Bree blurts, “Car insurance. I mean, chicken sandwich.” Wincing and then biting her lip, she says, “That’s what I want for dinner. In case you were wondering.”
“Car insurance?”
But it’s a rhetorical question because I think Bree is flustered in the best of ways.
Either we’re on the same wavelength and trying to avoid the inevitable with silly distractions or she’s just really hungry for a sammie.
CHAPTER 12
BREE
I’m makingreal progress on my manuscript—almost back on track with my daily word count goals to meet the new deadline. The scenes are flowing better than they have in months. My characters finally feel alive instead of just moving like paper dolls through the plot points I’ve assigned them.
My phone buzzes for the third time in an hour. Mother again. Reluctantly I answer, knowing that she won’t relent until I do.
“Bree, Mrs. Gormely keeps calling me. She says strange men are prowling around the property. Should I call the police?”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You mean the Nebraska Knights hockey team and the A-2 Carpentry crew? I told you Fletch is renovating the house.”
“Without consulting me on design concepts and paint color? I’m still technically the owner, Bree.”
I take a deep breath. “I know, Mom. But you left me to handle it. I also know you’ve been wanting to sell it, and withthese updates—making the house habitable again—we can probably get a much better price.”
I don’t mention that I’ve already done the math in my head and whatever we make above the current market value goes to Fletch to cover his investment with interest. I haven’t consulted my mother about this part of the plan, but I’m not sure how much she cares beyond aesthetics or how much say she actually has, considering she essentially abandoned the house when she moved to Golden Years Village.
Granted, I understand the old Victorian comes with a lot of upkeep, but something about what Fletch said the other day has stuck with me.
Because maybe you deserve a house where love can live.
Whew. That hit me in the feels unlike anything has in a long time.
Well, except for the way he looks at me, how he came to my defense when Derek, the pageant director, made an advance, and how he truly listens with interest when I talk, whether it’s about mundane things or my work in progress.
Fletch’s comment was so unexpected, so sincere, that I haven’t been able to shake it. No one has ever suggested I deserve love—or a house full of it—before.
After ending the call with my mother, I try to focus on writing again, but my concentration is shot. For once, though, I’m not distracted by thoughts of failure or self-doubt. Instead, my mind keeps wandering to Fletch—the way the dimple in his chin deepens when he smiles, how sweet and playful he is with the dog, and the unexpected thoughtfulness of fixing up my childhood home.
Speaking of the dog, we still need an official name. So far, none of them have fit. Fletch suggested I ask my readers for name ideas, having exhausted his fans’ suggestions, but the truth is, much like how I planned to hide out in this town for afew weeks, I’ve been avoiding them. Disappointed in myself for missing my deadline and afraid of what will happen if I can’t produce another book they love.
But you know what they say about best-laid plans. Instead of remaining behind closed doors for the rest of the day, I end up helping with the toy drive, working on the skit scripts, and now Fletch has asked me to join him for a hockey skills clinic for teens this afternoon. I’ve never played hockey and only know how to skate because of the pond behind my old house. I haven’t been back there in years. I wonder if it has frozen over yet this winter.
“Ready to go?” Fletch enters the living room, already bundled up in his team jacket.
“Do I really need to come? I’ll just be standing around watching.”
“You’re my good luck charm. Besides, everyone has been asking why I’ve been smiling so much lately.”
“Because it’s Christmas, the most wonderful time of the year in Fletch Town.”
He holds his hands out grandly. “This is Hockey Town. Word has gotten around that I’m married to a famous author.”
I snort. “I’m hardly famous.”
“You are to them.”
With a smirk, he steers me toward the door.
In the truck, on the way to the Ice Palace practice rink, Fletch cranks the carols and sings along.
