“Andit ends after Christmas.”
I nod, trying to ignore the strange disappointment that statement brings. “Agreed.”
Around us, the Christmas Market continues its cheerful business. Children laugh as they visit Santa’s workshop. Couples stroll hand in hand, admiring the lights. It all feels surreal.
I extend my hand. “Well, I guess we have a deal, Mrs. Hockey Captain.”
Bree rolls her eyes but takes my hand. Her fingers are warm, soft against my callused palm.
“Don’t push your luck, Rink Rat,” she replies, using what I liked to think of as a term of endearment back in college.
I can’t help but smile as our gazes lock because there’s no denying that I’m thinking about that mistletoe kiss. “You know, I always did say I was going to marry you someday.”
Her eyes widen, but before she can respond, a raucous cheer erupts from behind the gingerbread stall. Liam, Mikey, and Hayden have apparently given up all pretense of subtlety and are now openly celebrating with high-fives.
“Your teammates are ridiculous,” Bree observes.
“Yes, they are. But they’re about to donate a lot of money to a charitable cause for children, so I can’t be too mad at them.”
Bree sighs and looks down at our still-joined palms. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”
I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “I don’t know. Marry Christmas, Bree.”
Despite the absurdity of the situation—or maybe because of it—I wonder if Santa put me on the good list after all.
CHAPTER 6
BREE
I’min a complete daze as we leave the Christmas Market. Just when I was warming to the idea of the holiday season, the festive lights now seem a bit too bright, the jolly carols a touch too loud. My mind keeps replaying what just happened: the snowflake pin, the candy cane pin, the matchmaking service, Mayor Nishimura, the contract ...
“You okay? You’ve been quiet for the last three minutes.” Fletch’s breath puffs soft clouds in the cold December air.
Is he counting? “This is either the most diabolical way you could possibly try to rage bait me like you always did or ...”
Something like concern or apology crosses his stupid, handsome face as he holds up his hands in surrender. “Definitely not that. Promise.”
I huff. “This is just so …” It’s like my brain has entered low-power mode and I can’t think of what to say. Fletch doesn’t make me tongue tied. Not a chance.
“Surreal?” he offers.
“That’s one word for it,” I agree, realizing that, once more, my words are failing me.
What happened to Bree, master of the English language? A human thesaurus? Able to craft compelling love stories with the touch of her pen … or keyboard?
We’ve reached the edge of the market, standing at the intersection where I suppose we’ll part ways—me to Nina’s, him to his house—wherever that is. In the glow of the streetlights, with snowflakes beginning to drift lazily from the evening sky, it feels like we’re on a stage or inside a snow globe.
Except this isn’t theater. This is my actual life, which has somehow veered wildly off course in the span of a single day.
“So, I guess I’ll call you tomorrow and we can figure out—” His phone rings, cutting him off. He glances at the screen and grimaces. “It’s my lawyer calling back. Kind of late. I should take this.”
I nod, secretly relieved for the momentary reprieve from having to figure out what comes next and the possibility that he has good news and there’s a loophole that allows us to exit this mess quietly and quickly.
There is no world, real or fictional, in which Fletch Turley and I would work as a couple.
A tinny and indistinct voice sounds through his phone. I can’t make out the details.
Fletch says, “Yeah. Glad you found it so amusing, but thanks for following up.”
