake, I glance at the email on my phone. “Match HEA-212?”
Bree closes her notebook with a snap. “This is impossible.”
“Or statistically improbable because I’d never need to use a matchmaking service.” I flash awhome?smile.
I get a glare in return. “Oh, so you’re sayingIneed a matchmaking service?”
“No, I just meant ...”
“Yeah. I get it. Same joke is on me as always, but then explain why you have an email. Did you know it was me? Did you plan it? Is this some kind of long-game gag to humiliate me? As if proclaiming you were going to marry me and embarrassing me when we were in college wasn’t enough?” She runs a hand roughly through her hair, chest heaving with frustration.
This is not how I want this to go. I never meant to hurt her if that’s what happened. “What? No, of course not,” I answer honestly.
Nostrils on the edge of flaring, she stares me down. For a moment, I get lost in her gaze.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Did you know it was me?”
“Obviously not. Return to sender. Address unknown.”
“It’s a mail-order marriage service in theory, but not literally. You can’t return me for an exchange or refund.”
An awkward silence falls between us as the visitors and vendors at the market continue their cheerful bustle, completely oblivious to our mutual shock.
Now, what are we going to do about it?
