My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Fable

The thing about big Thanksgiving dinners is you can never be certain who’s playing with your foot under the table.

Sure, I’m hoping my boyfriend Brady’s the one dragging a foot against my fuzzy sock. That’d be better than Uncle Rick or my broody cousin Troy. But Brady’s never played footsie with me before. Fine by me. Footsie is not my jam. Didn’t think it was his either.

You learn something new every day, especially when you’ve only been dating for four months. Four mostly good months that have seen us spend lots of time with each other, each other’s families and each other’s friends.

I don’t want to encourage foot play, though, so I just give my guy a faint smile. Then I nod to the head of the table, a reminder for him to pay attention since my boss, the host of this motley crew feast, is clearing his throat.

Brady just wiggles his blond brows like he didn’t notice my silent admonition.

The footsie stops when Wilder lifts his tumbler of single-malt scotch, the glass catching the twinkling reflection of the blue-and-white string of lights flashing on the Christmas tree standing tall and proud in the open living room. “I want to thank you all for coming to this annual Thanksgiving dinner my dear aunt Bibi and I like to throw,” Wilder says, then gestures affectionately to a faux leather chair in the living room where Bibi is conked out, tortoiseshell glasses in her hand, snoring loudly in front of the roaring fireplace. “And for participating in her new tradition this year—the Turkey Escape Room,” Wilder says with an amused grin.

There’s a collective groan at the table. Bibi’s Turkey Escape Room in the basement was, admittedly, a little macabre.

“And now that we’re heading into the Christmas season, provided you have no prior commitments and want to join us, I’d like to personally invite everyone to the Evergreen Falls Annual Best in Snow Winter Games Competition for a few fun-filled days before Christmas.”

Iris, the perky blonde caterer sitting next to me, gasps in excitement. “Wow! That sounds amazing!”

It’s cute that she’s so into the festivities, especially since she only sat at the table a minute ago at Brady’s invitation. He insisted she join us for the toast, having done such a great job with the meal.

“Let’s do it,” Brady calls out with a loud whoop before he looks at me, fire in his eyes. “And we are going to dominate, babe.”

No surprise there. Brady and I are board game aficionados, and he has an intensely competitive streak. But I’m not sure we ought to be throwing down in front of the host. Wilder, a cool, confident, thoroughly unflappable football team owner and real estate magnate, might know a thing or two about winning. Also, I don’t even know if it works in my calendar to go to Evergreen Falls for Christmas. Or if I want to spend Christmas with my boss.

“I’m sure we’d have a great time at Wilder and Bibi’s event,” I say. That’s diplomatic yet still fun—but also hypothetical.

“Love a good contest,” Wilder says to Brady, his tone welcoming, except…

Is that Wilder’s media smile? Like he’s humoring Brady? I linger for a second on Wilder’s expression. Seems like he’s studying Brady, actually, trying to figure something out.

“As I was saying,” Wilder continues, his voice like rich brandy, “Bibi and I would love to host all of you for the games at my cabins outside of Tahoe.”

I smile at the euphemism. Calling his luxury resort just outside the fanciest area of Lake Tahoe a cabin is like calling a yacht a rowboat. Wilder has one of those too—a yacht—and the hundred-footer is definitely no dinghy.

Wilder must pick up on my amusement since he gives a no-big-deal shrug. “Technically, it is a cabin, Fable.”

Brady laughs boisterously. “Dude, I can’t wait to see your technical cabin.”

I cringe a little inside. Did he seriously call my boss dude? Wilder’s not a dude or a bro.

I had doubts about bringing Brady along to this friendsgiving. He can be a bit of a Golden Retriever, sometimes—eagerly dropping the slobbery tennis ball into people’s laps whether it’s time for fetch or not. But the table is full of friends and family, mine and his, and at least he hasn’t pitched my boss on the idea of being his stockbroker. So far, so good.

