I do not object.
Downtown Cobbiton and the town square are a winter wonderland, daring me to continue to resist getting into theChristmas spirit. I’d been so successful, but fear I may soon succumb.
Jolly jingle bells!
We enter the Christmas Market under the Merry Kiss Me sign that was popular last year. My thoughts drift to the pond when I lifted onto my toes and Fletch leaned down and …
I bump into an older man carrying his wife’s shopping bags.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Lost in thought?” Nina asks with a bounce to her eyebrows. “Anything particular on your mind?”
“Oh, just Lorna and Drake since I should be working right now.”
“You’ll simply have to burn the midnight oil. Maybe someone special will keep you company.”
“You mean the dog?”
She chuckles because no, obviously, she means Fletch … who I cannot stop thinking about even after I beg my characters to come alive in my mind.
The dog leads the way on our walk to the Christmas Market, where wooden stalls sell everything from hand-knitted scarves to artisanal cheeses. Fairy lights twinkle overhead, the smell of mulled wine and roasted nuts smothered in butter, sugar, and cinnamon fills the air, along with a live band in the gazebo playing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”
“Bree Darling!” A voice calls out, and I turn to see Isaac Hopkins approaching, flanked by Pete Collins—high school classmates who must be back for the holidays. If they still lived here, Nina would’ve warned me.
“Heard you got married,” Isaac says, looking me up and down.
“Yeah,” I confirm, feeling strangely protective of Fletch and our arrangement, fake as it may be.
“Never pegged you as the trophy wife type,” Pete says with a laugh that instantly sets my teeth on edge.
“She’s a published author. Three books, with a fourth on the way.” Nina crosses her arms in front of her chest as if to say, that I’m accomplished in my own right.
Isaac raises his eyebrows. “No kidding? What kind of books?”
“Romance,” I say, daring him to make a joke.
“You mean you don’t write textbooks about trigonometry?” he teases.
I’d had such a crush on Isaac in high school. Looking at him now, I feel ... nothing. No flutter, no nerves, no spark. Just the vague sense that I’m suddenly wearing an itchy—and ugly Christmas—sweater.
“Bree?” a deep, familiar voice calls.
I turn and see Fletch approaching, a paper shopping bag in his hand.
My heart skips, then races—full of flutters, nerves, and a certain spark. Suddenly self-conscious, I stammer, “Shopping?”
“Just some ... things. For the stuff,” he says vaguely, tucking the bag behind him.
Nina watches us with amusement and says, “By the way, this is Isaac and Pete from high school. Bree helped Isaac with his math homework. Guys, this is Fletch.”
Isaac squints slightly as if trying to picture us standing together at the end of the aisle rather than several feet apart at the market.
“Bree’s husband,” Fletch says, apparently having dug into his personal thesaurus and found words that aren’tthingsandstuff. He shakes their hands, all easy confidence and genuine friendliness.
We make awkward small talk for approximately ninetyseconds while Isaac and Pete stand there, seemingly perplexed by the high school nerd and the hottie hockey player match.
Me too, guys. Me too.
