His throat bobs. “Supposedly, the unflinching contact releases hormones and?—”
I playfully shove him. “I am not doing anything with you that involves hormones. What are we, fifteen?”
“No, it’s just—” His browneyes hook mine.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but I find myself blinking, slowly, dazedly. It’s like I’m in a trance, but the good kind, and I imagine it’s much like what the hypnotist who is all the rage right now explained in a podcast interview I listened to while driving to Cobbiton.
My thoughts stray into unknown territory and I have the odd, impulsive desire to pick up where we left off when I’d leaned in … and mush my face into his. Wait, that can’t be right. I’d never kiss Fletch Turley.
Oh, wait. I already have.
At some point, one of us moves, breathes, remembers that we’re supposed to be at odds because of the college incident, breaking the spell. However, what should’ve been a stare down softens something inside me, melts an icy layer, and, dare I say, makes me wonder what it would be like to be under the mistletoe again.
The next morning,I wake up early and slip into the home office, sliding myDo Not Disturbsign on the doorknob. Maybe if I get started before getting distracted, I’ll be able to produce some words that don’t include,I don’t know what to writerepeatedly. The logic is that if you just start, you’ll figure out how to continue.
Not lately.
However, an hour later, I have a page.
I hear Fletch moving around downstairs. I made a full pot of coffee, not just my usual single cup. Hopefully, it’s still warm for him. Taking a sip, I made it stronger than I normally drink it, the way he takes it.
I push the distracting thought about Fletch’s coffee preferences away and return to my manuscript.
My mail-order bride is starting to see her husband as more than just a business arrangement, and I’m finding it surprisingly easy to write about her conflicted emotions.
I wonder why.
An hour after that, I draft three more pages. When I’m nearly at the end of the chapter—it’s sloppy but can be revised—my stomach rumbles at the scent of toast that comes from downstairs.
Through the kitchen window, I spot Fletch and the dog in the backyard playing. A note sits beside a plate on the counter that says,Merry Lunch-mas. I didn’t want to interrupt, but figured you’d be hungry. H&K, Fletch
H&K? I rack my brain until I land onhugs and kisses. My body seizes and my stomach leaps. Maybe I’m hungrier than I thought.
Despite my mother’s desire to keep up appearances, she never made my school lunch. I’ve always fended for myself. This simplesammie, as he calls sandwiches, makes a neglected part of my heart smile. Like I’m being taken care of, when usually, the heroines in my books do the caretaking.
But is it edible?
With a grin, I dig into the toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich and immediately want another.
I leave a reply.
Thanks for the Lunch-mas sammie. It hit the spot. XO Bree
That’s too cutesy, flirty. Chilled panic rushes through me and I cross that out and then crumple up the piece of paper. I’m afraid of crossing a personal boundary. Instead, I just scrawl,Thanks for the sandwich.
By mid-afternoon, Nina texts, asking to meet so I can help her with a sticky spot on the ‘Encorn’ skits scripts. I walk down the street to her house. The moment her front door opens—sidenote: it’s wrapped like a Christmas gift and features a wreath covered in bows, and lights—she badgers me for the “fresh tea.”
Tempting me with freshly baked spritz cookies—because she knows my weakness is chocolate and home-baked sweets—she asks about what’s been going on with my mail-order groom. Where to start? I offer sparse details, not wanting to make a big deal out of it because it isn’t one. As my editor says,It’s a nothing-burger. Though in her last email, she commented that if I didn’t come along with a manuscript soon, there would be asomething-burgeron our hands.
When Nina and I arrive at the theater, I spot Fletch with the set-building crew. My stomach leaps again. Could I still be hungry? Maybe I ate too many cookies. It has nothing to do with how I kind of confessed the crush on Fletch that-never-was. No chance that my entire body, inside and out, heated up to volcanic temperatures when Fletch and I were talking after he posted a story of us to his social media last night.
No way, Santa’s sleigh.
I’m focusing on the theater and the pageant only.
The guy across the room with the muscles rippling under his t-shirt, and the way he easily lifts an entire sheet of plywood by himself and hammers it into the manger frame with confident accuracy, has zero effect on me.
No-el way.
