Stacy, Graham’s fiancée, leans close to Bree and asks, “Don’t you get worried about all Fletch’s female hockey followers? They must swarm him.”
Lips turning down, she says, “Oh, if they so much as bat an eyelash in his direction, I’ll throw doughnuts.”
I chuckle because that would be a sight to behold. “What happened to the pen being mightier than the sword? How about you just tell them to back off?”
“In this case, they’d be better off with the doughnut holes.”
They laugh like we’re joking, but is Bree? She wears a fierce expression that suggests fried balls of dough might fly if I get some unwanted attention from the opposite sex. Is she jealous of other women? She has absolutely no reason to be because my eyes are only on her.
Thankfully, the conversation moves on, crisis averted, but Bree’s hand finds mine under the table and squeezes. A silent thanks, a shared secret.
As we say goodnight to my family hours later, Mom hugs Bree again.
“You’re good for him. He seems happier than I’ve seen him in years, but especially since the injury.” She doesn’t even bother to whisper.
After I close the door, I lean against it, catching my breath.
Bree stands in the middle of the room, eyes wide as if I’m barring her exit and she’s contemplating jumping out the window.
I say, “For what it’s worth, they love you.”
“I like them too, a lot, actually.”
“But?” I ask, sensing there’s more.
She turns to me and steps closer. “But in a short amount of time, this ends. And I’m not sure what happens then.”
I’m not sure either, and the notion of her not filling this space with me makes me feel empty. It hurtsmore than any check into the boards ever has. But I can’t wade into that territory just now. I’ve spent my career scoring goals, but winning Bree’s heart might be the biggest challenge yet.
Instead, I say, “Tell me more about this doughnut war you plan to wage?”
She laughs.
It’s my new favorite sound.
CHAPTER 18
BREE
Fletch’s family left yesterday,and the house feels too quiet.
For someone like me who is so solitary, I kind of miss the chaos with the Turley brothers’ booming laughter, the kids’ thundering footsteps, Mama Lisa—as she insisted I call her like Jen and Stacy do, since I’m part of the family—innocent questions about our mail-order bride marriage. Their departure has left a hollowness that I wasn’t expecting.
Growing up as a late-in-life baby and an only child to parents already set in their ways, family gatherings were always orderly affairs. Polite conversation, appropriate presents, and scheduled activities. My parents loved me, but there was always a certain distance. A coolness that comes from having your life fully established before a child arrives to disrupt it.
The Turleys are different. They spill into spaces, fill them with noise and laughter and arguments that blow over as quickly as they erupt. They hug too hard and ask inappropriate questions and tell embarrassing stories without hesitation.
I liked it more than I should have. Bonus, they bought ourhalf-baked story about love and marriage when they deserve the truth.
My phone rings. It’s Meredith, my editor.
“Bree! Those chapters are brilliant!” she gushes before I can even say hello.
I let out a breath that I didn’t realize was trapped in my lungs. No, in my bones.
“The chemistry between your characters is juicy! The banter and longing—it’s fiery!”
I sink onto the couch, relief washing over me. “Really? I wasn’t sure?—”
