My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Fable

On Sunday morning, my eyes are bigger than moons when the car pulls up outside a three-story, slate-gray home on a cul-de-sac in Cow Hollow. I didn’t even know there were cul-de-sacs in the city anywhere. But then, I’ve never had a reason to cruise down a street populated by nine-figure homes before.

I haven’t been able to stop gawking at this whole block as the black town car Wilder sent for me rolled through his neighborhood at the top of the city. It’s not like I’m dying to live in one of these mansions. But I am human and these homes are just so…gawk-worthy.

I step out of the car, feeling a little like a princess as the driver, in his livery cap, holds the door for me. “Thank you.”

“But of course,” he says, then sweeps out his arm toward the gated entryway. “Mr. Blaine is expecting you so the gate should be unlocked.”

Gates. Drivers. Palaces. This is all so much. The wrought-iron door groans open easily then clangs shut behind me. The front lawn boasts low hedges, neatly trimmed and decorated with white icicle lights for the season. I stride along a stone path, up the front steps, and to the doorway. On a looming black door hangs a huge wreath, the pine scent from it tickling my nose.

I lift a hand to knock when the door swings open.

It’s not Wilder. It’s his daughter, with her hair perfectly combed back into a French braid. “Oh, hi. My dad told me you were coming. I was hoping we could finish that jigsaw puzzle we started the other night.” It’s said with that trademark Blaine confidence as she waves me in.

It’s seriously adorable that Wilder enlisted his daughter to help us with our fake dating plan. And it’s seriously fun to play along with her. “Right. When I came by on Tuesday after work?”

“Like our new routine,” she adds, and she is the spitting image—well, personality wise—of her father.

Smooth. Cool. Quick on her feet.

“Yes. Our new routine,” I echo.

I’m about to step into the home when I remember something Wilder said at our dinner last weekend as he rattled off his personal details. I toe off my flats, leaving them in the entryway. Mac takes my coat.

“He sent me to get you. He had to finish a phone call with my grandma,” she says, and I was admittedly expecting her to say his CFO or the New York office, but it’s delightful Wilder’s talking to his mom in London right now. “I can show you around a little bit.”

“I would love that,” I say.

Mac ushers me into the house. “My dad and I did most of the Christmas decorating. Because…Confession: I love Christmas decorating.”

“Double confession: me too. And you did an amazing job.”

“Well, I didn’t do everything. He hired a party planner to add some extra touches for today because I can’t do it all. Even at my age. But I did those a couple weeks ago.” She points to the garlands lining a floating staircase on the opposite side of the home and the tasteful sprigs of evergreens arranged around red and white candles on side tables.

“You’ve got mad skills,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says with a proud lift of her chin as she escorts me into the sunken living room. I tell her I enjoyed her Christmas recital, and she sighs. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

“You don’t like performing?”

“It’s fine,” she says with an easy shrug. “But it’s not my thing.”

In the corner of the room stands a tall fir tree, neatly decorated with silver and red bows. But it’s the ornaments that catch my attention. “Your ornaments don’t match.” I can’t hide my delight. I’d figured Wilder’s tree would be decorated with understated silver, gold, and red orbs, like a tree in a fancy department store window.

Nope.

On the branches hang paper cutout snowflakes, pink yarn stars, and homemade snowmen glued to popsicle sticks. “I made those,” Mac says. “They could be better. But want to see the rest?”

“I’d love to,” I say. “I love homemade ornaments.”

“Me too.” She guides me down the step, onto a plush carpet that feels like walking on a fluffy cloud, then past a glass coffee table, and finally to the tree. She shows me a red cardboard picture frame with a photo of her and Wilder sledding on a toboggan. “That’s from Evergreen Falls a couple years ago. There’s this one hill there where you can go super-fast.”

I stare, smiling stupidly at the two of them in their snow gear, flying down a hill. “Is there sledding in the Christmas games at Evergreen Falls?”

Mac pauses, then her eyes twinkle. “Yes! There is.”

“I’ll have to do some recon. Get in some practice runs.”

“But it’s only for kids. Still, sledding is always a good idea.”

“It is.”

She points to an ornament made out of a walnut and decorated like Rudolph, with lopsided googly eyes and a red puffy ball for a nose. “I made this last year. That was my walnut phase. But I should have used a better…nose thingy.”

“No.” I immediately cut off that notion.

“No what?”

“It’s perfect the way it is. It has so much personality.”

“Really?” She sounds so doubtful, a contrast to the girl who opened the door.

