Never mind a hole in the roof, I want to sink through the floorboards. This is not happening. The momentary attraction I felt was clearly temporary insanity. Holiday stress. Deadline doom. A big ‘ole mug of liquid chocolate and whipped cream on an empty stomach. Definitely not the reawakening of acrush that lasted all of twenty-four glorious hours—a crush I’d buried years ago.
“Thanks for the package,” I say, snatching it from his hand. Our fingers brush and a thrill of excitementdoes nottingle through me. No, it’s the heat of embarrassment, same as ever. “Sorry about the ... misunderstanding.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat. “No apology necessary. Though next time, maybe we could try dinner first.”
My cheeks blaze. “There won’t be a next time.”
“We’ll see,” he says with infuriating confidence, backing down the porch steps.
My lips move, but for someone whose job it is to use her words, none come out.
He adds, “Welcome home, Bree. I have a feeling this Christmas is going to be merry interesting.”
As I close the door, I want to holler,Good riddance, but wait … did he just sayveryormerry?
More like holly-hollow and unjolly.
Except, for the first time in what feels like years, my fingers are burning to write. Not about mail-order brides or cowboys. Instead, about a hockey player with an asymmetrical smile who once made a ridiculous promise.
One that will not be happening. Not today. Not ever.
The next morning,after I’ve had coffee and attempted to write (unsuccessfully), Nina appears with her laptop and an expression I know too well—the one that means she has an idea.
“I’ve been thinking about your writer’s block,” she says, settling onto the couch beside me.
I puff my cheeks with a breath becausethat’s not my preferred topic of conversation before chocolate, despite the fact that it’s all I can think about.
She lifts her hands in preemptive surrender. “Hear me out. You need something fresh. Something you’ve never done before and that requires research.”
She pulls up a website on her laptop titledHeartland Happily Ever After.
“What exactly is this?” I squint at the screen.
She waves dismissively. “Just a matchmaking service with the usual stuff like a sophisticated matching algorithm, compatibility testing, trial period.”
“Do I want to know why you’re well-versed in matchmaking standards?”
Ignoring me, she continues, “Here’s the interesting part.” She points to a section labeledParticipant Benefits. “They offer a stipend of five thousand dollars, Bree. It’s enough to cover your bills and buy you time to write.”
Five thousand dollars. Bills with red words of warning on them flash through my mind.
“And I just have to ... go on some dates?”
“Meet your match, see if you’re compatible, do the trial period thing. It’s basically extended dating with research benefits.” Nina’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “Come on, how many of your historical heroines would love a setup like this? You get to live your book! Think of it as immersive research—publishers love that angle.”
It sounds so simple. So reasonable. A meet cute with financial benefits and research potential. And if I can tell Meredith I actually participated in a modern matchmaking service for research, I might just be able to salvage my career or crash and burn.
“I don’t know, Nina. It feels desperate.”
“You’ve been telling me for years that love isn’t real. That itonly exists in your books.” She crosses her arms. “So prove it. Sign up, go through the process, and if you still don’t believe in love after thirty days, I’ll never bug you about it again.”
I stare at her. “That’s manipulative.”
“That’s a challenge. And you never back down from a challenge.” Her grin is knowing.
With a sinking feeling, I already know what’s going to happen.
“Besides, if you’re right—if love really is just fiction—then you’ll walk away with five thousand dollars, a finished manuscript, and the satisfaction of being able to say ‘I told you so’ for the rest of your life.”