Wilder raises his glass in his snoozing aunt’s direction. “Bibi tells me the Christmas Committee at Evergreen Falls has planned some extra-fun events this year, so I hope you’ll all be there, full of holiday cheer and competitive spirit.” He takes a wry pause. “Though, I believe her words were, ahem, find the best snowball throwers and Christmas tree decorators in the bunch. Or else.”

His obvious affection for his aunt is endearing.

Iris must think so. She raises her wineglass high. “You’re all going to have such a great time. I love all things Christmas. I’m just a girl who’s ready for eggnog season.”

Brady sighs dreamily, as if picturing all things eggnog too. When…gross.

“Not me,” I say. “Eggnog should be abolished.”

Brady tilts his head my way. “You don’t like eggnog?”

“Nope.”

He strokes his chin. “Huh. I had no idea.”

“And candy canes should only come in peppermint,” Wilder puts in dryly. “No exceptions.”

“No one wants a watermelon candy cane,” I agree. Brady squints at me as if I’m some kind of enigma, but how often does the subject of eggnog or the chance to extoll mint’s praises come up in conversation naturally? It’s not like I handed him a list of secrets, detestations, and other fun facts about me when we got together. That’s not my style.

The Thanksgiving table descends into a debate about the merits of candy canes, eggnog, and Christmas cookies. My sister Charlotte and her boyfriend, Leo, vote for gingerbread (also gross). Wilder’s sister declares Yule logs underrated (true, but they need a brand makeover because…that name). And Cousin Troy says in a dead voice that he likes to lick candy canes into a sharp point (and, note to self, avoid that teenager after dark).

Eventually, the younger children ask if they can play video games before dessert, and at Wilder’s, “Of course,” a herd of kids thunders off to the game room.

The rest of us push away from the table, and I glance at the remains of the holiday meal—a polished-off bowl of rosemary green beans, a dish of homemade cranberry sauce, a to-die-for side of sauteed brussels sprouts, and the carcass of a big bird who definitely didn’t escape any rooms.

Iris gets to her feet and smooths her hands down her chef’s jacket. “I better return to dish duty. Thank you for letting me be included in the toast. That was so generous of you, Mr. Blaine,” Iris says to Wilder, all cheery and bright, sounding like the spirit of Christmas herself.

“Call me Wilder,” he says. “And your food was fantastic. I’ll help with the dishes.”

“Oh, please. You should relax,” she tells him.

Since I have the spirit of a hard-working elf, I offer to pitch in. There’s an art to stacking a dishwasher, and as an art girl, I’ve mastered it. “I’ll join you, Iris. My dishwasher-stacking skills are unparalleled.”

Wilder strides around the table, a challenging look in his clever green eyes. “But you haven’t seen mine.”

The boss wants to have a dishwasher-stacking competition? Bring it on. “Let the winter games begin early.”

“Well, who am I to say no?” Iris says generously. “I appreciate the extra hands so much.” She heads to the kitchen with a bounce in her step, and I follow, balancing an armful of teetering plates.

Brady swoops in next with the turkey platter, dropping a quick kiss on my cheek once I set the dishes on the counter. “I need to go wrap a gift for Bibi, babe. An early Christmas present to say thanks for tonight.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” I say. “She has a wrapping room down on the garden level. Wilder mentioned it earlier. Last room on the right.”

“I know,” Brady says, then whispers, “See? And you were worried I’d embarrass you.”

“I was not,” I protest mildly. Fine, maybe I was a little. But I never said that to him.

“You were,” he goads, poking my ribs a bit too hard. “You think I’m too friendly. Too outgoing. But I did good. Right, babe?”

“Of course.” I don’t want Brady to think otherwise. He was pretty well-behaved.

He lets go of me, then flashes his salesman grin at Wilder. “And I’d love to talk to you sometime soon about your portfolio.”

Ugh. He did pitch him, after all.

Wilder shoots him a curious look, arching a brow, before he says, “Noted.”

And I note that. Noted, as in heard it, not going to agree, but not being a dick about it because I’m classy.