“You’re talented, and it looks like you had fun making it,” I say. That’s what matters. I point to a matching one a few branches up, this one missing an eye. ‘Especially since there are two.”

“Oh, my dad made that one.” She drops her voice. “He’s terrible at crafts. Don’t tell him I said that.”

I bring my finger to my lips. “I won’t say a word.” Even though I find this intel as delicious as the sledding tidbit.

“He tries, but it’s just not his thing,” she says with a what can you do shrug. “But he’s good at other stuff.”

Understatement of the year. “He is. And you’re good at photography. I saw my sister’s proposal pics. They’re so good, Mac.”

“Thanks,” she says, and now there’s real pride in her voice. Photography must be important to her. “I’m taking a class, but I also just learned by doing it. Over and over.”

“Best way to learn.”

“I like it better than singing,” she says as she shows me more ornaments. “I bet you can make great ones. My dad says you’re really talented.”

“He does?”

“He said she’s the best designer in the business. Still can’t believe we were lucky enough to snap her up, but the sales don’t lie.”

“Thank you for sharing that.” I might be floating.

The sound of footsteps pulls me back to Earth, then his voice. “Good to see you, Fable.”

I turn around, and my pulse surges wildly, beating in my throat.

I’ve seen Wilder in suits before. But this time feels different. Because we’re in his house? Because he’s barefoot and that just makes him seem a little vulnerable for the first time? Because of that test kiss? Because of all his extravagant gifts?

But no. I dismiss all those reasons.

Today’s different because he asked me to pick his costume. Like a real girlfriend would do. Because he sent me photos of the suits in his closet so I could choose for him. I picked black slacks, a white shirt, a black jacket, and no tie. Like the iconic scene at the end of Love Actually when Hugh Grant appears at the children’s Christmas show at the school in the dodgy part of town.

A smile takes over my face.

“You look just like the prime minister,” I say, a little mesmerized, “when he’s caught kissing his Natalie behind the curtain on stage.”

“You really do,” Mac seconds.

Wilder swivels to her. “I asked you not to watch it. The movie is rated R.”

She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t, Dad. I googled the pics, okay?”

“Okay,” he acquiesces, then runs a hand gently over her hair, careful not to mess up her braid.

Then we’re both quiet as he looks me up and down.

Red sweater. Black pants. Gold belt. Like the prime minister’s love interest in the oft-debated Christmas flick everyone loves to hate and hates to love. And a delicate necklace that’s all mine. Something I made myself in the jewelry-making class I teach once a week—to show the students what’s possible.

“And Fable looks perf,” Mac says. Then she eyes the neckline of my red sweater critically. “Except, hold on.”

She runs off, racing up the floating stairs.

It’s just Wilder and me, standing in front of the tree, looking like a Christmas movie couple. The weight of this moment hits me. We’re doing this—faking it. Not just for ourselves. But for others. I’m faking it for my sister, her fiancé, and all their friends, as well as our own families.

And also for Brady—that asshole who thought he could hurt me. But he’ll see I’ve moved on when he arrives in a few hours.

Thoughts of Brady fall from my head when Wilder says, “You look…lovely.”

Impulsively, I say, “So do you.” But just so he doesn’t think I’m hitting on him, I quickly add, “You look just like the character. In the movie. Except for one thing…”

He tilts his head. “What’s that?”

“Your hair’s not quite as messy.”

His lips quirk up. “That so?”

I don’t think. I do. I step closer and run my hands through his perfectly combed, wavy brown hair.

It’s soft.

His hair feels so good.

And his breath seems to hiss out when I’m close like this. When I touch him. When I slide my hands through his soft strands.

“Your hair is…” I swallow the word but then find it again, meeting his gaze. “Nice.”

“Thanks,” he says, his voice raspier than usual. A little gritty too.

Mac’s footsteps rattle on the floor. We step apart, the moment breaking.

Seconds later, Mac flies down the stairs to stop in front of me, a paper snowflake in her hand. “She had a snowflake on her neckline. In the movie pics,” Mac explains.

Right. Of course. I looked them up, too, but I’d figured a red sweater would be sufficient for the costume. Maybe not for an eleven-year-old though.

“Then it’s a good thing you made one,” I say, then I bend so she can pin this makeshift addition to my costume to the neckline. Her tongue’s poking at the corner of her lips as she concentrates. Once she gets it just right, she says, “There.” She steps back, sizes me up, and says, “It’s perfect now. Right, Dad?”

He curls his hand around her shoulder and looks me over. “Beautiful,” he says.

Does he mean the snowflake or me?

