Losing track of time, I realize I’ve repeatedly writtenfiction,fiction,fiction, as if I need to remind my subconscious to remember that my reality isn’t a book and Fletch isn’t my future.
CHAPTER 11
FLETCH
For the past three days,the only evidence I have that Bree still lives in the townhouse is the sound of clickety-clackety typing coming from the home office and the occasional empty coffee mug left in the sink.
She’s in what she calls the “writing cave,” which I imagine is the equivalent of when I get in the “zone” on the ice. She even has a fancifulDo Not Disturbsign hanging on the doorknob. I leave trays of food outside the door—sammies, fruit, cookies from the bakery, chocolate from the Swiss stall at the Christmas Market, and more coffee—and they disappear when I’m not looking.
The dog and I have fallen into our own routine. After getting things started on the top secret project on Cornsilk Drive, Dasher and I enjoy morning playtime and walks, which he loves despite his still-recovering condition, then breakfast.
Even though I haven’t seen much of Bree in the last few days, knowing that she’s here, combined with man’s best friend keeping me company, makes this place feel more like a home than it ever has.
Truth be told, I was starting to drift into a slump since I’m still on the injury list, and Bree and the dog have lifted me out of it, possibly as much as we’ve helped him.
In addition to posting about our rescue on social media and asking fans for Christmas-themed name suggestions, we’ve put up signs everywhere. Not a single person has contacted us with a reliable claim on Dasher. Meanwhile, Bree calls him Dickens. Poor guy must be getting confused.
“What do you think of Noel for a name?” I ask the dog as we return from our walk. “Or maybe Kris Kringle?”
He tilts his head, unimpressed.
“Yeah, you’re right. We should consult Bree.”
As if summoned by her name, the office door cracks open. She emerges, blinking like she’s been in the cave for months instead of days. Her hair is piled in a messy bun, tendrils escaping around her face. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that’s slipped off one shoulder, revealing a delicate collarbone that magnetizes my gaze.
Why can’t I stop staring at her smooth skin?
“Did I hear my name?” she asks, voice slightly raspy from disuse.
“I was just telling the dog that we should get your opinion on his potential names,” I say, trying not to imagine how good she’d look in my hockey jersey.
She raises both eyebrows. “Have you gotten any good feedback from fans?”
Does it mean something that her opinion is the only one that matters?
“I’ve narrowed it down to Noel, Kris, Comet, or Clementine.”
“Clementine?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, you know, from the song. ‘Oh my darling, oh mydarling...’” I sing off-key, causing the dog to tilt his head with renewed interest.
“I’m familiar with the song, but it’s not particularly Christmassy.”
I spontaneously switch the words, “Oh, Bree Darling, oh Bree Darling, will you be my Valentine?”
Her face creases with laughter. “Wow. New heights, Fletch. New heights.”
“Of adoration for me? I know, I know. I’m irresistible.” I splay my hand across my chest.
She doesn’t roll her eyes. Instead, they crescent with a smile.
Composing myself, I say, “One fan suggested it because clementines or oranges are traditional Christmas stocking stuffers. Plus, it’s cute.”
Bree crouches down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “What do you think, boy? Are you a Clementine?”
He makes a whining sound.
“I’d say that is not a winner.” I laugh.
