I let out a shaky breath as an idea forms—something unexpected and perfect. “I think I need to write a new skit for after the pageant.”
“We already have enough ‘Encorns?—’”
“This one isn’t specifically for the audience. It’s for Fletch. A grand gesture, I guess.” My cheeks are warm and there’s no denying my smile.
Nina’s eyes light up. “Like what?”
“A mail-order bride and groom skit, but with a twist. It won’t expose our arrangement to everyone, but he’ll know what I’m really saying.” I start rapidly jotting down notes, almost unable to keep up with how fast the ideas come.
“Which is …?”
I look up at my friend, suddenly certain. “That I want to stay. That I believe this could be real.”
Nina claps her hands. “About time! And the book ending?”
“I’m finishing it tonight. Lorna and Drake are getting the happily ever after they deserve—one that feels authentic, not formulaic.” I gather my notes, energy coursing through me, my fingers itching for the keyboard.
“And you?” Nina asks softly.
I pause, pen hovering over the paper. “I’m giving myself permission to hope for the same. ’Tis the season, right?”
After finishing our planning session, I wander through town, mentally rehearsing what I’ll say in my skit. The Christmas lights seem brighter, the holiday music sweeter. I find myself humming along to carols I would have rolled my eyes at a month ago.
After taking Bailey on a long walk to settle my restless energy and right my thoughts, I’m back at Fletch’s townhouse. He’s increased training and practice times ahead of his big return to the ice early next year. I know he’ll be busier, gone more often, but cowboys were too, and with my newfound writing muse, I think I’ll make good use of my time.
I settle at the kitchen table with my laptop. For hours, I pour my heart into writing the final chapters of my manuscript.
Lorna and Drake’s love story transforms as I type, becoming richer, more complex, and more honest. The mail-order marriage that began as a practical arrangement evolves into something neither character expected—something real and lasting.
When I finally type “The End,” tears prick my eyes. For the first time in my writing career, I believe in the love story I’ve created. Because I’m living my own version of it.
Now I just need to find the courage to tell Fletch. To show him that this Christmas, I’m ready to give him the most precious gift I have—my trust in us.
I start drafting my pageant ‘Encorn’ skit, smiling as the words flow once more. Nina was right—it’s time to be as brave as my heroines. Time to risk my heart for a chance at true happiness.
After nearly three decades of doubting love, of keeping people at arm’s length, of believing romance only existed in the pages of my books—all of it might have been leading me here. To this town, to this moment, to Fletch.
Home.
“I’m staying,” I whisper to the empty room, trying the words out loud. They feel right. They feel like coming home.
Bailey trots over and looks up at me, expression eager. I crouch down and give him the happiest of pets and scratches, certain that I’ve made the right decision.
CHAPTER 23
BREE
The Ice Palacehas been transformed for the Knights’ annual Christmas party. Twinkling lights drape from the rafters, two massive decorated trees stand where the goals usually are, and wrapped presents fill the penalty box. Tables laden with food and drinks line what would normally be the players’ bench area. Even the Zamboni sports reindeer antlers and a red nose.
“Wow,” I whisper.
Fletch guides me through the entrance and onto the ice, partially covered with a walking area for those not wanting to skate, his hand warm at the small of my back. His touch sends a warm shiver through me.
Fletch says, “Margo, Beau’s wife, is an event planner. She goes all out. Wait until you see him dressed as Santa.”
I laugh, but inside I’m a bundle of nerves. This is the first time I’m officially attending a hockey event as Fletch’s wife—a role that still feels both foreign and increasingly right. I tug at my red sweater dress, suddenly worried it’s too casual or too formal or just too ... something.
“You look beautiful,” Fletch says, reading my mind and dropping a kiss on my temple.
