My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Wilder

Shay is on an early lunch break, so this door-decorating session at my office seems as good a place as any to tackle the topic I forgot at dinner. I was having too good a time getting to know her and I didn’t address a key issue that should have been covered in a fake girlfriend debrief.

I can’t put off the inevitable any longer.

As soon as Fable enters the admin area, I shut the outer door and get right to business. “Let’s chat.”

She sets down a bag of decorations outside my office, her eyes flickering with worry. “What’s wrong? You hate Santa’s butt that much?”

Ah hell. I shake my head. “No. I’m sure it’s fine. I’m sure everything you picked out for the door is.”

She’s quiet for a beat. “I was aiming a little higher than fine,” she says, clearly hurt. “But fair enough.”

Shit. I’ve insulted her by making her think I don’t care about decorating. Well, I don’t care, really. But she does and that’s what matters. My heart squeezes. All my instincts tell me to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Reassure her. But I fight them off. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, trying to cover up the way she’s got me a little flustered with this desire to comfort her. “I’m no good at decorating,” I admit. “So I trust your taste.”

She smiles, a sign I’m forgiven. “Good. Because I planned something fabulous for the door. Just for you.”

That shouldn’t make my pulse spike, but it does. Especially the just for you. “I’m sure I’ll love it,” I say, as businesslike as I can be with her.

After a pause, she says with a playful pout, “You’d better, mister.”

I roll up my cuffs, and her eyes stray briefly to my forearms. “Put me to use.”

“Green ribbon with gold piping. Let’s hang it around the doorframe. It’s in the bag.”

I riffle around for it, find it quickly, then I get to work. Since we have privacy here, I clear my throat. I’m all professional, like I’m having a conversation with a board member. “I neglected to cover this fake romance agenda item at dinner the other night,” I begin.

“Oh no. You forgot an agenda item,” she deadpans as she works on covering the front of the door in shiny red paper.

I don’t take the teasing bait. If I do, I’ll keep flirting endlessly with her, and we’ll never hammer out the expectations. Deals fall apart when parties don’t communicate their goals. “I thought it would be helpful if we address some of the ground rules, if you will, of this arrangement.”

“Yes, sir. Let’s address them, stat.”

I give her a pointed look but stifle a laugh. “The mocking. Dear god, the mocking,” I say as I align the ribbon around the frame.

“Oh, is that against the rules too? I’d better write these down then.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll send you a meeting recap later.”

“Oh, thank god. Whatever would I do without that?”

I’m about to volley back when I remind myself—no more flirting. In fact, it’s best if I stick to rules to protect myself—no more fuzzy socks and ice cream gifts. No more texts about seductive Christmas cover songs.

“We already know the story of our first date—the ice cream shop. Saturday at Dahlia’s would have been our second one, so we’re covered there if it comes up. We know the key details about each other. But we probably need a checklist for things like the shower. And any other events leading up to the wedding,” I say, then bite off the rest of the bullet. “The dos and don’ts.”

She stops her work, knitting her brow in question. “The dos and don’ts of how to fake date?”

I grit my teeth, then just say it. “Public displays of affection.”

“Aah,” she says, understanding dawning. But then, she sighs. A little heavily. “We should.”

But I rewind to her sigh. “What’s wrong?”

“It just reminds me—I feel sort of bad lying to my sister.”

I hadn’t thought of that before. But it makes sense. “Do you want to tell her the truth?”

She shakes her head adamantly as she tapes down another swath of wrapping paper, making sure to position a pre-cut hole in the middle of the paper about five feet high on the door. “No. She has too much going on, and I didn’t tell her what happened with Brady at Thanksgiving. I don’t want to stress her out.”

The Fable picture becomes clearer. She doesn’t like to be the center of attention. She likes to focus on others. She adores her sister. “But if you want to tell her, that’s perfectly fine,” I say, since that’s all I can really offer her. Though I suppose there’s one more thing I can do. “Or if you want to call it quits, I will understand that too.”

Her eyes flash with hell no. “I’m no quitter,” she says as she stops her work briefly to look me in the eyes. “Do you want to?”

I’m dead serious as I say, “No.”

The last thing I want is for this make-believe Christmas match to end.

“Does Leo know the truth?” she asks as she finishes fixing the wrapping paper in place.

