My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Fable

This will be easier over text. At least, I hope so.

On Wednesday evening, I’m settling into the bus, heading to meet Charlotte at the florist. But first, I fire off a text to her. Best to tell my sister the news first when she can’t see my face.

But I don’t send it. Is that too random? Too selfish? I don’t know. My stomach churns with worry as the bus trundles through the city to Kiss My Tulips.

I try again.

That’s a little better. Maybe? I drop my head in my hand. Why didn’t I think through the logistics of lying to my sister and…EVERYONE ELSE? I wince, then stare out the window at the city rolling by. Early evening shoppers lug red and white bags from department stores. Busy humans dart in and out of shops, no doubt hunting for the perfect gift.

This is the season when everyone tries their hardest for the people they love. I love my sister, and I’ve always wanted her to be happy. When we were growing up and our parents were arguing, when Mom was hurting, when Dad was trying to win her back, I made it my mission to look out for my younger sister—to make sure she was happy even if Mom and Dad weren’t. Really, is this that different?

I handled the situation with our parents when we were kids. Now, I can’t think of this fake romance with Wilder as lying. It’s simply…handling a complicated situation. Yes, that’s it. And handling a complicated situation is an act of love.

On that note, I delete the text and try again.

Then I hit send, hoping she’s too frenzied with flower ideas to think much about it.

No such luck. A few minutes later, I get off the bus and walk to the shop, where I spot Charlotte waving me down on the sidewalk, bursting with excitement. “You’re dating your billionaire boss?”

It’s a shriek. More like a shriek heard ‘round the world.

“Yes. I am,” I say, but I lower my hands, the gesture saying let’s keep this quiet.

“Details!”

“He asked me to dinner this weekend.” That part’s true.

She grabs my hands, her smile wider than the city block. “And to the wedding? Like, you’re going to the wedding together too? The best man and the maid of honor. Oh my god, Fabes,” she says.

She’s too excited, and I’m too big of a jerk.

But I tell myself all of this is true. Wilder and I are having dinner this weekend. We will go to her wedding together. “Well, we have to do that competition. Someone, cough-cough, is kind of obsessed with games,” I say, deflecting a bit, then I stage whisper, “You and Leo.”

“We are! And this is so cool. I’m so excited,” she says, hooking her arm through the crook of my elbow as we head to the shop to check out succulents for a Christmas Eve wedding bouquet. “But it’s early days,” I caution. “So, we’re taking it slow.”

“Of course, of course. You’d better keep me posted.” We reach the shop. “And I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, Charlotte,” I say as a kernel of guilt wedges into my heart. I don’t want to be a liar like my snake of a father. But this is absolutely not the same kind of lie he whispered in my mother’s ears, telling her he was working late again, telling her he was out of town, then telling her he knew it was a mistake and he’d never do it again. Everything I said to my sister was true. When Wilder and I inevitably split up after Christmas, that will be totally true too.

No need to add my drama to everything she’s worrying about while planning a last-minute wedding. If I tell her we’re fake dating, I’ll need to tell her why—that the caterer she recommended for Thanksgiving was enjoying Brady’s eggnog special—then Leo would insist on kicking Brady, his own cousin, out of the wedding party.

That’s not fair to them. It’s not their circus or their monkeys.

Brady’s my monkey and Wilder’s the new ringmaster.

Or something like that.

We head inside, and I spend the next twenty minutes oohing and aahing over green succulents. We choose an unconventional but low-maintenance flower style for her bouquets. There’s a sister shop of Kiss My Tulips in Evergreen Falls, so we can look at their options here and pick up the final arrangement in the cute little Christmas-obsessed town where my sister will get married.

When we’re done I say goodbye, then head home, nearing a bell-ringing Santa on the next corner. I reach into my purse for some bills, then drop them into his shiny red bucket.

“Ho, ho, ho, and Merry Christmas. May all your Christmas wishes come true,” the jolly man says.

“And yours as well,” I say to the guy in the red suit and long white beard. Once I pass him, I wonder though—what are my holiday wishes? Simply to survive the wedding without feeling like a doormat? Sure, that’s definitely one. To make a point that I won’t let people think they can walk all over me? Yes, definitely. But Wilder also said the other day in his office that he’d like to show my ex how a man should treat a woman. And I’d like him to show me as well. I suppose maybe that’s a secret wish of mine now too.

To know what that’s like.

No.

It’s my wish to know how Wilder Blaine treats a woman.

Even if we have to keep it a secret from my sister, I want this wish to come true. I need to tell someone. This secret is clawing at my heart, nagging at my brain. Then, like a cartoon anvil landing on my head, I know who to tell. My friends Josie and Maeve, and of course Everly too. Josie’s a librarian, Maeve’s a painter, and Everly is the publicist for the Sea Dogs, one of the city’s hockey teams. They aren’t connected to Wilder’s world, and we’ve spent a lot of time together since Josie moved to San Francisco last fall. Plus, Maeve has been insisting she had a feeling about him ever since we ran into him in the lobby of his hotel one time and he offered to comp us a room. We didn’t need one, but when he left, Maeve promptly declared, Someone has a crush on you.

