My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 12

Fable

Women can’t survive shower planning solo. It’s a special kind of task that requires not one, not two, but three girlfriends for support. The next night I call on Josie, Maeve, and Everly, assembling them in our favorite bookstore. An Open Book on Fillmore Street officially wins all the Christmas competitions in the world because its window display is made of—wait for it—a stack of books, forming a tree, and covered in lights.

The tree topper is none other than my friend Hazel Valentine’s newest romance novel. I’m so proud of her, even though I really wanted her to name it Christmas is Coming. She said retailers might replace that a tad too racy, so she opted for The Twelve Hate Dates of the Holidays, which works since it’s an enemies-to-lovers romance, obviously.

I push open the door, and the bell jingles. The store is warm and cozy, with an electric fireplace crackling and stockings hung from the mantel, each stuffed with books. I walk past the displays to the café, where I replace my three friends poring over a coffee table book about Paris.

“I want to go there. And get lost in a library,” Josie says, with a happy sigh as she points to a full-page image of a cobblestone street in front of, naturally, a bibliothèque.

“You know Wesley will take you. And when the hockey season’s over, maybe I can convince Max to take me there too,” Everly seconds. She started seeing the goalie for one of the city’s hockey teams, and he worships the ground she walks on.

“I just want to go there and paint,” Maeve says, wistful in her own way.

My heart squeezes with happiness for my two paired-up friends and their happily ever afters. But that feeling is chased by a tiny bit of jealousy. What would it be like to feel the way they do? Wildly content. Joyful, even, with their partners.

I’ve always wanted a big love—even in spite of what I saw in front of me growing up. Each time I went on a date with someone from an app, from a setup, from anywhere, I believed in the possibility of big love. Hoped for it.

Do I still believe in a happily ever after? Hard to say given my track record, and certainly a fake romance won’t help my cause.

But a smile tugs at my lips as I think about last night. It was the best date I’ve had in ages. Too bad it wasn’t real.

I head to the table. “Should we hold the shower in Paris? It’s not a bad idea,” I announce cheerily, shoving my romantic woes into a corner.

Josie looks up, her eyes alight with approval. “I’m not saying no to that.”

Maeve nods vigorously. “Maybe Charlotte could have her wedding there. Yes, convince your sister to get hitched in Paris on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, sure. No problem. She’s only wanted a small town, snowy wedding her whole life, but I’ll see what I can do.” I sit, unwinding my scarf.

“Does that mean we need to order a snow machine if it doesn’t snow in Evergreen Falls?” Everly asks dryly.

“You know what? I think we do,” I say.

Josie chuckles. “From what you’ve told us, I bet Leo would be all over that for Charlotte.”

My heart goes soft once again. That’s another happily ever after too. “He’d do anything for her.”

And I try not to feel an ounce of envy for his over-the-top love of my sister. I’m happy for them. Truly, I am.

Besides, it’s not like I’m even on the romance market right now anyway. I’m on the sidelines this holiday season for all intents and purposes and that’s fine. Just fine. I had a taste of a great date, and that’s enough.

I get down to business. “So, she wants a brunch next weekend. Co-ed of course. And casual. She has a restaurant already booked, so all we have to do is plan some fun games.”

Josie nods sagely. “Planning games is my middle name.”

“Planning anything is,” Everly says, correcting Josie.

Maeve holds up one finger, stop-the-clock style. “But, more important, have you all gotten your sequin shorts for the bachelorette party?”

“Does Santa wear a suit?” I ask in faux indignation. “But of course I did.”

We get to work planning all the things. When we’re done, Maeve bats her hazel eyes at me. “So, how is it dating Wilder Blaine?”

I give her a look, then hiss out in a low voice, “It’s fake, Maeve. And you know it.”

She gives an over-the-top nod. “Right. Of course.”

“Maeve,” I warn her.

“But really, I mean it. How is it fake dating the man?”

