My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Fable

Well, that’s foreboding. It’s also impossible because when I look up from the message on my phone, I come face-to-face with said avoid-ee coming toward me in the corridor. One very determined woman with stylish tortoiseshell glasses, wide-leg slacks, and lasers for eyes stops in front of me, and the hair on my neck stands on end with worry.

“Fable,” she says in a warm voice that tells me she’s also up to something. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

“Oh?” I ask, clutching both my phone and a little gift I made for Wilder last night after the party. I wish I could surreptitiously text the world’s fastest SOS to my fake boyfriend. Why, Wilder, why? Why must I avoid her?

“Yes,” says Bibi. “I understand you need something to wear.”

It’s an answer, but I don’t know the question. Something to wear for work? For the wedding? For a meeting? “Definitely,” I say, stalling.

Her shrewd eyes size me up and down as she holds her tablet like a clipboard. “What’s your favorite style?”

For binge-watching Christmas flicks by the fire? For a cocktail party? A caroling contest? Given that the Christmas competition at Evergreen Falls starts this weekend, she could be asking about any of those. But I might blow our cover if I’m clueless about something I should know.

“Oh, you know, something simple.”

She narrows her eyes. “A little more info would be nice. Don’t you think?”

No, Bibi. I don’t think it would be nice. I have no idea what you’re talking about. “Simple and stylish,” I say with a smile that masks my confusion.

She taps her chin. “Red? Black? Green? Fur-lined?”

“Not fur,” I say, aghast. “Does anyone wear fur? Never fur.”

She stares at me like I’ve lost it. “Fake fur, Fable. Fake fur. Do I look like a murderer?”

“No. Of course not,” I say, chastened. “Definitely not a murderer.”

“So, fake fur then,” she says. I still have no clue if she’s asking about a fun new coat or a saucy Mrs. Claus dress. “Now, what about shoes?”

“Something fun but comfy. You know,” I say breezily. But inside, I’m stewing about how Wilder might need some lessons on timely texting. Like, oh, say, providing relevant info before his aunt ambushes me.

“Well, isn’t that always the goal?” Bibi pauses to look at her phone, I suspect to check her calendar. “Are you free tonight, then?”

I can’t pretend I know what she’s talking about anymore. “For what exactly?”

She flashes a soft smile. “For an appointment with my stylist of course. Arbor will make sure you have a fantastic dress for the team party Thursday night. Mac brought it up this morning on the way to the office. She said you’d mentioned you’d need something to wear.”

Ah, that’s it! The team party! And I must be going with my Christmas boyfriend. And his clever daughter covered for me this morning. Damn, that’s impressive espionage for an eleven-year-old. But Thursday night is my paint-and-sip class with Josie, Everly, and Maeve. Josie finagled her way into that class with her double kidney sale. I’d hate for both of her kidneys to go to waste.

But telling Bibi I can’t go to the event could topple this fake-dating plan like a flimsy house of cards.

Weighing my options, I decide I’ll have to miss the class. “Of course. My bad. I had so much on my mind with the launch of the new merch I forgot it was coming up. And I definitely need a dress.”

Well, I don’t want to make a liar of Mac.

Bibi pats my arm sympathetically. “I’ll send a car for you tonight. I’ll make sure Arbor has a nice glass of Veuve Clicquot waiting. You deserve to relax as he styles you for such a big party.”

Tension slams into me at those words—big party. It’s one thing to pretend to be a billionaire’s girlfriend at a bridal shower amongst a few dozen friends (and one terrible ex). But in three nights’ time we’ll be among million-dollar athletes and the glitterati of the city. That’s who goes to the team holiday party—chairpersons of Fortune 500 companies who sponsor the team. Heads of charities that partner with them. Players and partners of players.

I don’t know what to say. Except—“Thank you.”

It comes out awkwardly. I feel a little awkward.

“I’ll be there too,” she adds in a reassuring whisper, perhaps sensing my nerves. “Don’t you worry one bit.”

It’s kind that she offers me support for a party, but it also makes me wonder—am I a little My Fair Lady in Wilder’s glittery world?

The second Shay shuts the door to Wilder’s office behind me, I wheel on my fake boyfriend. I’m a little irked that he left me hanging. “You need lessons in texting,” I whisper-hiss, shaking the gift I’m holding for him.

“Why?” he asks with genuine confusion as he comes around his big desk, walking toward me, looking like a million dollars in dark slacks, a crisp burgundy button-down, and a tie that’s almost silvery in color. “Do I need to use lingo like HMU?” He sounds horrified at the thought of shortened lingo for hit me up as he gestures for me to take a seat on the dove gray couch.

