My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Fable

Where is the new sparkly T-shirt? The one that will look amazing in all the employees’ holiday stockings?

I swore I left it on my secondhand brushed metal table. The one held up by two whimsical metal frogs because frogs should only ever be whimsical. I set the shirt here last night to show the boss man. I shove aside the crimping pliers and a few half-finished earrings, then peer under the mason jar holding the wind chimes I’m making Mom for Christmas.

My pulse pounds with worry. We’re meeting to discuss numbers, trends, and growth, but I really need to locate this special-edition shirt. It’s not only a gift to go with the staff’s bonuses, it’s a tangible example of my vision for our merch in the new year. It’s made from recycled textiles, and it’s still gorgeous.

Wilder likes to give the shirts to employees first as a special holiday gift before we roll them out to the team merch shops. But I can only show it to him if I can find the dang thing. I scan the couch in case it’s stuck between some cushions—like I was last night when I conked out after staying up too late making glitter dick shirts that say Fondle with Care on the front for Charlotte’s Christmas-themed bachelorette party.

As I send the search party of one to my bedroom, Charlotte’s ringtone trills from the back pocket of my black pants.

My chest squeezes uncomfortably, but I’ve put this moment off long enough. As in all of Black Friday, Black Saturday, and Black Sunday. I have to tell her that Brady and I are no longer together. That I picked a guy who cheats, just like our mom did. But unlike Mom, I won’t let him keep walking all over me.

I swipe open the phone as I round the corner into my cubicle-size bedroom. “Hey, beautiful blushing bride,” I say, all merry and bright.

Dammit, I am merry and bright.

I’ve had three days, a box of Trader Joe’s wine, a football game (on TV since I was not in the mood to go to the stadium and cheer from the stands), and far too much time alone. My good friends, like Rachel and Elodie, and my besties Josie, Maeve, and Everly, were busy during the holiday weekend. They would have all made time for me if I’d asked, but I didn’t want to be a downer. Now, there’s no more procrastinating.

“How was San Diego?” I yank open the creaky closet door. Maybe I left the shirt hanging up here after I designed it?

“It was amazing,” she says, singing that last word. “Leo took me to La Jolla, and we stayed at a gorgeous hotel with a view of the ocean, and I felt like I was living in a storybook romance. But now there’s so much to do in such a short amount of time.”

As I flick through hangers of shirts, she rattles off a wedding checklist of details like the photographer, the cake, the dress, the flowers, the tuxes, the string quartet and even something about snowmen and ice sculptures, which doesn’t quite compute but I’ll figure it out later.

“So, just a few little things,” I say dryly, spinning around and heading for the bureau, where I shove aside the mood boards I made for the jewelry shop I want to open someday in the distant future when it doesn’t cost me a couple of organs on the black market.

“Just a couple,” she singsongs while I search the dresser. “But worth it. I have some new clients, too, who want the world from me over the next few weeks. Holiday rush and all. I crunched my free time in a spreadsheet, and I’m positive I can get all the wedding things done in the evenings. The next twenty-two evenings,” she says, then gulps in worry. Christmas Eve is coming up fast.

“Do you need a wedding planner? I can find one for you.” It shouldn’t be hard to hire someone eager and hungry.

“That’s with a wedding planner. Leo insisted on hiring the best, but I want to be involved. I want my dream wedding.” She takes a beat, and I can picture her twisting her fingers uncertainly. “I’ve always wanted to get married on Christmas Eve.”

I smile. “You say that like I don’t know it already.”

“You know all my teenage dreams,” she says. Like how she wanted to excel in school, become a wildly sought-after interior designer, and fall madly in love with a cinnamon roll of a man. Check, check, check. The only thing left? The dream wedding. “Is that selfish?”

Big sister mode is activated. “Nope. It’s not selfish, and I’ll help you in any way.” It’s my job and my pleasure. “You know that.”

“Really?” She sounds so relieved.