Duh. The snowflake. He’s complimenting his kid’s handiwork. “Yes, thank you, Mac. It’s a beautiful snowflake,” I say.

“Thanks. I’m going to make sure we have popcorn,” she says. “So we can watch anything but Love Actually during the shower.”

“Good plan,” Wilder says, and when Mac disappears, presumably into the kitchen, Wilder says to me, “I’ll show you around so it seems like you know the place.”

It’s make-believe, this holiday romance, but it’s not hard to pretend I’m in a fairy tale as he takes me through this castle of a home.

First, there’s the library on this level, which has a few detective novels scattered on a table near a plush green couch. A ladder rests against some mis-shelved middle-grade books, adventure stories, and time travel tales.

“A girl could get lost in here,” I say, admiring the wooden bookcases, then running my fingers across some of the spines.

“Yes, it’s been known to happen with a certain eleven-year-old,” he says wryly.

“Takes after you,” I say.

Stopping at the ladder, he smiles, proud and deservedly so. “She does. But she has an artistic side, too, like her mother.”

“I noticed. Her ornaments are top tier,” I say, then add in a conspiratorial whisper, “can’t help but love her crafty side.”

“You have one as well,” he says. “Our door is going to win.”

I wave a hand. “We’ll see.”

Resting a forearm on the ladder, he nods to my neck. “Your necklace. Did you make it?”

I lift my hand to touch the simple, delicate chain. It’s rose gold, with a tiny bow at the throat. “I did. Recycled metal for the chain. And the bow comes from some vintage pieces I sourced at a cool flea market in Darling Springs.”

He lifts a brow, clearly curious. “You do that?”

“Go to flea markets around the state to source materials?”

“Yes.”

“Nearly everything I make comes from recycled materials.”

“Like in the shirt design you’re working on for us,” he says, putting clues together like in one of his detective novels.

“Yes,” I say. “It’s my thing too.”

He seems almost…taken with this intel. “So, it’s our thing—looking after the planet,” he adds. It’s as if we’ve just discovered we both dog-eared the same scenes in the same book as a kid or want to visit the same Aztec ruins.

“Seems it is,” I say.

He doesn’t look away, just studies the chain from a slight distance, then raises his gaze to mine again. “Would you ever want to do that full-time? Make your own jewelry? Or really, do more of that?”

Yes, god, yes. But should I say that to my boss? I’m not sure I should let on that my dream is to one day open a shop, or two or three. Bosses want to believe you’ll stay with the company forever. They don’t want to know you have other goals and aspirations. Loyalty, I’m sure, is important to him. “Maybe on the side,” I say, hedging my bets.

“Like an Etsy shop? I could see that,” he says.

The fact that he can picture it and not be threatened by it makes my heart glow. “Yes. Like that,” I say, taking a small step in sharing my dreams with him.

“You should. They’re too beautiful to keep to yourself.”

But there’s a nagging feeling in my stomach. I don’t want to lie to him. “Actually, I have one already,” I confess.

He lifts a brow. “An Etsy shop?”

“I just dabble for now. Sell a few things here and there,” I say.

“What’s the name?”

“Made by Fable,” I say, then roll my eyes. “It’s not that original.”

“You have the perfect name for a designer. It’s artistic and creative. It’s a good name for a shop, Fable,” he says, and there’s no faint praise in his tone. I can tell he means it.

“Thank you.”

He lets go of the ladder, steps closer to me, and reaches toward the necklace. Briefly, he runs a finger across the little bow. My skin buzzes from his seconds-long touch, then his words, “So pretty.” Then, he heads to the door. “Should we continue on our tour?”

I take a moment to get my bearings before I say yes, then follow him downstairs to a gym, and also a home theater where Mac and some of the kids will hang out during the luncheon party. He gestures to an empty red bowl that says popcorn on it, sitting on the sideboard.

“That’s from last night,” he says, swooping it up and dropping it in the kitchen with Mac as she sorts out popcorn spices. Then, he guides me up the stairs, and I drink in the view for miles as we go, the Golden Gate Bridge and the endless ocean spilling over the horizon. We reach the bedroom level, and he shows me Mac’s room with its unmade bed that he clearly didn’t insist she make this morning. There’s also a huge, messy desk covered with cameras and lenses. Photoshop is open on the computer screen.

His home office is next on the tour. Antique maps cover the walls. “Do you collect?”

“I do,” he says.

“Why?”

“I like knowing what the world was.”

“To know what it can be?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“That’s very you,” I say. “Especially with your new businesses, like the energy ones.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. You like to understand the future. To help shape it.”

