Page 34 of A Pen Pal for Christmas

“Anyway, maybe I’m just in my ‘make new friends’ era,” I said lightly, playing off Grace’s jokes at the scavenger hunt. “Maybe that’s why we feel like we’re clicking?”

“Your… what?”

“I don’t know how to describe it… but up until Dane showed up, it felt like I was so hopeful to start over that maybe I was looking for a way to connect with new people. That’s probably why I signed up for the pen pal exchange and why I like my pen pal so much. Ah, I don’t know, I’m just wondering if maybe that’s why we’re connecting, too? Don’t laugh, it made more sense in my head.”

Hudson nodded, tucking his hands into the pockets of his black winter coat. “I’m not laughing. It makes sense. And since I’m feeling the same way about my pen pal, maybe I’m in that era, too.”

“Really?” I asked, brightening at just the thought of mine. “I’m glad. I don’t know about you, but writing these letters feels so… easy. Light. Like I can just be myself without worrying about how it’ll come across.”

“Exactly,” Hudson agreed. “But why would you worry about how you’d come across? You come across pretty great to me.”

“Thanks.” I tucked my hair behind my ear, hoping my hand would hide the blush that warmed my cheeks. It wasn’t a line—it wasn’t polished enough for that. It was just a genuine, honest compliment. And I liked it.

“I have to say I’m surprised I’m still exchanging letters. I really thought I’d hate it.”

“Why?”

He hesitated, then looked at me like he was deciding how much to share. “When I was overseas, I got a Dear John letter.”

Anger made my brows snap together, but my heart sank at the weight in his voice. So, instead of coming out with the mean things I wanted to say about the woman who was clearly too stupid to live, I made my voice soft. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s been over a year,” he said quickly, waving it off. “But it left a bad taste in my mouth when it came to letters. Didn’t want to open up to someone just to have it be totally pointless in the end.”

I nodded, my chest tightening. “I kind of know how that feels. When Dane was in prison, we wrote to each other all the time. I really thought those letters would help him—helpus. That maybe if I just gave him enough of myself, it would make a difference.”

“Did it?” Hudson asked quietly as we walked through the square.

Did he realize how slowly we were walking? Was it me holding him back, or the other way around?

I shook my head at his question, my throat tightening with a mix of frustration and regret. “No. It was like pouring water into a bucket with a hole in it. No matter how much I gave, it was never enough to fix him.”

Hudson was quiet for a moment before he said, “Love isn’t about fixing someone. It’s about finding someone who’s already the right fit. Exactly the way they are.”

I had to take a beat before I could respond. His quiet words rolled over and through me, almost like they were removing some of the weight from my shoulders bit by bit. I glanced up at him, only managing to give him a small smile to show my gratitude for his quiet wisdom.

We walked in silence for a moment. The crunching of our boots on the salty, snow-dusted sidewalk was the only sound as we approached where I’d parked my car across the street from the inn. I glanced toward it for no real reason, but then I saw it—a folded piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper.

“Hang on,” I said to Hudson, carefully stepping over a pile of snow to round the hood of my car. My stomach twisted as I pulled the note free and unfolded it. The words were scrawled in black ink.

You looked beautiful tonight.

A familiar mix of frustration and unease bubbled up in my chest as Hudson joined me on the driver’s side of my car.

“May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.

I didn’t even hesitate, just let out a long breath that clouded in front of me as I handed it over.

“Dane?” he asked, his expression darkening as he stared down at it.

“Probably,” I said, but doubt crept in as I leaned closer to stare at the handwriting. It didn’t look like Dane’s usual slanted scrawl—and I’d seen it enough to know. “I don’t know, actually… it doesn’t look like his handwriting.”

Hudson frowned down at it. “Maybe he’s been drinking. His handwriting might be off if he was drunk, right?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I murmured. When I looked up at him, I was surprised to see how close we’d gotten as we analyzed the note. “Who else would it be?”

“Whoever it is, they’re not getting near you,” Hudson said, holding my gaze. “Not while I’m around.”

I pursed my lips, startled by the intensity in his voice. His hazel eyes were steady, his jaw set like he’d made the promise to himself as much as to me.

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