“Of course. I would love to.”

“What did I do to deserve you?”

“You were born second,” I say as I jerk open another drawer.

“True, true.”

There it is! Safe and sound, though I’ve no idea why I left it in the drawer. Maybe I was just that tired last night. I grab the white shirt with the team logo printed in red and silver bling that I’m sure will be a hit with the female fans the team has been courting this season.

Now that I’ve got the bounty, I bite the bullet. “So, listen,” I say to Charlotte, “This is no big deal, and it’s all totally fine, but I’m not seeing Brady anymore.”

Dead silence.

A few seconds later, there’s a worried gasp. “What happened? Did he hurt you? Because if he did something to my sister a month—no, less than a month—before my wedding, I’ll…I’ll…put composted cow manure in his slice of wedding cake.”

“First, love your attention to detail when it comes to revenge, but…” I pause, wincing. I can’t tell her what he did. Not after she rattled off her DEFCON-5 levels of pre-wedding stress. “It was mutual,” I assure her as I grab my oversized purple bag from the kitchen counter in my little Mission District apartment. “We just realized we weren’t right for each other. But it’s fine. I swear it’s fine. It happens.”

“Fable,” she says sympathetically. “Do you need me to come over later with a pin-the-tail-on-the-dickhead? We can throw darts at an image of his face.”

As appealing as that may be—I love a good game of darts—she needs to focus on putting together a wedding in just over three weeks. “I’m great, Char. I swear. We weren’t a good match. It was so mutual—it was, like, beyond mutual.”

“Is it going to be weird to see him at the wedding?”

“No,” I lie, trying not to picture Brady pumping a fist and bro-knocking guests at every opportunity. “It’ll be fine. No problem.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” I say, grabbing a jacket.

“I’ll find someone to be on your team, then,” she says.

I stop in my tracks at the kitchen counter. Wait. What fresh hell did she just utter? “What…do you mean?”

“Leo and I thought it’d be fun if everyone teams up. For the Evergreen Falls Christmas competition Wilder mentioned. The one in the town. The events are so fun—there’s a snowball fight and a gingerbread house-making competition and more. We’re thinking the bride and groom can be on one team,” she says, then rattles off Leo’s parents, our mom and stepdad, our dad and his third or fourth wife—who can keep track?—and then the cousins. My head is spinning with the inevitable when she says, “Oh. Hang on—Leo’s just texted me. Brady’s RSVP’d with⁠—”

I knew this was coming since Brady, with the subtlety of an elephant, invited the eggnog drinker in front of me. Still, I groan inside, close my eyes, and stuff the shirt into my work bag. I mutter Iris right as Charlotte says it out loud. Or rather, she asks, “Iris, the caterer?”

AKA, Iris, who sucked the stripes off Brady’s candy cane. I can’t believe he’s already put her name on the guest list. But then, I can.

“That’s so great he’s found someone,” I say, so bright, so bubbly I must sound like I’m on helium when, in fact, I’ve drunk a cup of pure dread. The last thing I want is to see them together at the wedding. Correction: the last thing I want is to see them together at all.

But I definitely can’t tell my sister the truth now. I’ll wait till the new year. Once Charlotte returns from her dream honeymoon, we’ll grab brunch and laugh over my terrible ex and what went down.

Well, what went down Iris’s throat.

After watching my father selfishly toy with my mother’s emotions, after he promised to change after every affair, after he vowed to stay faithful this time then dramatically stole the limelight, I won’t do that with Charlotte.

Besides, opening up isn’t my favorite thing to do.

It’s your least favorite thing, and you know it.

I tell that little, knowing voice to shut the F up. There’s nothing wrong with keeping your feelings to yourself. It’s safer than sharing. And frankly, kinder. This way, I can focus on Charlotte during her special time.

Brady’s the past, and the past is behind me. I say goodbye to my sister and gallop out the door to catch a bus to the stadium.