I flash back to dinner last night, and how I felt when I walked into Dahlia’s and saw Wilder at the table waiting, his emerald eyes locked on me as I walked to the table. The way my chest flipped. How I felt a little fizzy.

“Perfectly fake,” I say, and I hate lying to my friends.

They’re my people. I trust them with my life. They’d bury bodies for me. But this is merely attraction for him, and nothing—not a damn thing—will come of it.

But there’s a problem. A big problem. And it’s not the stuffed Santa butt that’s sticking out of the box I’m lugging down the corridor of the Renegades stadium late on Monday morning.

It’s the wedding shower this coming weekend.

“The café fell through and every place I called is booked!”

Charlotte is freaking out as we talk on the phone while I make my way to the flagship team store, lugging a canvas bag of decorating supplies and a box full of pink shirts I designed before the start of the season—shirts we can barely keep in stock, but I just got a new shipment, so I’m hustling my way to unload them before I go to this meeting with Wilder.

I hoist the box higher and focus on Charlotte. “Why are you doing this?” My sister’s not the one who should be taking all this on. As the maid of honor, I should be organizing the venue. “I’ll make some calls. I’ll try Happy Cow, Morning Glow, Green Pantry…” Any of these brunch places would be perfect for a shower.

“I tried them already! Booked! All of those. With Christmas brunches. Hanukkah lunches. Holiday coffees,” she says, and I’m pretty sure the players on the practice field can hear her desperation. “And I would do it at our place but⁠—”

“But you’re having the guest bathroom redone,” I finish. It’s been vexing her for some time. The prior owners of Charlotte and Leo’s new townhouse had inexplicably covered the bathroom in wallpaper featuring illustrations of couples on sex swings. Charlotte’s replacing it with a tasteful, yet cheeky, flamingo print.

“But they can just use our bathroom, I suppose,” she says, talking herself down. She’s nothing if not rational, even when she’s careening toward an official bride freak-out. “It’s fine,” she says. “No big deal. There’s no reason guests can’t use the en suite.”

I frown as I near a hallway that leads to the practice field. “First of all, weird. No one wants to walk through your bedroom to use your bathroom, and you don’t want that either. Two, you’re not going to host your own wedding shower.” I catch a familiar figure coming toward me down the hall, dressed for practice, helmet in hand. It’s a short week, and Carter, my friend Rachel’s husband, is heading to the field for a light practice. I wave at him with my free hand while I reassure Charlotte, “I’ll replace a place, so stop. Just stop. I can handle this.”

Carter pauses beside me, eavesdropping. Pointing to the phone, he mouths, “Need a place for something? You can use our house.”

I tell Charlotte to hold on a sec. “You’re sweet to offer…”

Before he can answer—before I’ve finished my sentence—a familiar voice cuts in.

“I’ve got this.”

Deep, rich, warm…I spin around, and my heart flutters to see Wilder walking up behind me. Maybe he came down the other hallway.

I look away to hurriedly finish the call. “I’ll call you back, Charlotte. And I will replace a place. I promise.”

“Thank you,” she says fervently. “You’re the best.”

Hanging up, I look at the two men. I’m a little confused, but I’m grateful. “That’s nice of both of you,” I say.

“Yes, thank you, Carter,” Wilder says to his star player. “But if this is about the wedding shower, I have it under control.”

“No problem, Mr. Blaine,” Carter says. The man is technically his boss too.

Wilder chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s Wilder,” he says, clearly not for the first time.

Carter nods and turns toward the exit. “Right, Mr. Blaine.”

As he heads to the field, I look at the team owner in a three-piece suit. No jacket though. He’s just wearing charcoal slacks, a butter yellow dress shirt, and—holy shit—a vest.

My chest heats up. Why are vests so hot? I don’t even know. It could be the way they hug a man’s waist. Or how they accentuate his pecs. Or maybe it’s just the promise of buttons.

Of undoing them, nice and slow.

