“That you have a matching one.”
It’s my turn to wink. “I did get matching bands for us.”
“Does yours have an inscription?”
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Good. You’re up, let’s see what Santa left for you,” he says, handing me my stocking.
I reach inside, finding chocolates (of course), a beautiful fountain pen, new mini notebooks, Post-its, more chocolate, and at the toe, after I unwrap it, a small velvet box that matches the one I gave him. My fingers tremble as I pull up the lid, revealing a vintage-style ring with a modest diamond surrounded by a wreath of tiny rubies and emeralds.
“Fletch,” I breathe.
He takes the ring and slides from the couch to one knee. “Bree Darling, I know we did this all backward. A mistletoekiss, a mail-order bride, temporary marriage, and public declarations. But I want to do this part right.” He takes my hand.
My inhale catches at the sincerity in his eyes.
“Will youstaymarried to me? For real this time?”
Tears blur my vision as I nod amidst an outpouring of happy laughter. “Yes. Yes, I will.”
Seated perfectly on my finger, the ring catches the Christmas lights. I gaze at it for a long moment before twining our hands together. “It’s perfect. I love it,” I say.
“Like us.” He kisses the top of my hand, then reaches for my phone.
“What are you doing?”
Setting the camera on the mantle, Fletch sets the timer and proceeds to orchestrate a photoshoot. While I appreciate him wanting to capture the moment, when he drapes the white lace dining room tablecloth over my hair, I wonder if he needs another cup of coffee.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking the photos we promised your mother of our wedding day.”
I tip my head back and laugh. “But we’re in your house.”
He winks. “I know a guy who can make these look authentic.”
“Seriously?” I think about how this whole thing started, so I could write an authentic mail-order bride story.
“The timeline of our relationship is between you, me, and the Christmas tree. But it’s better if we don’t get too many nosy questions. Right? Plus, we’ll always remember our first Christmas together.”
We both laugh and take a couple more goofy shots for our own album. After exchanging our other gifts—books for me (he had Gracie’s help), hockey gear for him (thanks to half the team who clamored with suggestions), and a framed copy of thatcollege newspaper article where it all began, we get ready for the day.
After church service, we go to Golden Years Village. It’s festive with decorations. My mother greets us with uncharacteristic warmth, immediately noticing the rings on my finger.
“So it’s official now?” she asks.
“It always was,” Fletch says, squeezing my hand.
I add, “It’s our marry little Christmas.”
My mother serves her slightly less burned Christmas cookies while Fletch regales her with stories of Turley family Christmases. Bailey curls at our feet, finally responding consistently to his name now that he’s officially ours.
When my mother presents me with my grandmother’s antique stained glass Tiffany lamp, for “our new home,” I feel something healing inside me that I didn’t know was broken.
After we leave, as Fletch drives home, I catch him peeking at me with a tenderness that takes my breath away.
“What?” I adjust my scarf.
