“Maybe we should...” I say simultaneously.
We both laughagain.
“You first,” he offers.
At that moment, eyes locked on his, I realize something that terrifies me. As far back as I can remember, I was raised with deliberate planning and encouraged to make practical decisions. I’ve written about spontaneous attraction and playful romance, but always with the conviction that it wasn’t for me. That real love required time and analysis and compatibility tests.
Fletch represents everything I don’t believe in—how he swept into my life on a bet, his persistent jokes about marrying me “for real someday,” and the easy way he seems to want me just as I am. He may have even said that heneedsme.
It’s too simple, too straightforward to be real. Love in my books always involves grand gestures, dramatic circumstances, and earth-shattering revelations.
Standing in a Christmas Market with cold-reddened cheeks and just barely dodging awkward conversation, yet not saying truly how I feel, can’t be how love starts. Can it?
No sooner do the thoughts volley through my mind than the possibility that I’ve actually been at war with myself about love and romance abruptly blasts apart the stories I’ve been telling myself.
Fletch says, “We could spend Christmas together. If you want.”
The question hangs between us, weighted with possibilities I’ve spent years convincing myself were only fictional.
“I’d like that,” I hear myself say.
It’s almost like I channeled Lorna’s bold city-girl confidence and decided to take a real life risk.
And I kind of like it.
CHAPTER 17
FLETCH
My phone buzzeson the nightstand, jolting me awake. I squint at the screen.Mom.
It’s not even six a.m. Worry courses through me, but she knows I’m an early riser. What she doesn’t know is that Bree and I were up late last night talking. It just sort of happened after dinner. We drifted to the couch and didn’t leave as the dog snoozed between us.
We talked about our college days and what we studied—she, an English major, which is no big surprise—concerts we’ve been to, favorite ice cream flavors, and bucket list items.
Our conversation spanned the gamut, reminding me of that saying, “The more you learn, the less you know.” I want to find out everything about her.
“Hello?” I mumble, still half-asleep.
“Fletcher! We’re at the airport!” Mom’s voice is way too cheerful for this hour.
I sit up, suddenly alert. “What airport?”
“Eppley! Surprise! We’re all coming to see your game tomorrow night. Dad, me, your brothers—everyone! Well,almost. Bradley and Jen are bringing the kids, and even Graham and his fiancée made it! Sullivan and Paloma are just getting settled into the new place with the baby, so we’re going to their house for Christmas. Which means we have to see you now, since with your game schedule, it doesn’t look like you’ll be able to join us unless you hitch a ride on Santa’s sleigh.”
My stomach drops. “Mom, I’m not playing tomorrow. I’m still out with an injury.”
Silence. My mother is the sweetest, most tender woman, which is a wonder, having raised us hooligans and I know she feels terrible.
“Oh, honey, we didn’t realize. Your father checked the schedule weeks ago and we figured that by now ...”
Yeah. Me too.
“It’s fine,” I say, though it isn’t—the game part, not seeing my family. That’ll be really nice—even if last-minute.
“But we can still check out the game, go out to dinner. A little elf told me there’s a great Christmas Market in Cobbiton.
I tell her how much she’ll love it. “It’ll be great to see everyone.”
