Fletch steps forward to receive his gift—the hockey version of the Monopoly board game, because he’d been sandbagging his night to host game night with the original version of the game, which no one wants to playagain.
Next, to much fanfare, a player named Clark gets a hideous Christmas sweater with hockey sticks and pucks that light up.
“Mandatory uniform at practice tomorrow,” Liam declares to raucous laughter.
I catch wind of the official Knights’ugly Christmas dare that Pierre succumbed to, leading him to meet Cara—a sticky, secretly dating-the-coach’s-daughter scenario. Hmm. Maybe there’s more fodder here for hockey romance books than I thought.
From across the room, Fletch’s eyes find mine, shining with laughter, and my heart swells.
Later, as we drive home through gently falling snow, the truck is quiet except for the soft Christmas music from the radio. I watch the snowflakes dance in our headlights while I sneak peeks at my handsome husband.
“Did you have fun?” he asks.
“I did. Your hockey family is great. A blast, actually.”
“They like you. Especially Gracie. She’s already planning a book club featuring your novels. Emma, Leah, and Jess, too. Margo is mad that we didn’t hire her to plan our wedding. Fake mad, but still.”
I smile, picturing it. “Technically, we didn’t have a wedding, but there’s talk that she’s been in contact with my mother.”
“Would you want a proper wedding? Like a big fancy affair?”
I shrug and find his hand in the dark. “Actually, I think what we have works. But a honeymoon …” I start, my mind drifting to places I’ve wanted to visit as settings to feature in my books.
I share a few with Fletch before we lapse into silence again, but it’s comfortable, filled with all the things we’re not quite ready to say but are no longer denying.
Back at the townhouse, Bailey greets us with happy barks and his wild tail wagging. While Fletch takes him outside, I stand at the window watching them play in the small backyard, their silhouettes visible under the porch light. He’s patient as Bailey drops the ball, then runs in circles instead of bringing itback. Fletch just laughs and chases him, both of them playing like kids.
My chest melts like snowflakes on the window with something that feels dangerously close to love.
I’ve been so careful my whole life. Careful with my words, careful with my heart, careful not to want too much or hope for things that I foolishly thought were out of reach.
The quiet girl. The serious one. The writer who observed life from the sidelines instead of living it.
But Fletch has made me want things I’ve never let myself want.
Nina’s words from weeks ago echo back about me being afraid to live a real romance.
She was right. I’ve been terrified, actually.
Because if I let myself love him—not just go along with this arrangement—and it doesn’t work ... if he wakes up one day and realizes I’m not enough, not fun enough, not spontaneous enough, not the kind of woman a man like him should be with, I don’t think I’d survive it.
The thought is like an avalanche. I’ve survived disappointing relationships before. Isaac’s rejection. Chris’s criticism. My parents’ emotional distance. But those hurts were surface wounds compared to what losing Fletch would feel like.
Because this time, I’ve let someone in—past all my walls and defenses and careful distance. The scariest part is that it wasn’t even hard. He just walked right in like he’s always belonged here, filling my life with laughter and light and a kind of warmth I didn’t know existed outside the pages of my books.
Through the window, Fletch looks up and catches me watching. Even from here, I can see his smile, the lopsided one that’s just for me. He waves, and my traitorous heart does a loop the loop.
I’m in love with my accidental husband.
But what happens in the third act? I’m afraid to find out.
As “my boys” continue to play outside, I step away from the window. I’m not ready to let Fletch see how I’m caught between fear and hope. Not ready to admit out loud what I’ve just admitted to myself.
Not only that. Nina was right. I was wrong, which means no lifetime supply of cookies.
I settle at my laptop. The manuscript is nearly complete—just the final chapter to revise.
When they come inside, Bailey bounds onto the couch, snuggling in beside me, wet paws and all. Fletch brings me a mug of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and a kiss on the forehead. His lips linger there and I want them to find mine. I breathe him in, wanting more, but instead, he teases, leaving me yearning.
