Bree’s expression falls slightly. “You’re really into Christmas, aren’t you?”
“It’s the best time of year! The lights, the music, the cookies. What’s not to love?” I can’t keep the enthusiasm from my voice.
“Plenty,” she mumbles, then catches herself. “Sorry. I’m just not feeling very festive this year.”
I want to ask why, but something tells me to hold back. Instead, I say, “I’ll just have to be festive enough for both of us.”
It’s such an outrageous suggestion and reinforces that we’re on the same team, a couple, that for a moment, she seems caught off guard. She opens and closes her mouth as if choosing her words carefully.
When she doesn’t speak at first, I’m afraid I may not like what she’ll say. Like she might reject me. But why would that matter?
Wringing her hands, Bree says, “This isn’t how I expectednowto go—contractually married to a Christmas-obsessed hockey player, planning toy drives, and talking about holiday decorations. But as research for my mail-order bride novel, I guess it works, oddly enough.”
“So, tree hunting and dinner later?” I ask, relieved.
She nods and her shoulders creep up toward her ears as she turns uneasy again. “Is it okay for me to set up my laptop in here? I need a place to work in the meantime.”
“Let me show you the guest room. Maybe you can set up there.”
We go upstairs and I open the door to reveal my home gym, complete with a treadmill, weight bench, and various pieces of equipment taking up most of the space.
I pause in the doorway, thinking about what to do about this situation. “I can move this to the basement.”
“That’s a lot of work for only thirty days. I’ll just work at the bakery.”
That sounds very cozy, writerly, but I like the idea of Bree writing her romance novels here.
“Actually, I have a tiny home office, but I was using it as a storage space. The desk is covered with boxes, but those are easy enough to move.”
Her eyes brighten. “Really? That’s no trouble? I’ve never had a designated writing space.”
“Given the choice to sit at a desk or work out up here, I’m choosing—” I point at the workout gear.
“We are so different.”
“Isn’t it the tension that makes the kinds of stories you write so juicy?”
A smile blooms on Bree’s face. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“My mother had four sons. I’m not sure if she’s ever read any of your books, but she has multiple shelves filled with romance novels.” We called them her girlie books.
With splayed fingers, she gestures to the spare room. “I just have to make this old-fashioned and cowboy.”
“And make the office space your own,” I say, starting down the hall to show her the room.
She looks wistful for a moment. “I’ve been meaning to get back to my parents’ old house to pick up some things. I moved here from Wyoming, where I had a sublet, so I don’t have a lotof stuff. But there are some items I could grab, as long as a family of woodland animals didn’t move in and take over.”
“Your parents’ place is here in town?” I ask, curious about the woman I’ve suddenly found myself married to.
Bree nods. “My dad passed away when I was a senior in high school. My mother is in an independent living community now. They had me later in life—a surprise, they always said.” There’s something in her tone that hints at more, but she doesn’t elaborate.
“I could drive you over there in the truck. We could pick up whatever you need.”
Bree looks surprised by the offer. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all. I bet you have some great Christmas decorations stored away. Maybe we could borrow those, too?”
Something clouds her expression. “We didn’t really do much for Christmas. My parents were ... set in their ways. The holiday wasn’t a big production, but there are a few boxes in the basement we could grab.”
