My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Fable

There’s no rest for a fake dater.

I can’t even come up for air. As I grab a scarf, beanie, and mittens, I can still feel his mouth on me. His lips. His lips. I can still feel the rush of heat in my body. My chest flips from the filthy memory of his wicked apology. But I can’t keep losing my pants for him, no matter how talented his hands or his mouth are.

So fucking talented.

But the more we cross the line, the more complicated this holiday ruse becomes. And honestly, as much as I want to return the favor—and I do, oh hell do I ever—I don’t need or want a complication. Or, like he said, an addiction. The Os he bestows are definitely of the addictive variety.

I want this wedding to go smoothly. I want to win the Christmas competition. He clearly doesn’t want a distraction. If Wilder and I keep lunging at each other, we run the risk of becoming…real.

Even on a temporary basis.

And real couples hurt each other. With words, with deeds, with disappointment. If it feels all too real, he could back out or change his mind. Or we could get too caught up in the moment. It’s best we keep this romance as fake as it can be.

We leave the suite and Charlotte ferries us from the cabins immediately, urging us through the main living room and out the door. “The snowball-fighting competition was moved to today. It starts in forty-five minutes,” she explains, enthused. My sister sounds like she can’t wait. Makes sense. She’s always loved activities—the more the merrier for my outgoing sister.

“I thought that event was tomorrow,” I say to Charlotte as I tug on snow boots by the cabin door.

“The snowball fight isn’t usually for another day or so,” Wilder adds.

Charlotte shoots us a look like we don’t make sense to her. “Did either of you hear what Bibi said? The town tweaked the schedule a bit to fit in more events,” she says, and yes, Bibi did say that, but with the ‘welcome to One Bed Town, population you’ talk it’d slipped from my mind. Must have done the same to Wilder, or perhaps that apology fried the schedule right out of his brain in an out-of-character moment for both of us.

A fresh new worry digs into my chest.

What if my sister sees through us? If she learns we’re fake dating because of Brady—even though Wilder needs a plus one too—she’ll worry about me. She’ll feel responsible. She’ll think it was her fault for introducing us, and then she’ll feel like she should tell Leo, and I don’t want her to carry that guilt. Ugh. Why does Brady need to be related to my sister’s amazing groom? Family ties sometimes just suck.

I don’t want to add more stress to her plate. Not when she’s having so much fun. This is exactly what I want for Charlotte—her happiness. Her joy. She’s in her element and I don’t want to steal focus like my father did over and over, especially around the holidays.

It’s her moment to be the star. It’s my moment to blend in.

That means I need to pay attention. Not trip over little details. “It’s a good time for a snowball fight,” I say, trying to forget what just went down. Him.

“It’s going to be great,” Charlotte says as she bounds down the steps toward the driveway, clasping Leo’s arm happily, like she can’t get enough of her fiancé. “I guess the snow is particularly snowball-ish this afternoon.”

With the grin of a wildly-in-love man, Leo presses a kiss to her hair, curling out from under a red beanie with a white pom-pom bobbing on top. “It just snowed the other night, and studies show the perfect snowball consistency is two days later,” Leo says in an even tone, like he’s evaluating hedge funds for his portfolio.

Or really, putting his friend on.

Wilder seems off his game, though, and arches a brow skeptically. “That’s the ideal time for snowball consistency? That’s why the competition was moved?”

Hmm. That’s odd for Wilder not to quite pick up on the joke. Especially since Bibi’s watching us like a hawk while opening the passenger door to Caroline’s SUV.

With an amused scoff, Leo claps Wilder on the back. “Hell if I know. They moved it because they moved it. What do you think? There’s a snowball competition conspiracy?”

“Perhaps the whole town is in on the conspiracy,” Bibi puts in, her eyes meeting Wilder’s.

He seems to blink off his confusion. “Yes, the Evergreen Falls conspiracy,” he says, smoothly once again.

We slip into the car and the second the door closes, I whisper, “Are you okay? You seemed off.”

He grips the steering wheel but his expression is blank for a beat before he says, “Just…distracted. I’m fine now.”

Yup, I can’t fall back into bed with him because we’ll both be distracted then. Distraction would be very bad the week before the wedding. “Anything I can help with?”

“I was thinking about…” He takes a long beat, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “Just a deal I’m working on. It won’t happen again.” He starts the car.

“Wilder, I’m not worried about that. You just seemed…” A little lost in time.

But I don’t say that. I should probably leave it well enough alone, but I want to help him. As he backs up the car out of the gravel drive, I shift to a related topic. “Do you think they know we’re up to something? Because we were questioning the timing?”

“No. At least I hope not,” he says as he heads down the mountain road.

But that doesn’t really ease the tension between us. I’m not entirely sure it’s post-sex tension now. It feels like some other variety. “Are you irritated that the town moved the event?”

“No. It’s fine,” he answers tightly, but then sighs, relenting somewhat as we wind down the curving road toward the town. “I was just expecting it to be in a day or two, and I thought maybe we’d…”

“Practice?” I offer, though that word feels charged now, even if I know he means it genuinely, as in snowball practice.