“No, you need to use words and sentences and give me info,” I say, and I’m pretty sure I’m still sweating from that encounter with Bibi as I grip his gift, sending all the tension in me into the bag containing a crocheted ornament. “Your aunt ambushed me about the team party!”

As he sits on the navy-blue chair, I relate what went down in the hall with the fake fur and the stylist and Mac saying I needed a dress.

He alternates between chuckling and wincing, before asking with an amused lift in his brow, “She actually said that? Do I look like a murderer?”

“Yes! She did. And I still had no clue it was the team party,” I say, plucking at my blouse.

I slump farther onto the couch, wishing I could curl up and nap. That was exhausting.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says with genuine remorse. “It truly slipped my mind.”

“And she’s sending me to her stylist. He’ll probably hate my hair and tell me to do ten million crunches.”

Wilder scoffs. “You don’t need to do ten million crunches.”

I flap a hand toward his obviously flat stomach. “You probably do one crunch and get instant abs. Is that your secret?”

His lips twitch in a smile. “How do you know I have abs?”

“Because the universe is unfair.” Also because your shirts fit nice and tight, and it’s unmistakable.

He rises, moving from his chair to sit next to me on the couch—closer but not too close. He draws a breath then, when I’m meeting his gaze, says, “One, you’re gorgeous as you are, and you don’t need to change a thing. And two, the universe is unfair.”

I sit up, ears pricking. He called me gorgeous. I feel like Rudolph when he learns Clarice likes him. “I am?”

I should shut up. Really, I should. But I’ve never been that good at shutting up when I’m savoring an unexpected compliment.

And that was a tasty one.

Wilder’s green irises blaze with intensity. “You are, Fable,” he says, his tone so serious, so intense that my foot would pop again if I were standing. Instead, a million hummingbirds flutter inside me. “Thank you.” I pause, wondering if I should bring up the next point. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. “Am I your My Fair Lady?”

“Fable,” he says, gentle but firm too. “Why would you say that?”

I frown, then look around his office, pointing to the window overlooking the stadium that he owns. “We don’t live in the same world. Your aunt has a stylist named Arbor who serves Veuve Clicquot. She’s sending a fancy car. And I made you a thank-you ornament from yarn,” I blurt out, and his eyes widen at the last point, but I keep going. “And I spilled Christmas glitter dicks on you, and I live in a tiny apartment and⁠—”

I swallow the words I’m sweating. I don’t need him to know that whole encounter threw me off. But it threw me off because I don’t want us to fail. I like this ruse with him. It started as a necessity, but it’s also become fun.

Because of the kisses. Because you liked the kisses. Because you can’t stop thinking about your boss’s lips on you.

Oh my god, the voice in my head needs to shut up. I try my best to silence it as Wilder reaches for me and takes my hand, clasping it.

His touch is both reassuring and a turn-on. “You’re not My Fair Lady. You’re not a project. Bibi just likes…to do those things. To treat people to the good life, I suppose.”

“It’s not because she thinks I’m wrong for you? I mean, she was going to set you up with the executive director of the museum, not the director of team merch.”

He smiles, confident and magnetic, and doesn’t let go of my hand. “I like the team. And I like the merch.”

There’s an undercurrent to those words, but I don’t dare let myself read into it. Instead, I breathe out calmly. My pulse settles. I’m being silly. I smile apologetically and squeeze back, maybe so he won’t stop holding my hand. “Sorry. I just want to do the right thing. I don’t want to mess this up for you.”

His eyes pin me with intensity. “That would be impossible. For you to mess it up.”

I furrow my brow. “Why do you say that?”

He doesn’t answer. He tips his forehead toward my other hand. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the gift confession.” A sly smile teases his lips. “You made me an ornament?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s nothing,” I say.

He drops my hand and raises a finger. “It’s not nothing.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet.”

“It’s from you. It’s not nothing.”

The command in his voice sends a shiver down my chest, right to my core. I raise my hand, the one that’s been clutching a tiny white paper bag with the gift inside. “Mac showed me the ornaments she made yesterday. And I wanted you to have one from me. It’s just a thank you,” I say.

His smile is no longer sly. It’s like he’s mesmerized. “You made this?” he asks, opening the bag. “For me?”

“Well, I made you the wreath for your office door too,” I say, downplaying it, but I don’t know why.

“And I love the wreath. But this is for my home,” he says as he reaches into the bag eagerly. His reaction makes my heart stutter. He pulls out a crocheted snowman with a little ribbon hanger on it. “I love it.”

“Because you like snow,” I explain, but my breath is feathery. My chest is warm.

“I was thinking of snow last night,” he says, his eyes darkening as his gaze returns to mine.

“You were?”

“Yes. You said you liked winter at the restaurant. At Dahlia’s. But do you like snow?”