I shake my head, but it doesn’t bother me that he’s not in on it. He doesn’t need to be, and I’m not wired to share those details with a friend. “He doesn’t, and I don’t need to tell him. The only one who knows is Mac.”

A smile forms on her face, slow and easy. “You told her.”

“I wanted her to know the truth. And I didn’t want to disappoint her,” I say. Then swallow. “When it ends.”

“Of course,” Fable says with a frown. “That’s thoughtful. I admire that.” She sighs, but it’s one of acceptance. “Let’s get to it then. Rules. Guidelines. Dos and Don’ts.”

I glance at my watch since I have a call in fifteen minutes. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. What’s acceptable to you? A kiss on the cheek in public? Holding hands?”

She takes a beat, seeming to give it some thought as she digs into the bag and retrieves a red ribbon. “We need to be believable but not like we’re constantly selling it. People get busted when they try too hard and sell something too much.”

She’s not wrong.

Memories of my father overcompensating flash in my mind. Moments when Mom would ask if he was okay and he’d say everything was fine, fine, fine, selling it almost like he was in a Broadway musical, one step away from using jazz hands and spirit fingers.

When you try too hard, you eventually get caught. And he did—caught losing everything. A dark cloud passes over me. That’s why I give him money. I worry what he’d do if he was in that situation again. What would he turn to? Would he hurt himself? Steal from someone? Disappear? I have no idea, and sometimes—no, most of the time—it’s easier and safer to help him out of a hole. Still, I’ve learned one lesson from watching him. Don’t oversell. “I agree. So we can’t be all over each other. Not to mention it would be inappropriate for a fake romance.”

“You’re right. It can’t be excessive,” she says as she nudges me aside to twine the red ribbon around the green ribbon I hung.

“I touched your shoulder earlier today. Was that okay?” I ask.

Her cheeks pinken. I’ve never known Fable to blush, but then we’ve never talked about affection before.

“Yes, that was okay,” she says, then swallows. Noticeably. My gaze stays there on her throat too long, and I force myself to stop thinking about how much I want to run a finger over the hollow of it.

“Holding hands?” But I picture doing that at the shower this coming weekend and it seems off. I shake my head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came. “That feels performative.”

She laughs. At me. Of course she laughs at me. That seems to be her favorite pastime.

I arch a brow, asking, “What’s so funny?”

“The use of the word performative in the context of fake dating.”

This woman will never not knock me down a peg. I stifle a smile as she stretches to reach the top of the door. I step in and help her, my shoulder brushing against hers as I say, “It’s good to be prepared.”

“Yes, it is, Mister Agenda,” she says, still chuckling.

“Fable,” I warn her, but it’s playful too.

“Wilder,” she says, taunting me right back. “I say holding hands is fine if we’re sitting next to each other on a couch, for instance. But I don’t think we should walk around holding hands. Like, tra-la-la. Aren’t we cute, holding hands, look at us.”

“Exactly,” I say, grateful she gets my point even as she pokes fun at me. “What about other shows of affection?” I picture her in my home, in the kitchen, entertaining guests, and it feels natural that I’d set a hand on her back. Enticing too. Obviously. I stop my work for a few seconds. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? Still, I ask evenly, “A hand on your back?”

“Have at it,” she says as she twists the ribbons together on the other side.

“A playful shoulder bump?”

“Yes, but not too many. Too many touches would be”—she stops, takes her time, lets a smile spread—“performative.”

I give her a stern stare. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Probably not,” she says, shooting me a gotcha look right back.

“Fine. I probably deserve that,” I say, then ask her what else I can do for the door decorating. She tells me to grab the door wreath hook from the bag. As I root around in the bag, I find a silver metal knocker with an elf perched on it. I hold it up. “Are you sending me a message, Fable?”

“Yes. That I’m watching over your office next to this Santa’s butt wreath that I made,” she says, then grabs the elf hook and positions it on the nail on the door—the one that’s accessible through the cut-out hole. Then, she grabs the wreath from the bag and hangs it on the hook. It’s made with burlap and colorful ribbons. She adjusts it so Santa’s ass, stuck in a chimney, is sticking out of my door.

But I’m still stuck on the last thing she said. “You made this? For the contest?”