“I hope so. And I hope to shape it for the best.”

“And you like to understand people,” I say.

He holds my gaze for a beat. “I do.”

That warmth I felt earlier spreads. He understood how frazzled and hurt I was that time in his office when I spilled glitter Christmas dicks on him. He understood me the next time when I felt guilty over not telling my sister the full truth. He understood me at dinner when we talked about snow and winter and songs.

And he’s trying so damn hard to make sure we pull off this fake romance. Brady hardly tried at all with our real relationship. My own father barely tried to fix things with my mother after cheating on her over and over, and she still gave him chance after chance. And sure, some of my past boyfriends tried, but not to the extent of this man.

Wilder? He shows up every single time for every single thing. It’s admirable. It’s attractive. My throat tightens briefly with emotions, but I swallow them down as we leave.

I face a new battle when we reach his room next. The suite is three times the size of my tiny place and fifty million times nicer, with warm cream walls, soft carpeting, and floor-to-ceiling windows. I swear I try not to ooh and aah the whole time. The bed, low to the ground on a blond wood platform, looks like it’s made of sweet dreams, with soft gray, blue, and white pillows. The windows show off the whole city and the ocean beyond. His bed is neatly made, and this feels entirely him too.

I’m about to say that when a loud thud echoes from the corner of the room. I spin around, alarmed. “What was that?”

Wilder drags a hand through his hair. “Penguin,” he says.

“Penguin?”

A second later, a large tuxedo cat saunters out of the closet, stretches luxuriously, then sashays over to Wilder. The cat has white gloves, a black body, and a half-face, mostly black, but with a white mouth. “You have a cat,” I say, stunned.

“The rumors are true.”

I spin around, swatting his arm. “Stop it! You never even dropped a hint that you had a cat. You didn’t mention it at dinner or in your office dos and don’ts.”

“I guess there was so much else we covered, it slipped my mind,” he says, but there’s something else in his eyes—the hint of an excuse? A cover-up? I’m not sure.

“Well, you ordered me to come early so we could pull this off.” I park my hands on my hips. “Now I learn you’ve been hiding a cat?” A cat who’s…a little in love with Wilder. The feline is rubbing against his leg. Purring. “Is your cat marking you?”

With amused resignation, he bends to pick up the critter. “She was supposed to be Mac’s. A few years ago, she wanted to adopt a cat, so I took her to Little Friends, and she picked this cat. Then, once we returned home, the cat…well, she picked me.”

As if on cue, Penguin rubs her head against his chest. A laugh bursts from me. “Your cat is obsessed with you.”

A smile teases his lips like he can’t quite believe he’s enchanted this feline. But judging from the rumble of her purr, he definitely has. He scratches her head. “Yes. She is. So there you go. I have a cat. Mac named her,” he says, then sets the fluffball on the bed. She flops down, sticking a leg up in the air and bathing for all the world to see.

“She matches you, tuxedo cat and all. She’s the perfect feline for you.”

He glances down at his suit. “I’m not wearing a tuxedo right now.”

“No, but I bet there’s one in your closet.”

He steps closer and holds my gaze, his eyes gleaming. “Two, Fable. Two.”

He doesn’t look away. I roll my lips together, liking his stare more than I should. I shake off this feeling blooming in my chest—whatever it is—and sweep my arm around the space, indicating his home.

Yes, it’s luxurious, out of nearly everyone’s league. But it’s also lived in and loved. “I like your house. It looks like home,” I say.

Tilting his head, he studies me, his eyes soft, vulnerable. “Thanks. Hardly anyone says that.” A pause. “Actually, no one.”

“Then they’re missing the obvious.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

For a few seconds, the air feels charged. Like we’ve crossed some line, more than we did with our practice kiss. Or maybe the crackle and pop comes from being, well, seen.

Before we leave his room, though, he sets a hand on my arm. His expression serious, he says, “Let’s be the best best man and maid of honor there is. And let’s show Brady that he’s the one who lost.”

He takes my hand, and we walk down the stairs like that—even though no one’s looking.

But I’m looking. And I’m liking this. “You’re holding my hand,” I whisper.

He starts to let go. “I was…practicing.”

“We’re getting good at that. Practicing.”

There’s a slight hitch in his breath, then he grits out, “We are.”

I grab hold tighter on his hand so he can’t stop. “Keep practicing.”

He blinks, and for a few dangerous seconds, I swear I see something real flash in his eyes.

But that can’t be. He’s just very, very good at everything he does, including this game. And soon, it’s showtime.