“Yes, to be honest.” He sounds almost sheepish admitting that.

That’s sweet. “You really do want to win?”

He slows to a stop at the first stoplight in downtown. “Isn’t that the point?”

Yes, that was my goal—to beat Brady. But I already feel like we’re on a ship that’s drifted away from its destination. I’m not sure why, though, or which port we’re headed to.

Maybe it’s safest if I steer us back to where we started. We talked about the competition in the car on the way up—Wilder was downright issuing a call to arms against my ex. Wanting to protect me from any Brady gloating, and that was hot as hell. I’ll steer us back to that. “Of course I want to win too. I suppose practice would have helped. But we’re just going to have to wing it. I’m sure you’re good at that.”

The light changes and Wilder turns the car onto Main Street. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t answer as to whether he’s good at winging it. Have I found his Achilles’ heel? “Wilder, are you not any good at throwing snowballs?”

He scoffs. “Of course I can throw a snowball. Just wanted to practice, as I was saying.”

I can’t resist. “You really like practice, don’t you?”

His expression is stern again as he pulls over, parking the car along the curb next to a toy shop called Play All Day. He holds my gaze, those green eyes like emeralds, shining like jewels. “Certain types of practice more than others,” he says, his hot gaze directed distinctly to my mouth, then moving down my body right to my thighs where his face was buried just moments ago. His gaze travels back up and my pulse skitters as he stares intensely at my lips with something like longing. Then, as if it costs him, he raises his eyes, meeting mine. “It’s that I want to win…for you.”

He swings open his door and comes around to my side, leaving me to mull on that. After he opens my door and we step out into the picturesque downtown of Evergreen Falls, I’m still hanging onto those two words.

For you.

They feel like they have weight to them.

Yes, of course he’s doing this competition with me. Of course he has his own reasons for faking this romance. But there’s something almost carnal, possessive even, in the way he said those two words. He wants to win…for me. Like winning for me means something more than revenge on my awful ex. It’s almost…gallant.

But I’m not entirely sure what to make of his admission or if I’m even reading him right. Maybe I need more practice in understanding my inscrutable boss. In getting to know him better.

Yes, I think I’d like that.

Outside the toy shop I stop in my tracks, a few paces behind Wilder, as reality clobbers me with the obvious stick.

Am I interested in my boss?

Of course you are. He’s gorgeous and brilliant, and he spoils the hell out of you. He’s a clever, intelligent, attentive listener, a passionate thinker, and he’s a little obsessed with taking care of all your needs.

My heart gallops thinking about the way he listened on the drive up, the things he asked me, how we talked to each other. Wilder Blaine is caring, thoughtful, bossy, and driven and somehow he’s putting all that energy into me.

Yes, I’m attracted to him in all the ways.

But that’s a normal side effect of a fake romance. I can’t get caught up in this temporary attraction. Especially since I have to make sure this pretend romance works for Wilder too. He needs this plus one. He needs it so badly he told his mother the truth about us.

Time to put whatever this bloom of feelings is all the way behind me. As I drink in the small-town holiday charm that envelops Main Street, something inside me loosens. I relax into the holiday ambiance as we check out the town. Charlotte and Leo lead the way, chatting with my mom, while Leo’s talking to my mom’s brother, Uncle Rick. Bibi’s chatting with Caroline and Everly, while Max holds Everly’s hand. Josie and Wesley are peering into storefronts along with Maeve, who’s by their side, chatting with Cousin Troy, which is what everyone calls him, as if that’s his full name. Christmas garlands and pretty lights adorn every shop, casting a warm and inviting glow over the cobblestone streets. The air is filled with the scent of pine trees and the aroma of gingerbread cookies from the bakery up the street.

I swing my gaze from storefront to storefront, checking out the cute little café with red-and-white-checked cloths on the tables inside on one side of the street, then a general store on the other side, peddling both stockings and sundries to stock up on.

“Do you like it?” Wilder asks the question like it’s vitally important that I connect with Evergreen Falls. Like he’s created the town just for me. That’s a ridiculous thought, of course. This town existed long before he built those cabins. Yet a sense of pride of place rings in his voice.

I look at him, beaming as I answer, “I do. We have some time, so why don’t you show me around a little bit more?” I gesture to the end of the block. Our group is already ahead of us. We’ve got a little space from them. “We can’t practice throwing snowballs after all. Might as well just enjoy this town before we’re thrown into the competition fire.”

Then subtly, or maybe not that subtly, I raise my hand an inch or two toward him. An invitation. His gaze swings down to it immediately. The corner of his lips curves up. And in a heartbeat he takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine.

There’s a soft, barely audible sigh of relief that seems to float past his lips.

I don’t say anything. I just enjoy the feel-good moment as we make our way through the bustling crowds. The cobblestone sidewalks are dusted with a light layer of snow. Shop windows are decorated with wreaths and ribbons, and children laugh as they rush toward the snowball competition in the town square. They’ll go first, with adults competing after.