She gives me a soft smile. “Yes. Well, it’s really for you,” she says, a flash of nervousness in her eyes, but hope too. “I wanted your office to look the best. And you’ve been so generous with your gifts. The least I could do was make you something from scratch.”

I stare at the wreath, even more astonished. “This is incredible.”

“You think so?” she asks, beaming.

“I do.” I roam my eyes up and down the door, then turn my gaze to my designer. The woman who enjoys making homemade items. The woman who went all out for me. The woman I can’t stop thinking about. Decorating might not be my thing, but I could decorate all day with her. “It’s not fine,” I say, correcting my earlier statement. “It’s the finest.”

“Thank you.” Her smile is its own reward. It’s wide and joyful, and I want to swipe my thumb along her bottom lip, kiss the corner of her mouth, taste her.

Which brings me to a vital topic in the dos and don’ts. I’ve been tiptoeing around the main attraction. Avoiding it. But I can’t any longer. Since this topic is best addressed behind closed doors, I motion to my office. “Let’s finish in here,” I say.

“Perfect. Because I brought lights for your desk.”

I stare at her, a little amazed. She goes above and beyond in her creativity. “You did?”

“Yes. But will it cramp your style if some corporate bigwig comes into a meeting and sees the flashing lights on your desk? I don’t want to ruin the big bad wolf vibe you’ve got going on.”

I lift a brow. “Is that how you see me?”

Her lips curve up the slightest bit. “I don’t know, Wilder. Do big bad wolves send mint ice cream?”

Two can play at her game. “Perhaps they send them to Little Red Riding Hood,” I say as we head into my office.

“Well then, Little Red Riding Hood approves.”

“So does the wolf,” I say, and I am so fucked. Five minutes after telling myself to follow some rules for self-protection, I already know that I won’t stop sending her gifts. I won’t stop texting. This has been the most fun I’ve had in a while and I’m…addicted—and I’m allowed to be. Nothing can come of this ruse, of course. How could anything come of a romance that started as a lie? But I’ll enjoy it while I can.

I shut the door behind us.

She beelines for my desk, fishing around in her bag of tricks for lights, presumably. In no time, she gets to work on stringing them around my desk. Yes, this is the moment. She’s occupied with a task, so I say as coolly as I can, “And what about a kiss?”

She spins around, a string of lights in her hand, question marks in her eyes. “Now?”

What? Now? Before I can even answer—and I’m too stunned to answer—she adds, “Sure. A practice kiss couldn’t hurt.”

I can’t think. I can’t breathe. She keeps surprising me left and right, and I barely know what to do. I’m a man who prides himself on control, on strategy, on knowing what cards to play at all times. With her, I’m knocked senseless, especially as she sets the lights down on the desk, then closes the distance to me a few feet away.

I still haven’t said a word. I really need to say something. Anything. She tips her chin up offering her pretty lips to me. Questions rattle in my head. Should I do this? Is this crossing a line? Is this wrong?

Finally, I manage to ask, “Are you sure?” It comes out like it scrapes my throat.

A tilt of her head. A curve of her lips. “You don’t bite, do you? Like the big bad wolf?”

A bolt of lust shoots down my spine. I try to ignore it, to resist it when all I can think is the better to eat you with. “Only if you want me to.”

Her eyes flicker with something that looks a lot like lust. “I’ll take a rain check on the biting. But it’s a yes on the practice,” she says, then parts her lips the slightest bit.

I didn’t plan this meeting as a dress rehearsal for a kiss. But I also know how to spot an opportunity and how to seize one. I step closer, run a finger along some silky strands of auburn hair, taking my time to sweep them across her face and tuck them behind her ear. Her breath hitches. I let go of those strands of hair, then brush the back of my fingers along her jaw. Her chest rises and falls. Her eyes track me the whole time, watching my face, then my hand. I’m drawing out this moment, stretching it like elastic till my fingers reach her chin, holding her.

I lean in then drop my lips to hers. It’s a barely-there kiss. Just a brush of our lips. But it makes my bones crackle and my mind buzz. Her mouth is sweet, her breath minty. It lasts one, two, maybe three seconds. But I’m dangerously close to getting lost in the kiss, so I jerk back, try to clear off the fog, then ask clinically, “Was that fine?”

She blinks, looking a little hazy, a little happy. Then, she must collect her thoughts, since she says, “No.”