My pulse spikes. He was thinking of me when he was alone at his home. “I do like it.”

He grips the ornament, his nostrils huffing. “Good to know.” He pauses, his eyes never leaving my face. My stomach flips. I don’t want him to look away. “I’ll hang this tonight.”

“Will you think of snow?” I ask, breathy. But what I’m really saying is will you think of me again?

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I will.”

I want to lean into him, to catch his mouth with mine, to thread a hand through his hair and demand he kiss me hard on this couch, in his chair, on the…

A wicked thrill rushes through me, and I’m suddenly fixated on his desk.

He parts his lips like he’s going to say something. Something like get on my desk right now and spread your legs.

I blink off that lusty thought.

He must erase whatever’s on his mind, too, since he returns to our earlier topic. “Do you want me to cancel the stylist my aunt arranged? I can send you a dress instead.”

My breath catches. This man loves to give gifts. The socks, the ice cream, the football suite, the shopping spree, and now a dress. “Do you like shopping, Wilder?”

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s weighing what to say. “For you, I do.”

That’s not making me want him less. “So you’d shop for a dress for me?”

“If you wanted me to, yes.”

I’m tempted to say yes to the dress. But I also kind of want to go to the stylist too. Maybe I do have a little My Fair Lady in me. “Would it make me greedy if I said both?”

He laughs, seeming a little delighted. “Considering I sent you into the lion’s den unprepared, you should have both.” He thinks for a minute. “I’ll send a dress to your office today. Why don’t you pick shoes with the stylist?”

“You’re too generous. You don’t have to. I swear.”

His smile is pleased, in control, a man who’s getting what he wants. “I know. I want to.” He pauses, then adds, “But you should pick your own necklace. One of your pieces. I like seeing the ones you make on your neck.”

That sends a charge down my spine. The idea that he likes my creations on my throat makes me feel a little shimmery all over. “I will,” I say.

“Good. I look forward to it,” he says, holding my gaze like he’s already picturing something pretty adorning my skin.

I let out a long breath. “Thank you. For reassuring me. I’m sorry I came in a little hot earlier.”

“I like it when you come in hot,” he says. The sound reminds me of how we talked yesterday after the kiss. It reminds me, too, of how he’s been looking at me in the last few minutes. And it definitely reminds me of these unexpected fantasies of mine.

“Wilder?”

“Yes?”

I shake my head. “It’s nothing.” I’m not certain what I was going to say, even though I’m sure my tone was breathy, feathery even.

He grabs my hand again, linking his fingers through mine. I gasp from the touch, the desperation in it. “Are you sure it’s nothing?”

“Yes,” I say, but I don’t sound convincing.

He doesn’t let it go. “Is this about the kiss yesterday?”

And the way I’m thinking of you now too. “Maybe. Okay. Yes,” I admit.

“What about it?” he asks, seeming impatient.

“Was it believable?”

“Yes,” he says, wasting no time. “It was believable to me.”

There goes my stomach once more, cartwheeling this time. “Me too.”

He’s quiet again for a beat, then says, “We’ll probably have to be affectionate again at the party on Thursday.”

I wish it were Thursday now.

This fluttering in my chest isn’t going away. This pull in my belly isn’t disappearing. And this ache between my thighs is only intensifying. Feeling bold, I throw caution out the window. “Should we…practice again?”

The answer flies out of his mouth. “Yes.”

In no time, he’s up and striding across the plush carpet to the door and flicking the lock closed. I stand, my pulse skyrocketing. Then, because I can’t stop thinking of his desk, I move toward it, and he’s right behind me. When I reach it, he crowds me, his arm stretching along my side to grab the phone on the smooth wooden surface.

Why is he grabbing his phone? “Do you have a call⁠—”

But the question dies when he hits play on Spotify. The sultry sounds of the Tinashe Christmas cover float past my ears as his actions register fully. He’s turned on a song to drown out the sounds of our kissing practice.

With my heart speeding wildly, I spin around, and Wilder’s looming over me. “Just in case,” he says, answering my unfinished question.

“In case…I’m loud?”

His jaw ticks. He presses his lips together. Squeezes his eyes shut like he’s at war with himself, then he opens them. “Yes. But I need to know for sure. Are you okay with this?” He gestures from him to me, then all around us.

Yes, I’m keenly aware of the situation. He owns the company I work for, and direct report or not, this fake romance could be messy. But he disclosed this romance from day one. HR knows, and if we were to break up, he’s the kind of normal human who wouldn’t fire me for a made-up sin. For all intents and purposes, we’re having a relationship. Besides, this job isn’t my end game. I’ve got a side hustle, one I want to make into my future.

Right now, though, I’m only thinking about the present.

I grab the collar of his burgundy shirt. “Shut up and practice kissing me.”