That’s not much better. Why am I thinking of Christmas puns? It definitely can’t have anything to do with the dumb dad jokes Fletch insists on telling me each day.
Be present, Bree.
Tee hee. Oh my goodness. Who am I becoming?
Nina and I are seated in the plush seats several rows back from the stage, discussing the ‘Encorn’ skits she has so far and the gaps she needs to fill, when a pasty man withartfully sculpted hair faces us and coolly leans on the chairs behind him.
Looking at me, he says, “Nina, we need your opinion on the angel costumes.”
“No problem. I’m very particular about the wings,” she answers.
His gaze lingers on me. “And you must be Bree. I’m Derek, the director. Nina told me all about your writing talents.” He extends his hand for me to shake, but instead of the normal greeting, he kisses the top of it and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
My smile wavers and the busy sounds of hammering and set building fall disturbingly silent.
“We’re so lucky you volunteered,” Derek continues, holding my hand a beat too long.
“Sure. Glad to help while I’m here.” I snatch my hand back from his slug-like touch.
“If there’s anything I can do to make this experience more enjoyable for you, just let me know.”
Nina’s eyes bulge.
“I’m fine, but thank you,” I respond, shrinking back.
His smile is practiced, a bit sly. “Perhaps we could discuss your vision for the ‘Encorn’ skits over coffee sometime? I have some thoughts about the emotional arc of the second act and the climax.”
Before I can respond, a familiar voice bellows from the stage and gets closer. “Sugar Plum, how’s the script coming?”
Everyone in the room turns in Fletch’s direction.
He appears with sawdust in his hair and a casual possessiveness in his stance. He slides an arm around my waist and drops a kiss on my temple, his gesture so natural that even I almost believe it.
Nina gawks.
Truth be told, I could play a convincing role on the stage, given the way I lean into him, relieved that he came to my rescue. Not that I couldn’t have handled Derek, but I have less than zero interest in the pageant director.
I’m not like the feisty female leads that I write about. At least not today.
Towering over the guy, Fletch looks him up and down. “I expect this to be an outstanding performance, given Nina’s skills and my wife’s expertise.”
“Derek, this is my husband, Fletch.” An awkward beat follows as I clear my throat, but then I can’t help but be surprised by how easily the wordhusbandrolled off my tongue.
Derek’s expression shifts. “Husband? I didn’t realize you were married.”
“Newlyweds,” Fletch explains with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, at least when he’s looking at Derek, but grows when he turns to me.
“No ring,” Derek observes.
Fletch’s arm tightens almost imperceptibly around me. “We’re working on that.”
My traitorous body lingers against him and melts at his side like an icicle on a sunny day.
Fiddlesticks and fruitcake!
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of script revisions and set construction. I find myself repeatedly distracted by Fletch, watching him as he patiently teaches a group of children how to paint backdrops, listening to his easy laughter, and noticing the gentle way he lifts the smallest kids to reach high spots.
He’s good with them—genuinely interested in their chatter, never dismissive or condescending. It’s a side of him I hadn’t expected. Nothing like my parents, who adhered to the adage, “Children should be seen and not heard.”
