“Can I see that one?” I point.
As Mr. Stevenson retrieves it, my phone buzzes with a text from Nina, asking me about my skit for the pageant. She dubbed it theMerry Ever After Project. I smile at the code name she’s given to my plan. After texting her back, I try to imagine Bree’s face when she sees what I’ve been preparing. Will she think it’s too much? Not enough?
Our thirty days are almost up, and I’m betting everything on her wanting to stay.
Mr. Stevenson places the ring in my palm. “This setting is from the 1920s. We restored it with new stones.”
Just like Bree’s house—honoring the past while building something new. It’s perfect.
After he carefully wraps it, I check the time that I’m supposed to meet the team at Cornsilk Drive. That’s one gift that won’t fit under the tree.
I sit in my truck outside the jewelry store, the small velvet box in my palm. Taking a peek, the ring catches the winter sunlight, sparkling with promise. Or maybe it’s just foolishness wrapped in vintage gold.
What am I doing?
Soon, our thirty-day contract will be up. Bree will have her research, her completed manuscript, and her stipend. She’ll have everything she signed up for. And then what? Does she stay because she wants to, or because she’s gotten comfortable? Because it’s convenient?
The doubt sits in my gut like a not-so-shiny stone.
I’ve been skating on hope this whole time, telling myself that the way she looks at me means something. That the laughter we share, the comfortable silences, the moments when she reaches for my hand without thinking, all add up to something real.
But what if I’m wrong?
What if I’m just the research subject who happened to be convenient? The guy who fixed up her house and made her life easier for a month. What if, when the contract ends, she thanks me politely and walks away with nothing more than material for her next bestseller?
I think about my teammates’ warnings from the beginning. About how I never follow through, how I’m all flash and no substance. Maybe they were right. Maybe I’ve been playing at this, pretending it’s real when Bree’s just been doing her job.
The worst part is, I couldn’t even blame her. We went into this as a business arrangement. I’m the one who changed the rules by falling in love. That’s on me.
I just hope all this doubt is just noise in my head.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jack. He’s waiting. I pocket the ring.
The renovated house is my grand gesture, my way of showing Bree she has a place here. A home. But I can’t make someone stay with new paint and fixed plumbing. I can’t renovate her heart and just hope that there’s room for me.
Either she wants me, or she doesn’t.
And in a few days, I’ll find out which it is.
The thought terrifies me more than any opponent I’ve ever faced on the ice.
But a life with Bree is worth the risk.
Standingin the doorway of Bree’s writing room in the renovated Victorian, I hang a calligraphy print that saysJust One More Chapter.
“A little more to the left,” Leah directs.
Gracie said the phrase works from a reader’s perspective because everyone wants to read one more chapter, but also, if she needs motivation, it can also mean writing one more chapter.
Ella and Jess arrange the assortment of vintage hardcovers that I found at an estate sale. Gracie fills the other shelves with modern romances.
Their husbands—my teammates—are scattered throughout the house under Mikey’s supervision, putting the finishing touches on various rooms. I check on progress and offer a helping hand as Jack hangs a curtain rod.
“You really think she’ll want to stay here?” he asks as I hold the other end.
So far, the guys have kept the mail-order matchmaking situation a secret, but it’s obvious it’s become something more. However, whether it’s something permanent remains to be seen.
“I hope so.” I step back to make sure the rods are level.