“Is this for the shower this Sunday?” Wilder repeats.

Right. Yes. The shower. Not the great unbuttoning. “Yes.”

“Leo texted me,” Wilder explains. “He asked if I knew a place.”

“Wait. Let me guess. You own some brunch spots too,” I tease, adjusting the box under my arm. “On top of your cabins, the golf course, your clean energy businesses, and all your Vegas hotels.”

He smirks. “You forgot I have a hotel here in San Francisco too.”

“I didn’t forget.” The Resort is where I ran into him that fateful night over a year ago with my friends. “I hear that place is supposed to be real swanky. Someone keeps telling me to stay there.”

He gives a hint of a smile. “You should try it for yourself sometime. See if you agree.”

“If you insist,” I say, then focus on practical matters. “So, is that where the shower would be?”

Wilder takes a beat, those green eyes glinting. “Actually, I thought…I could host it at my home.”

My breath catches. His home. “That’s so nice of you.” The words aren’t rote or empty. It is remarkably kind of him to offer his house, which must be amazing.

“Thank you.” He steps a little closer, his snow and forest scent tickling my nose. He lowers his voice like we’re keeping a secret, and I suppose we are. “But as the best man and maid of honor, wouldn’t it make the most sense if we host it together?”

I hadn’t even thought of that. But for appearances, that makes sense. “Sure. Yes. Of course.”

I’m gobsmacked already, and I haven’t even seen his house. Is pre-gobsmacked a thing? If so, I’m feeling it.

“It’ll be like practice for the Christmas competition, and why not give ourselves the home-field advantage?” Damn, his strategic mind is hot.

“Yes. That’s so wonderful of you.”

“Of us, Fable,” he corrects. His warmth makes it clear that this offer should seem like our idea as a couple. His gaze lingers on me, and I feel unmoored. “Would you like to let her know?”

My heart is beating faster than usual. “Yes. I will.”

“And maybe you could come over in advance?”

“To help you get ready?”

He laughs, but not at me. More with me as he shakes his head. “No. Because it wouldn’t make sense if you’re seeing my home for the first time when everyone else is. You should know where things are, like the library. The movie room. The bathroom…”

“The bedroom,” I say on a breath, and the word seems to linger between us. What is Wilder’s bedroom like? I picture a huge bed, soft covers, elegance, and masculinity. And I’m desperate to see it.

“Right. Exactly. All the rooms.” Wilder nods, businesslike—just like I should be. “I’ll text you, and we’ll replace a time before the party that works for both of us.”

There’s silence for a few seconds. It’s clear this conversation is over, but he doesn’t make a move to go. I don’t want to end the interlude, either, so I think of something to say. “Also, thank you again for the socks.”

I texted him my thanks yesterday, but it’s worth saying them again in person.

“Are you enjoying them?”

“I slept in them last night,” I say.

He blinks, then he reaches for the box in my arms. “I’ll carry that for you.” He takes the carton of shirts, glancing inside, and his brows climb skyward. He peers at the stuffed rear end of jolly old St. Nick in confusion then turns to me. “Are we selling Santa’s ass at the team store?”

I smile like the Mona Lisa. “Don’t you worry about Santa’s butt, sugar plum.”

As he walks with me to the team store, a smile of dawning realization spreads, slow and steady, across his handsome face. “I see where this is going, Fable.”

“Of course you do.”

Placing the box of pink shirts on the counter, Wilder moves one hand to brush my shoulder, like a boyfriend saying goodbye. My shoulder likes his hand very much. So much that I don’t move. I just…savor the touch.

When he lets go, my shoulder misses him.

“I’ll see you at my office in fifteen minutes,” Wilder says. “With Santa’s butt.”

He leaves, and I reach into the box, grab the stuffed butt, and drop it into my canvas bag without looking.

Because I’m not thinking of Santa’s rear end. I’m checking out my fake boyfriend’s ass…the whole time he’s walking away.