That’s Maeve for you. A little wild. But also wrong. I denied it then, I’ve denied it every time she’s brought it up since, and I’m denying it now. Still, I know they’ll be the perfect audience. I text them and since they’re all around, we hop on a video call the second I walk into my apartment.

And tell them I do—every single detail of my holiday romance, true and fake.

Maeve chuckles. “I told you so, I told you so, I told you so.”

“He does not have a crush on me,” I say.

“Mark my words, friend,” Maeve says, emphatic. “I saw it in his eyes.”

“Maeve, you think everyone has a crush on everyone,” I say.

Josie laughs, her head tipping back. “Can confirm. She does.”

“I can’t help it if my crush radar is finely calibrated and picks up the tiniest details.”

“Or maybe you want everything to be a crush,” Everly suggests to Maeve. “You are a bit of a hopeless romantic.”

Maeve’s aghast, her jaw down near her black shirt. “A bit? Only a bit?”

“Fine. You’re a lot.”

Josie laughs. “We’re all a lot.” But then she adds in a stage whisper, “But I hope Maeve’s right.”

“Shut up. She’s not.” She has to be because I can’t go there.

I stuff the idea of his crush in a far corner of the closet. I won’t entertain the notion at all.

When I end the call, I find there’s been a delivery to my building, and it’s so thoughtful, it makes my chest flip.

See? That’s real. I don’t feel like such a liar as I dig into the ice cream Wilder sent. The very real ice cream.

On Saturday evening, the banging on my door is so loud it’s like her calling card.

“Coming, Josie,” I call, hurrying over to look through the peephole. Waves of chestnut hair are piled on top of her head in an effortless bun I know isn’t effortless at all. Black-and-white cat-eye glasses frame her heart-shaped face, and her fair skin is flawless—well, my girl rocks the skin-care routine.

I swing open the door. “You have the most recognizable knock in the universe. It sounds like an elephant stampede.”

“Nice to see you too,” she says, then steps inside, lugging a couple of red-and-white-striped canvas shopping bags stuffed with gifts—books from An Open Book, toys for her little nephews, and records, it looks like.

“Hello, Mrs. Shopping Claus. Let me guess. The albums are for Wesley.”

She smiles, her eyes twinkling. “Yes. Wesley’s on his way home from a road trip, so I’d better wrap them tonight. I have a feeling he’s the type to look for his presents in advance.”

That’s her hockey-playing boyfriend, who she’s been with for almost a year—but only after a twisty, turny romance. They were roomies first, and Josie’s brother is the captain of Wesley’s hockey team. Talk about forbidden.

“But right now, I’m at your service. I’m all for picking just the right outfits.” Her knowing grin is a nod to the outfit she didn’t plan to wear the night she met Wesley—an oversized T-shirt and pink fuzzy slippers.

“Thank you for putting your dating trauma to my good use,” I say.

“It is for a worthwhile cause.” She sets the bags on the floor and backs up, getting right to business, roaming her eyes up and down my outfit. As a designer, I have an eye for clothes, patterns, and pairings. But as a woman going on a fake date with a billionaire, I need some backup from a friend.

“The sweater is cute,” she says, pointing at the cranberry-red V-neck sweater that slopes just so off one shoulder. “The little white cami under it is great. The hair is gorgeous.” She nods to the soft waves on my shoulders—the result of an afternoon of toil with the flat iron. “But…” Josie continues, drawing out the word and the inspection.

My heart sinks. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the skirt.” She points to my knee-length black skirt, which I’ve paired with simple black heels. “I would go with something else.”

I smooth the fabric unnecessarily. “The man wears custom suits to work. I need something nice.” Especially after the paper towel incident, I want to look classy for Wilder. He’s a classy man who sent me a delicious gift the other night, complete with a red satin bow that had my mind wandering to other uses for bows.

“What he wears to work is not the point,” Josie says.

Oh. I get it. “You’re saying he might not wear a suit tonight,” I say quickly, then bite my lip. “Right, right.” I picture him at Thanksgiving in his crisp dress shirt and slacks. “He’ll probably wear⁠—”

Josie curls her hand around my forearm. “This isn’t about him. It’s about you. Wear what you’re comfortable in.”

That sounds too easy. “Are you sure?”

“Trust me. I know,” she says kindly. “On our first date, Wes didn’t care about the baggy T-shirt and slippers or that I looked like I’d just gotten out of the shower.”

That was a fair point, especially how things had worked out for them.

“I hate that you’re sort of right,” I grumble.

She cups her ear. “Did you say you love that I’m right?”

“You’re a little right.” That’s all I’ll admit. I get what she’s saying, but our situations are different. “But I have to look like I’m trying. That’s the point—this is for show.”

