Our gazes collide. In her eyes, I see a twinkle, a spark and suddenly I feel unsteady inside.
She leans closer. Then, with a shake of her head, she rocks back. “Oh … Oh!” Pointing over her shoulder, she says, “I should, um, you know, car insurance. Crab Rangoon. Chicken sandwich. I never had a crush on you. Goodbye.” She scurries down the hall.
“Is Bree Darling flustered?” I call after her.
The home office door clicks closed. I cannot help the smile on my face.
This might turn out to be less of a punishment after losing the bet than the guys wagered.
CHAPTER 10
BREE
What startsas a peaceful evening devolves into Christmas chaos. At least, that’s what my mother would say.
We eat pasta with white sauce. It contains little flecks of red pepper and green basil, along with salad and garlic bread that Fletch prepared. A surprisingly delicious meal, and as he pointed out, festive. Then the dog is wearing a collar of sparkly garland—also his doing. Fletch has another strand wrapped around my neck like a feather boa, and he’s dancing around the living room, singing “Jingle Bell Rock” at the top of his lungs. The dog howls as if they’re performing a duet.
“Join us!” Fletch calls out, extending his hand to me.
I shake my head, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “Someone has to be the adult here.”
“Overrated,” he replies, swinging Dickens in a gentle circle that makes the dog’s tail wag frantically.
Even though I don’t believe in love at first sight, the dog has a bad case of it because he already adores Fletch.
He calls to me, “Come on, Bree. Live a little.”
I continue unwrapping ornaments from their tissue paper, positioning them by size and color before placing them on the tree. It’s how my father always did it—organized and efficient. Meanwhile, Fletch’s approach is to grab whatever catches his eye and find a spot for it, creating a jumbled but somehow charming arrangement.
“You’re overthinking it,” he says, watching me deliberate over the placement of a glass ball.
“But it has to look good.”
“It sparkles, it glows, it’s fun. Of course, it’s going to look good. Anyway, Christmas decorating isn’t an exact science.”
“Everything has a proper place,” I counter.
Fletch grins. “Even me?”
The question catches me off guard, and I’m not sure how to respond. Does Fletch Turley have a proper place in my life? Even temporarily?
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he grabs my hand and spins me toward him. Before I can protest, he’s whirling me around the living room, garland trailing behind us like a glittery wake behind a boat, sparkling in the sunshine.
“I can’t dance,” I protest weakly.
“Everyone can dance. Just let the music move you.” He demonstrates, shifting from side to side, lopsided smile on display, eyes fixed on me.
To my surprise, I find myself relaxing into the movement, letting Fletch guide me in a ridiculous interpretation of a waltz to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” When he dips me unexpectedly, a laugh escapes my throat—rusty but real.
Fletch’s face lights up. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Had what in me?”
“Fun. You’ve been holding it in. Like a sneeze.”
I laugh again, and it feels good—like stretching a muscle I’d forgotten I had.
He rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “It’s good to hear you laugh. Feels good to sing again, too.”