At two minutes past ten, I vault off the bus and race to the employee entrance, where I wag my lanyard with my Renegades ID at the security guard at the door. He has no mercy for my labored breaths or the strands of hair falling from my clip on one side of my head—because, of course, it falls only on one side—or the sweat I’m sweating under my short-sleeve blouse. Running that far made me as hot as Hades, and now the blast of heating from the stadium raises my body temperature about a million degrees.

But once inside the halls, I hustle to text Wilder, tapping away on my phone.

Seconds later, he replies.

I reread my text, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment. Thumbs flying to type a reply, I click-clack along the concrete corridor.

He’s being good-natured, but he has to think I’m lazy and messy. Not a great look for a designer. I dash to my little office and snag the box of Christmas stockings, dictating another reply.

I dart to the elevator, then step into it with the box and my bags, and I try to catch my breath. The doors shut, and there’s no reply from him. That’s good. That has to be good.

But then, as the lift chugs up, I reread my text to be sure it went out.

“Are you kidding me?”

Thank god I’m alone in the elevator, with no one to see me shout into my phone like it’s the ultimate dictation villain. “Speaking with you! I look forward to speaking with you! I should not be allowed to text or use words at all!”

I hit send as the elevator arrives on the executive level. I’m about to jog down the garland-decorated hall, but I think better of it and beeline for the ladies’ room instead.

I can’t meet with the team owner looking like this—like a hot mess. Literally.

I pop inside, march to the sink, and grab a starchy paper towel. After I wet it, I unbutton the top button on my blouse, then strategically maneuver an arm into my shirt to pat at my sweaty armpits, hoping I don’t ruin my pretty peach top.

A few seconds later, I exhale, toss out the towel, and reclip my hair. After I wash my hands and dry them, I exit.

All put together again.

I may be a sweaty mess, and I may have sent an accidental sext, but I’ve absolutely got this now. I am an awesome designer. I can do this.

I started designing jewelry, working my way up as an assistant manager at a shop on Fillmore Street, and then snagging a job with one of the most prestigious businesses in the city. No, the whole damn world. In the last two years alone, our merch department has soared, setting records in the league with the coolest, freshest, most imaginative designs. Plus, I’m a few months away from finally paying off my college loans, and I’ve finally started putting something away. I’m seriously hoping the money I’ve been saving and the experience I’ve been gaining can help me achieve my dream someday—opening a boutique with my own line of eco-friendly jewelry. Someday.

I turn into the executive suite where a wreath hangs on the big wooden door that’s ajar. Pushing it open, I step in as Shay’s sitting tall and typing while wearing…wow. And that’s one way to get into the holiday spirit.

“Unicorns are boring, said no one ever,” I say, admiring his sweater.

“My thoughts exactly,” Shay says with a smile, closing out of what looks like a photo collage on his screen of a couple long-haired calico cats sitting in a photoshopped sleigh, then says, “For my wife. The pic. It’s one of her Christmas gifts. Also, Mr. Blaine is definitely expecting you.” His helpful tone does nothing to underscore the meaning of his words—you’re late.

“Thank you,” I say, lowering my face.

“Go, go,” he says gently but firmly shooing me into the suite overlooking the field.

When I enter, Wilder’s sitting at his desk, relaxed, confident, looking like he’s never once sweated in his entire life. There isn’t a strand of thick, dark hair out of place on his head. His eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement. “Glad you could make it to the joining, Fable.”

I fight off a smile, then stand tall, saluting him. “Renegades Christmas elf reporting for duty.” That’s my role in making the holiday gifts for the staff—I’m the elf to his Santa. “And I think you’re going to love this stocking stuffer.”

Grabbing the shirt, I set my bag on the chair. “Ta-da!”

I unfurl the fabric and release a cloud of colorful themed confetti that flies out in a ticker tape parade of red and green glitter dicks. They go everywhere and stick to everything—his desk, the carpet, and his GQ face.