“I’m serious. Whatever you’re doing differently, keep at it. This is your best work yet.”
We talk for a few more minutes, with me assuring her I’ll meet the new deadline and her encouraging me.
After hanging up, I stare at my laptop screen, at the words I’ve written. Words inspired by stolen glances across a dinner table, by the feeling of Fletch’s hand in mine as we skated, and by the way my heart races when he looks at me a certain way.
Am I using him for inspiration? Is this just research? Or is it truly something more?
I’ve been telling myself a story for years. Love is fiction. Happy endings are fantasy. I’m too practical for romance. But what if I’ve just been too scared? What if the story I’ve been telling myself is the real work of fiction?
The questions make me squirm with discomfort. Because of what it might mean when the real life Heartland HEA thirty-day deadline comes.
“We need more tape!”Hayden calls across the community room at the hockey arena.
Around us, tables are piled high with donated toys, wrapping paper in colorful festive patterns, and half a dozen hockey players awkwardly try to fold corners and tie bows.
The toy drive wrapping party was Fletch’s idea—probably because he couldn’t fathom us doing it all ourselves—but the guys on the team and their families embraced it. Now they’re all here on their day off, along with their wives.
Handing me a roll of tape, a voice beside me says, “I’m Ella, by the way. Jack’s wife.”
“Bree, Fletch’s ...”
She smiles warmly. “Wife. We know. The famous Bree, who finally caught hockey’s most famousineligiblebachelor.”
“Ineligible?”
“Fletch has talked about you. Well, not you specifically, but this girl from college he always said he was going to marry someday. In other words, his future wife. Like he actually wanted to get married and was waiting for his special girl. Some of the guys are very much into remaining solo. Or so they think?—”
I nearly drop the stuffed elephant I’m wrapping. “He ... what?”
“Stop me now. I’m rambling.” Ella’s eyes widen.
“No, it’s just that I thought we leftiton campus. It followed him here after all these years?”
Her forefinger wiggles slightly from side to side as if she’s trying to piece together whether I am indeed the girl from college.
I assumed he was a player—in every sense of the word. At least, that’s how he seemed back then. But he wanted to get married?
“Bree! We’ve been dying to meet you. How did you and Fletch reconnect?” Another woman appears, introducing herself as Jess, Liam’s wife—I’ve gathered that he’s the captain.
Before I know it, I’m surrounded by the partners of team members, all curious about the woman who married Fletch Turley after he’d apparently spent years telling his teammates he was saving himself for some girl from college. This also tells me that the women have no idea that we signed up for Heartland Happily Ever After or why.
“Tell us the story. How did it happen?” Ella urges.
“Well,” I start cautiously, unsure where to begin because I no longer know where we stand. “I was on the school paper and was writing a?—”
“And I said, ‘I’m going to marry this woman someday,’” Fletch’s voice cuts in as he appears beside me, wrapping an arm around my waist.
Suddenly dizzy at the proximity of his crisp, fresh, minty scent, I lace my arm around him to steady myself and not because I want to be close.Duh.Plus, this is what couples do. If I were writing a scene where an unlikely pair were trying to pull off a fake relationship, they’d have to show some public displays of affection and they’d definitely tell themselves it didn’t mean anything.
Not even when their hearts drum.
Their knees turn weak and wobble.
They think about a light and very attractive dusting of stubble.
Of lips and kisses.
Or is that just me?