She smiles softly. “I’d think, especially when you’re fake-dating, you wouldn’t want to try on too many different personalities. It’s best if you be you.”

I part my lips to highlight the flaw in her logic, but dammit, I can’t.

“Okay, you’re really right,” I admit as my stomach swoops with nerves. “What the hell am I getting myself into, Josie? I date bikers and stockbrokers. I date bartenders and project managers for an app that takes a picture of your cat when it uses your computer to tell you that you weren’t hacked. I don’t fake date or real date billionaires.” I slow my roll, breathe, then add, “Especially billionaires who send me Mint-nificent ice cream.”

Her big eyes pop. “So Maeve was right?”

“No,” I say, scoffing. “He’s just generous.”

She clears her throat. “He looked at you like he thinks you’re gorgeous last fall at The Resort and now he’s sent you your favorite ice cream?”

“He did.” I briefly savor the tasty memory and the card too. Happy holidays to my favorite elf. Then I’m back to the current convo. “Anyway, my point is⁠—”

Josie waggles a finger, cutting me off. “Nope. Tell me more about the ice cream he sent.”

“It was sweet. It was creamy. It melted in my mouth.”

Her eyebrows shoot higher. “And he sent your favorite flavor, you say?”

Oh no. Oh, hell no. I can see where she’s going, but I won’t follow. “It’s not a sign, Josie,” I say, trying to head her off before she gets to Romance Lane. “It was just ice cream, nothing else. Besides, everyone likes mint. Mint is not a sign.”

She smirks. “Oh, it’s for sure not a sign if it needs a triple denial.”

I give her a serious look. “I mentioned my favorite ice cream shop when we were in his office, creating a whole backstory of how we supposedly started dating. That’s all.” But I did like the card. It’s stashed in my bedside table.

“And then he sent it to you for real.” She is a dog refusing to let go of a bone.

“Yes, Josie. It was real ice cream,” I say firmly. I stare her down, and she gives it right back to me, staring hard like she’s waiting for some reaction. Like I’ll connect the dots then be over the moon with glee.

She’ll be waiting a long time. I’m a realist.

“Wilder is a strategic man,” I say. “He knows how to get things done. Yes, the ice cream was amazing, but he also knows how to play the game.”

“The fake dating game?”

“Any game,” I emphasize. Then I shrug, lightening my tone. “Besides, his assistant probably sent it. It was nice, but it doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means he listened to you,” she points out thoughtfully.

As her observation sinks in, there’s a tiny flutter in my chest. A warm and lovely feeling that only lasts a second, maybe three or four. But I don’t linger on it. This faux-mance isn’t about flutters and feelings. It’s about faking it and faking it well.

“As I was saying,” I say, grabbing control of the conversation. “I need to look like I belong on a date with him.”

She laughs, but it’s with me, not at me. It’s reassuring as she says, “He asked you to be his wedding date.”

“His fake wedding date,” I remind her.

“Yes, but out of all the women in San Francisco, he asked you. Because he likes you.”

I bark out a laugh, then shake my head fiercely. “He asked me because he feels sorry for me. He has a hero complex, and he needs a shield.”

She gives me a look with those soft blue eyes. “He might need a shield, but he also likes you.”

The last thing I need is for that idea to take root in my head. “This is a you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours situationship.”

Although, it’s not really an even trade. Does Wilder…feel sorry for me? Is that why he offered to be my fake date for the Christmas Eve wedding? Maybe I can subtly determine an answer to that question tonight.

“Besides, I have loans to pay off, a dream I’m saving up for, and a job I like. I’m not interested in dating my boss,” I finish, back on the topic. “I’m not really even interested in dating, given how my last relationship ended.”

“All that may be true but he wouldn’t want to spend all this time with you if he didn’t enjoy your company.”

I hold out my hands, confused. “What does that have to do with what to wear?”

She cups her mouth and raises her voice. “Get out of the fancy business-lady skirt and put on a short skirt and some cute boots. Dress like you. Be you.”

And…she’s really, truly, absolutely right. I’m faking being a girlfriend. I don’t want to fake being me.

Taking her advice, I hustle to my bedroom and grab a short white skirt and a pair of cute, lace-up ankle boots. “By the way,” Josie calls out, “I finally got us into that paint-and-sip class.”

“Ooh! The one with the teacher who can supposedly teach us talent-less painters to paint anything?” I’ve been dying to take one of Rana’s classes. Maeve loves her.

“Yes. I had to sell both kidneys, but it’s worth it. Her classes are booked for months. Rana had just enough room for the four of us.”

“Perfect. Your kidneys will go to a good cause,” I say.

I grab a necklace I designed from my jewelry case—silver, with a pair of bells on it. I return to the living room and hold my arms out wide.

“Yes,” she says, clapping like she’s in the audience at a Broadway musical. “You look like you. A fun, bold, confident designer. Now go.”

I leave, but I don’t let myself think Wilder asked me out for any other reason than I was in the right place at the right time.

But the ice cream was really good.