Wilder points out all the little shops in Evergreen Falls from the Sugar Plum Bakery, to the toy store with model trains chugging around tiny tracks in the window, from the Holly Lane antique shop, to a Christmas decor shop that looks like it belongs in a Bavarian Christmas village—Mistletoe Emporium is the name. He tells me the town has an international flare to it, with residents hailing from France, Thailand, Lebanon, and Canada among others. The mayor’s mother moved here from Japan and met her husband in this town after he moved here from Vancouver, Wilder tells me. “You’ll meet him soon. Dan Bumblefritz is the host of the competition,” he says.

“Can’t wait,” I say.

Wilder tells me more about the townspeople—the sheriff’s family all moved here from Mexico, after a stint in Texas, and the woman who runs the bakery is from Paris. Ooh la la, indeed. We stop outside A Likely Story, snapping pics of the store’s window display of Hazel’s The Twelve Hate Dates of The Holidays. At the end of the block, Wilder nods to an ice skate rental shop.

“That’s Mac’s favorite,” he says, as he’s said each time we’ve passed a new store, and I laugh.

“I’m getting the sense she likes everything Christmas,” I say.

“She’s passionate about it,” he admits.

I sigh, mostly contentedly. “I like it too.”

“Hmm.” He sounds doubtful.

“What’s that hmm for?”

“I hear some reticence,” he says.

He’s too observant and really there’s no need to hold back now—not after the things he’s shared and the way he let me into his world with his mother. “When I was younger, my parents fought a lot, but often around Christmas. Usually over whether Mom was going to take Dad back or not. He wasn’t faithful to her,” I say, painful memories rising up of the lies he told.

Wilder growls, like he wants to rip my father to pieces. “That’s terrible. There’s no excuse for that.”

“I know,” I say, my heart heavy. “He cheated over and over. I wish she’d left him sooner. But she usually took him back. Until she kicked him out for good when I was sixteen,” I say. “But the last few Christmases were always tense. Even when she took him back, there was this undercurrent that it wouldn’t last. Pretty sure Charlotte and I always felt like we were walking on eggshells.”

“Is it going to be awkward when he arrives? Seeing him here along with her?” Wilder asks.

“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve gotten used to him being who he is. I just…sometimes I hurt for my mother, and for the Christmases that weren’t as magical as they could have been for Charlotte and me.”

“I’m sorry, honey,” he says, with so much genuine concern that my heart squeezes.

He stops outside the Sugar Plum Bakery, searching my gaze, maybe checking to see if I’m okay. And I really am okay. Maybe even a little…amazed at this man and the words he just uttered. Or really, the way he said them. “You said honey.”

He tilts his head, his brow furrowing. “Isn’t that what we decided in the car? As part of our list?”

“Yes, but it felt so…”

I catch myself before I say real.

I stop talking. I need to stop reading too much into a pretend romance. That moment felt real because Wilder’s good at pretending. Because he’s good at everything. Because he’s Wilder. But also because he’s patently honest—the night we plotted this at dinner at Dahlia’s, he vowed we’d be the best fake daters ever.

That’s all any of this is and I’d be a fool, like my mother was, to believe in anything more. Even when he finishes for me, asking, “So real?”

Still, I swallow roughly.

He seems to do the same.

“It did feel real, but you’re good at this,” I say, chin up and cheery, so I don’t get caught.

I can’t.

He parts his lips, like he’s about to say something, but then he rolls them together. He squeezes my hand…warmly. “Or maybe,” he begins, running his thumb along the space between my thumb and forefinger, stroking it in the chilly air. “We’re good at it.”

His eyes lock with mine and something so vulnerable flashes in his irises that my chest aches all over again. My breath comes in a staggered gasp, and I look down at his thumb, grazing my skin in a mesmerizing half-arc over and over. Every sweep sends chills down my spine—the kind of chills that heat you up.

What are we doing? We smash into each other and then we rip apart. We come together and we back all the way off. It’s whiplash. Sexy whiplash, but whiplash nonetheless.

“So,” I say, returning to the naughty and nice list, “do we both get hot cocoa tonight? Because it seems real and authentic?”

He lets go of that spot on my hand and runs the back of his knuckles along my jawline, and I shudder on the street outside the Sugar Plum Bakery. He keeps touching me even when he says we need to stop. Like he did in the gourmet shop when we got popcorn. Like he did, of course, this afternoon. Like now. He must be suffering from the same whiplash I am. I don’t tell him to slow down, though, because I feel soft and woozy everywhere. My head pops. My skin sizzles. And everything is hazy.

“We both win, I guess,” he says, then leans in once more and drops a dizzying kiss to my forehead. I close my eyes, savoring the delicious attention.

I’m seeing stars. I grab onto the collar of his peacoat so I don’t fall. When I open my eyes, I catch sight of Bibi down the block.

Is she staring at us approvingly?

We resume our pace. But when Wilder takes my hand once more, I can’t help but wonder what’s real and what is fake.