“We’ll organize the toy drive and work on the pageant as a ‘couple,’ and we’ll maintain appropriate appearances in public, but—” Her lips curl as if she’s disgusted.
“Keep our distance in private? I understand.” I mean, it’s not like I was expecting any kind of physical affection, but I’m not an ogre. Maybe she thinks I’m hideous. Or perhaps she doesn’t like the eggs.
Nope. Never mind. The omelet is nearly gone.
“Good. We should probably write everything down. Make our own contract.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me?”
“I don’t trust this situation. And I’m a writer. I like things spelled out.”
I take a sip of coffee. “Fair enough. Let me get some paper.”
Thirty minutes later, we’ve drafted a detailed agreement, covering everything from bathroom schedules to public displays of affection—minimal and only when necessary for maintaining our story.
“I think that covers it. Any questions?” Bree asks.
“Just one. What are we doing for dinner tonight? As your husband, I feel I should know your food preferences and demonstrate that I’m a good provider.”
She rolls her eyes, but can’t help a small smile. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious. We could go out, risk running into the mayor again ... or I could cook for you.”
Gesturing to her nearly empty plate, she says, “So you weren’t watching video tutorials on how to prepare the perfect omelet all morning?”
There are several threads I could pull from her comment, but I go with, “You think the omelet was perfect? Wait until you see what I can do with a steak.”
Bree’s gaze travels to my running shoes that I’d toed off by the front door, then her eyes travel from my feet to my face. We’re a measure apart at the kitchen island and she seems to be making sense of something—me?—or taking notes for a story idea. After all, she’s on a research mission.
I say, “I’m a bachelor who lives alone. I had to learn to cook or I’d starve.”
“You might poison me to get out of this arrangement.” Bree narrows her eyes in my direction.
Mine crinkle at the corners when I smile. “And risk Mayor Nishimura’s wrath? Never.”
Despite herself, Bree laughs. The tension that’s been building in her shoulders since the Christmas Market eases slightly.
“Are you a bachelor by choice?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Are you asking if I’m a player?”
She clumsily sets down her mug of coffee with a splash of cream.
“Or would you call guys like thatcadsin your old-timey books?”
“There are numerous terms, but womanizer will suffice.”
Lips bunched together, I nod. “I see. Well, if you’re interested in my relationship history?—”
She cuts me off. “I’m not.”
Okay then. “I thought it might behelpful for our backstory.”
She shakes her head and starts to get up to bring her plate to the sink.
“So you don’t want to hear about the ghosts of Christmas past?” I mutter.
We clean up in silence until I say, “How about this? We’re going to get a Christmas tree. Start making this place look like the holiday hasn’t completely passed us by. Then we can figure out our strategy for the toy drive and I’ll make dinner later.”
