Page 22 of The Mr. Right Checklist

Destiny:

Fletch:

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Molly relies on me to keep her safe, and allergic reactions in dogs are no joke.

Destiny:

Careful Gus. I might start thinking there’s a warm heart behind all that bossiness. I promise she’s in good hands. Take a deep breath. Did you do it? Good! Now stop being a helicopter dad and go smarten up some young minds. I’m meeting your hottie-pants brother in five minutes. Wish me luck!

I silence my phone and put it in my tote as I head into the building. I make my way up to the reception area, and a few minutes later, Chuck’s assistant walks me back to his office.

“Destiny, it’s nice to see you again.” Chuck pushes to his feet and walks around his desk.

He’s thicker than I remember, built like a football player, and he looks sharp in a white dress shirt and blue tie. His hair is darker than Fletch’s but every bit as thick, and while Fletch’s smiles are rare, Chuck’s is instantaneous, warm, and inviting.

“It’s nice to see you, too.” I shake his hand. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me.”

“No problem.” He motions to a chair in front of his desk, and as I sit down, he lowers himself to the chair beside it like we’re old friends. “My brother said he’d like to help you get things sorted out quickly.”

“He probably wants me to get out of his hair.” As the words leave my lips, I remember that I’m supposed to be selling myself as Fletch’s date for their brother’s wedding and try to cover my tracks. “I can be a handful. My daddy used to say I was his little hurricane, whirling through life like I didn’t want to miss any of it, and Fletch . . . Ryan? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you call him.”

“I usually call him a jackass,” he says with a laugh. “I’m kidding. I call him Ryan, but you can call him Fletch. Everyone else does—well, except our parents—and as far as being a handful goes, there’s nothing wrong with a woman who keeps you on your toes, and Ry could use a little shaking up.”

“Well, here I am, shaking up his quiet life.”

“You must be striking all the right chords, because it’s been a long time since he’s let a woman get as close as you two seem to be.”

I feel a pang of guilt about pretending to be something we’re not after how much fun Fletch and I had yesterday—or rather, how much fun I had. I can’t speak for him, although he sure joked around a lot, and it felt like we connected—I also feel an unexpected pinch of sadness that we’re not easing into something more. That pinch bothers me, because Fletch isn’t even in the same realm as my Mr. Right.

Pushing those confusing thoughts aside, I sit up a little taller and say, “Your brother’s pretty special. He spent hours teaching me everything I need to know about business yesterday, which is why I’m here. I need to make my marriage-proposal-planning business official.”

“Then let’s get started.”

I’m still flying high when I pull up to Fletch’s house to walk Molly later in the afternoon. I change from my sandals to my sneakers, and too excited to hold it in, I text Fletch.

Destiny:

Chuck is amazing! Thank you so much for setting me up with him.

Destiny:

He’s filing all of the paperwork for Get the Yes, LLC, and writing up contracts that I can use, too. He said he’ll send them over later today.

Destiny:

We also went over the questions you and I came up with to make sure I don’t ask anything I shouldn’t. Don’t worry. He said I’m not.

Destiny:

He’s going to review my website later tonight to make sure there’s nothing on it that can get me into trouble. I can’t believe how fast he’s moving on this!

Destiny:

You Fletcher boys are really something. I look forward to getting to know him better at the wedding. I need to figure out a way to thank him.

I slip my phone into my dress pocket, gather my goodies, and head up the walk. The lawn and single line of low, squared-off bushes along the front porch are well manicured, like Fletch. His Cape-style house has a wide front porch, which is pretty but stark. Nothing like my family’s front porch back home. We had hanging flower baskets and pastel-colored rocking chairs and tons of colorful flowers out front. I used to spend hours sitting out there in the evenings.

As I step onto Fletch’s porch, I look up at the white ceiling. Ours was lavender, my mother’s favorite color. “I think Ryry needs a little color in his life, don’t you, Daddy?”