Oblivious to my inner monologue, Nina swishes her lips from side to side. “Maybe the wise guys from Cobbiton Car Repair could debate about whether chocolate was really the best gift option?”
“Is there any debating that?”
She laughs. “Good point.”
“Let’s see. Since you’re the proud owner of this bakery, there could be a debate between pastries and pie.”
“Mrs. Kim might think I’m declaring a baked goods war.”
“It’s all in good fun. Plus, she only opens her stall once a year at the Christmas Market.”
“She’s so cruel. My pumpkin pie cravings start on September first.”
“You have a professional kitchen. You could make them.”
“But they’re not the same as hers.”
“Hmm. I’m tempted to tell her that.”
“You wouldn’t.”
I bounce my eyebrows.
Nina grins at me a beat longer than usual. It’s like she notices that my smile is a bit brighter. My eyes, slightly sparklier. I’m joking around. Okay, to be real, when I got to town, I wasn’t smiling at all and was feeling rather dull and gloomy, so it’s probably easy to spot the difference.
But to acknowledge it is something else … and it feels good.
Turning back to our brainstorming, Nina’s hand slides across the page as she writes quickly. “This is perfect. I’m going to work it in and then Winston, the delivery driver who’ll still be dressed as a cabbie, can chime in with something about carrying their Amazon packages across the desert.”
“Do you mean Winston, the guy you’d intended for me to kiss under the mistletoe?”
She scrunches up her face. “Yes.”
“I’ve seen him around town. He’s like twice my age.”
“But charming and single. He probably hasn’t been kissed in years.”
“Nina!” I toss a crumb at her and she dodges it.
She holds up her hands in surrender. “Promise, I’ll never try to play matchmaker again.” Her eyes twinkle.
“Well, you probably won’t have to.”
We both laugh as my mind drifts back to Fletch when I caught him reading my book yesterday evening, wearing glasses and looking devastatingly handsome, completely absorbed in the story I created. No one has ever taken my writing that seriously before—not even me sometimes.
“Earth to Bree.” Nina waves her hand in front of my face.
I blink, surfacing.
“You’re a thousand miles away.”
I sigh, setting down my pen. “Sorry. I’m just ... distracted.”
“By a certain hockey player, perhaps?” Her eyebrows dance suggestively.
“Yes, but I can’t finish my book,” I blurt.
Nina’s expression shifts to concern. “Writer’s block again?”
