Also, she was supposed to stand guard at the market in case my match was a weirdo—status pending—but was called away for Christmas pageant duties. I assured her I’d be fine, what with being in public and all at the market. But how do I explain what only Fletch’s teammates witnessed?
“Well? How was your match? Wait. That was Fletch. Why was he walking you home?” Her eyebrows pinch together.
I take a shaky breath. “Fletch was my match.”
Nina’s mouth drops open, practically hitting the basement level. “No way.”
“Yes way. The algorithm matched us. We’re apparently ‘highly compatible,’” I make air quotes around the words for emphasis.
“That’s actually kind of perfect,” Nina says, grinning.
“I adamantly disagree, but it gets worse. Mayor Nishimura saw us together and basically announced to the entire Christmas Market that we’re Cobbiton’s newest power couple, given his NHL status and my being an author.” A career I’m increasingly feeling like an impostor in since I can’t manage to get my thoughts straight, never mind write a cohesive sentence.
“This is wild.”
“You’re telling me. She volunteered us to lead the town toy drive. Together. The two of us.”
Nina squeals. “This is the best thing ever since you’re also going to help me with the ‘Encorn’ skits—vignettes that the actors perform after the main show that usually leaves the crowd roaring with laughter and occasionally are sentimental—performed just after the Christmas pageant.”
“Yes. I know about the post-pageant ‘Encorn’ skits, but how does that make this in any way the best thing ever?”
“We have a plot hole and I need your help. Fletch and the guys from the Knights are working on the set.”
I close my eyes, succumbing to just how bad this is getting. Brushing past this, I say, “This whole thing with the matchmaking service is not just a dating thing. It’s a marriage contract.”
Nina nods. “Yep. Mail-orderbride. Those are the terms. But the good news is you’re married to Fletch Turley. The pro hockey player and the guy you kissed right there in the doorway, practically exploding my living room.”
“No, that would be the abundance of Christmas lights. But that means you read the fineprint.”
“Duh. I thought you did too. You were sitting right next to me while I filled out the questionnaire.”
“I guess I was distracted,” I murmur.
Nina should read the room and slow her roll, but she doesn’t. “This is even better than the storylines in one of your books.”
“My books have happily ever afters. This is a legal nightmare,” I remind her, wishing this situation away.
She tips her head to one side. “Speaking of legal, doesn’t the contract require you to live together, you know, as married couples do?”
I blink dumbly, shocked by her comment and that she knew about this all along and didn’t call it to my attention. “What?”
“The whole mail-order bride concept, obviously. Traditionally, they would move in with their husbands. Actually, modern couples do the same after exchanging vows. Figured you’d know that.” Her humor is as dry as the ceramic cookie jar on the kitchen counter.
I am in no mood for sarcasm as I feel like I’m being squished under a heap of coal.
“Well, there’s a cohabitation clause in the fine print.” She swallows thickly, confirming her preexisting knowledge of this little fact that she kept from me.
I pull out my phone and frantically search through the contract. Sure enough, in section 9.2, subsection C, it says,Parties agree to cohabitate for the duration of the trial period to ensure true relationship development.
Flopping back on the couch, I groan. “This can’t be happening.”
“You have to move in with him. This is first-person research at its finest.” Nina does not bother to hide her glee.
“You just want your spare bedroom back,” I accuse.
“Maybe. It’s gift-wrapping central. An elf needs space tospread out. But think about it, Bree. You’re like a wartime journalist embedded in a military zone. This is as authentic as research gets!”
I put my head in my hands. “This is—” Fletch’s words echo back to me. “Nuttier than a fruitcake.”
