Mikey’s voice takes on a muted quality as he shows me the information on the website. The name Heartland Happily Ever After: a modern mail-order matchmaking service, blurs before my eyes.
“Here’s the deal,” Liam says, voice serious. “You complete the thirty-day trial marriage, and every guy here donates an extra ten grand to the children’s hospital. That’s a hundred thousand dollars, Fletch. Enough to put us over our goal.”
My throat tightens. A hundred thousand dollars for sick kids.
Jack adds, “If you back out early, the donation doesn’t happen. And you cover the cancellation fees for both you and your match.”
“How much are the cancellation fees?” I ask, though I already know I’ll do this, regardless.
“Ten grand each,” Redd says. “So if you bail, you’re out twenty thousand plus you cost those kids a hundred grand in donations.”
I look around at my teammates—my brothers. They’re grinning, but there’s something else in their eyes. They know what they’re asking. They know I’ve been struggling with commitment, with follow through, with everything except hockey. And even that’s been taken from me recently.
Mikey claps his hands. “It’s legit and it’ll be our little secret.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Liam claps me on the shoulder. “It means, my friend, that for once in your life, we’re going to keep our mouths shut about the finer detailsandyou’re going to follow through on a commitment … and get married.”
“So my penalty for losing the bet is getting a mail-order bride?” My laughter borders on hysterical. These guys are hilarious, especially our captain, who was the grumpiest grump who ever grumped. He went from grumpy bear to gummy bear, at least off the ice, after he entered fatherhood and married life. Well, except right now. The slim line of his lips suggests that if there’s a joke at hand, it’s on me.
A gentle voice deep inside nudges me, says that this is their way of helping me figure out who I am off the ice. And helping kids at the same time. My ego wants to dip, to pass—says there’snothing in this for me. However, that’s not true and it’s not all about me, is it?
The rest of the elves and guys in red hats wear matching grins, promising me they won’t advertise that they used a mail-order bride service to find my future wife.
Yeah right.
I’ve tried nearly every other dating method. What else do I have to lose?
“Deal.” I hold out my hand for a gentleman’s shake.
Even though this whole thing is absurd. It’s doubtful any of them can keep a secret and twice as unlikely that Santa will leave the future Mrs. Turley under the Christmas tree, but a guy can hope. I’ve been a very good boy. Promise. Well, mostly.
CHAPTER 2
BREE
I am officially entering hermitmode. Back home on the down low, no one needs to know I’m here. Without interruptions or fuss, I can quietly finish my manuscript … that was due to my editor last week.
Well, technically, a month ago, but then I got an extension. This is the book my publisher is using to decide whether to renew my contract or drop me entirely.
My phone buzzes with another email from Meredith, my editor. I don’t need to read it to know that she needs pages I don’t have.
A decision will soon be made about my future. The decision being to keep the author who missed her deadline, or cut their losses and move on to someone more reliable. Someone who can actually deliver a happily ever after with all the feels.
Pulling my ancient Honda off the highway, I have one stop to make before returning to my hometown of Cobbiton.
“You can do this,” I mutter to myself as I park outside Golden Years Village. The cheery name belongs to a senior living center for residents who can still make their own toast,not that my mother ever did such a thing. She wasn’t the homemaker type.
A wreath with a velvet bow greets me when I knock on the door to apartment 3B. She was more of the “impress the neighbors” type.
“Just smile and don’t mention your impending financial doom.” I’m a writer, of course, I talk to myself. Don’t judge.
Mom greets me with her signature one-armed hug—I was an unexpected, later-in-life child that my parents never quite warmed to.
“You look tired, Bree. Are you eating enough protein? Taking iron supplements? Drinking fluids? I read an article the other day about hydration and body weight.” Says the woman who considers celery a food group.
I follow her into the kitchenette, where she has tea and a tin of store-bought cookies waiting.