What the fuck? What the hell was wrong with that? I can still feel the kiss rattling my body everywhere. But I shouldn’t let on that I’m disappointed in myself. I try to treat her critique as part of our fake romance planning. “Why don’t you tell me the issue so I can fix it for the next time?”

“Wilder…it wasn’t fine. It was the finest.”

Oh. Oh, fuck. I’m going to play those four words on repeat for the rest of the day—it was the finest. I try to clear away the fog of that kiss. “So a kiss like that is acceptable PDA,” I say, as if I need to confirm that’s why I kissed her.

“Yes. Or a cheek kiss,” she says, then pats my chest. “I trust your instincts.”

My instincts are to cancel this meeting and haul you into my arms. Kiss you deeply till you melt, grab my collar, and tug me against you.

I’m fighting a losing battle with her. I have to wrest control of this situation, and I have to do it now. I grab her hand from my chest before she can pull it away, clasp it tight then bring it to my mouth. I press another kiss to the top of her hand.

“Oh,” she gasps quietly as a flush spreads across her cheeks.

I’ve gained the upper hand at last. “Hope that wasn’t too performative for you.”

“Not in the least,” she says when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Both grateful and annoyed over the distraction, I say, “That could be Mac.”

School’s not out yet, but you never know when your kid might call.

Fable gestures for me to answer as she resumes stringing the lights. “Of course.”

But when I pick it up it’s a text from my father. Thanks, son! You helped your old man a lot. Appreciate the dough so much.

I sigh heavily as I set the phone down on my desk unanswered. At least he’s not…robbing a convenience store. Not that he’s done that. I’m not even sure why that came to mind. But then, maybe I am—he’s stolen from Peter to pay Paul.

“Is everything okay?”

I fix on a smile. “Mac’s fine. It’s my father.”

As she aligns the lights, she’s quiet for a beat, then asks, “And is everything okay with him?”

No. Things are never okay with him. My chest tightens, but I don’t like this feeling. “Family,” I say, admitting that much as I move next to her, helping once again. “You know how it goes.”

“I told you about my terrible ex the last time I was in your office. It’s the inner sanctum. Don’t you hold out on me.”

I’m not used to being called out like that, but I’m getting used to it with her and I’m liking it. “He’s complicated. We don’t have…the best relationship.” It can’t hurt for my fake girlfriend to know that.

“Same. With my dad. I don’t like how he treated my mom when they were together.”

I flash back to what she said about Brady in my office last week. How people treat you how you let them. How I feel like I understand her more now from that simple admission. “Same here. My dad took advantage of my mom. Of everyone. I have to be on my guard.”

“I get that,” she says, her warm eyes filling with sympathy as she finishes adorning my desk. “You have to look out for yourself.”

“And your family,” I add.

“Absolutely.”

Darkness flashes in her eyes, and solidarity too. In this moment, in my office, I suddenly feel far closer to my fake girlfriend than I’ve felt to a woman in a while.

Maybe even closer than I felt to her in the bistro the other night. So close, I almost invite her to Mac’s recital in the early evening. She made me a wreath, and she tasted like heaven.

The words are forming on my tongue. Would you like to come with me? But we just practiced a kiss and laid down the rules of our fake romance—and attending a recital my daughter’s performing in wasn’t among them.

I thank Fable for decorating the door instead, for the gift of the homemade wreath, and most of all, for her time. Then, before I say anything more and before she can tease me in the way that’s my undoing, I show her to the door and dial into my meeting.

I leave work at five to attend the recital with Felicity and Bibi, where I do my very best to shove thoughts of Fable aside. When Mac sings a new arrangement of “Let It Snow” with the rest of her class, it’s easy to focus just on my kid. Singing’s not her thing. I doubt she’ll sign up for a Christmas concert again. But Mac wanted to this year, probably to make her mom happy.

I admire that about her. Even though she’s wise beyond her years, and more strategic than most people I know, she also has a soft heart, my daughter. I record a short video so I can send it to my mother. When the song ends, I turn to Bibi and whisper proudly, “She did great.”

“She sure did,” Bibi says, then nods to the video. “You should send that video to Fable.”

“It’s for Mom,” I point out.

“But I’m sure Fable would love to see it too.”

“I’ll do it later,” I say, then turn my focus back on the concert. But I’m thinking once again about Fable. Maybe I will send her the video after all.