Brady nods, then scurries off.

Wilder and I set to work on dishes as the other guests clear the table. He rinses, and I stack. “Prepare to be dazzled,” I say, showing off my extraordinary plate placement. “Look at how they line up just so. Be amazed at the perfect space ratio between the dinner plates and the salad bowls.”

From his spot at the sink, with the cuffs on his tailored custom-made dress shirt rolled up, he surveys my handiwork. “I’d expect nothing less from my top designer.”

I preen a little. I landed the plum job a couple years ago, designing merch—like T-shirts and jewelry—for his big-game-winning football team, and I love it. “Exactly. I told you—unparalleled.”

His eyes say not so fast. “Except…the bowls are traditionally the most challenging.”

“Please. I am an architect of bowls.”

He turns off the faucet, joins me at the machine, and proceeds to adjust a bowl here and a bowl there, creating room for two more. “Damn,” I say with a whistle. “I guess there’s a reason you’re a successful business owner.”

He laughs. “Yes, exactly.”

We spend some more time straightening up the kitchen. I shoo my sister and Leo—who’s also Wilder’s best friend—out to the living room so they can relax before the dessert course.

Hmm. Not sure what happened to Iris. She was quite keen on dish duty before we got started. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her in the kitchen post-dinner at all.

She’s probably cleaning up the table.

Soon, we’re finished. I glance at the clock, then around the kitchen, then into the dining room. “Where’s Brady? Seems to be taking a while to wrap the gift.”

Before Wilder can answer, Bibi barks, “Who’s ready for dessert? I had a terrible dream that someone ate all the pies without me, so we’d better get to it. Dreams can come true, you know.”

“I guess someone woke up hungry,” I whisper.

“Sugar plum fairies were probably dancing in her head,” Wilder says, then checks his watch like he’s keeping time in a sporting event. “I need to go help Leo…with a thing.”

A thing? What thing?

He sounds a little evasive. But my sister’s beau is a venture capitalist, and Wilder’s a billionaire. Maybe the two friends need to count commas on their bank statements.

“Good luck with your thing,” I tease. “I’ll track down Brady.”

Wilder nods to the living room. “Thanks again. Leo will want Brady here.”

I’m not quite sure why it’s so vital that Brady be around for the pies, but I’ll be a good girlfriend and fetch him anyway.

I head down the steps to the garden level, past the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking Richardson Bay and the twinkling lights of San Francisco beyond, and finally along the hall to the last room.

But the door is shut.

Odd, but if the present is a secret, maybe Brady wanted to keep it that way.

I reach for the knob and yank it open.

Well.

Iris the caterer is definitely not on dish duty.

She’s helpfully wrapping Brady’s package though.

With her mouth.

Brady’s hand curls around her sleek blonde hair, tangling his fingers in the strands as he pumps with his eyes closed. “Mmm. Yes. That’s right. Take that eggnog, baby. Take it all.”

I freeze, trying to process what’s in front of me. To make something of it that’s not what it seems. Like, they’re secretly practicing for a porn career to supplement the bills. Or they run a lucrative OnlyFans account to raise money for orphans.

Because why else would my boyfriend be fucking the caterer’s mouth? I blink, then look again. And this time, when I peer down at Iris, I see red—in the form of fuzzy socks.

She’s wearing Christmas-themed fuzzy socks as she jingles his bells.

I point at Brady, outraged. “You were playing footsie with her! That’s why you wanted her at the table?”

Brady’s eyes fly open right as they glaze over. He lets out a long cow-like grunt like he’s mooing. “Coming.”

Then Iris, on her knees, starts to swallow with an audible gurgle before she turns to me, freezing, a guilty look in her big, blue eyes.

“Babe, I can explain!” Brady blurts.

Iris’s mouth is still full as she mumbles something that might be, “Me too!”

I raise a rigid, stop-right-there finger. “This does not require an explanation. Everything is quite clear.”

As clear as eggnog.