My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 16

Wilder

The number of men here in undershirts with smudge on their faces is…well, there are too many. At least that’s better than adults in bunny jammies.

“Grown men in jammies,” I say to Leo. Leaning against the kitchen counter, we watch the guests drink mimosas and discuss their costumes. “Things that should not be allowed in public.”

“Even for a Christmas costume party, jammies are too much. Also, I don’t like the word jammies.”

I laugh. “So don’t use it.”

“That’s it. Done. Never saying it again.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Besides, Ralphie detested the pink bunny pajamas made famous in A Christmas Story. Memorializing the kid’s humiliation, even a fictional kid…?

“That’s just wrong,” I say, nodding to the not one but two guys dressed in pink flannel.

Leo tips his chin toward a man in a Scrooge costume—a nightshirt and a robe. “Another costume that’s an excuse to wear pjs to a party. Wrong too.” He turns to me. “Does that make us scrooges?”

“If we are, I’ll die on Scrooge Hill. You shouldn’t wear slippers, bathrobes, or pajamas out of the house. Or to someone else’s house. It defeats the basic premise and promise of pajamas,” I say, then eye Leo’s getup—John McClane, AKA Bruce WiIlis’s character from Die Hard, in the classic tank top. “But you’re okay.”

Leo gestures to his action hero attire. “It was either this or Elf.”

“And you picked McClane because you don’t look good in tights?” I ask, with a straight face.

He laughs. “Man, I’m not sure anyone does,” he says as my gaze strays again to the door. It’s been doing that often as I await the inevitable.

The arrival of the jackass ex.

As if the alarm system read my mind, the panel by the door buzzes. Leo and I head to the foyer and check the screen. I grit my teeth at the sight of Brady, but I let him in, anyway. He strides inside and—that’s his costume?

Of course that’s his costume, glasses and all. It’s so fitting.

“Leo, my man!” he says. I think I detect a British accent. Or really, Brady’s attempt at a British accent? Guess he’s committed to his character. “Are you counting down the last days of bachelorhood?”

Leo laughs, shaking his head. “More like counting down to the most wonderful day of all.”

“Right, right,” Brady says, all jovial and cousin-y.

It takes every ounce of restraint not to give him a piece of my mind. I know what he did. And he’s scum. He hurt Fable.

There’s also part of me that’s keenly aware that if she hadn’t walked in on him, we might not be faking it. And so far, this fake romance is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

Leo tips his forehead toward the living room. “Better join my sexy Mean Girl,” he says and makes his way toward Charlotte. She’s wearing a short red dress and a Santa cap like, I brilliantly deduce, a character in that movie wore. Or characters, since Josie and Maeve are dressed the same, which would never happen by accident. Everly’s here too, but she’s in a red cape over a black-and-white dress. I don’t recognize her costume either.

Brady turns to me, slugging my biceps, and goes back to his normal accent. “So I hear you and I both have good taste.”

I stare at him blankly. “What do you mean?” To be clear, I know what he means. I just can’t believe he’s going there, and my feigned confusion keeps me from throttling him. But, oh, how I want to.

“Dude. I hear you picked up my former girlfriend.” He wiggles his brow as he elbows me. “Good on you.”

If he weren’t my best friend’s cousin, I’d go to jail tonight for pummeling the smirk from his face.

Or not. That’s only an impulse and not how I do business. I play chess all day. No one can devise a sharper strategy. This asshole does not know who he’s dealing with.

I open by moving a pawn, remembering his offer the last time I saw him. “So, back at Thanksgiving, you wanted to see if you could manage my funds.”

The look on his face is Christmas morning joy. “Yes. You gave me that noted, and I’ve been jonesing to talk to you more about it.”

While the other guests discuss dresses and bouquets, string quartets and deejays, Brady blathers on about how I should invest in tech. Really? Tell me more. I try to give him the same courtesy I’d give anyone who came to my office.

Focus.

Well, I don’t give audiences to men who cross the woman I’m a little obsessed with.

When he’s done, I nod, soberly absorbing all that keen insight while I move my final piece toward checkmate.

I didn’t invite his insight or actually say I wanted to hear more. I just needed to let him run on until I was ready to close the conversation, which I do now with finality.

“Thanks for all that insight. And I didn’t have a chance to tell you then because Leo had just proposed to Charlotte.” I pause, clap his shoulder like a good old sport, and relish this moment. “But I’m all set on the portfolio front. Such a shame we can’t work together.”

Then I leave him, and I head to join my fake girlfriend in the living room.

A small victory is still a victory.

“No is just the first stop on the road to yes!” Brady calls after me with a good one, pal chuckle. “I’ll convince you over Christmas, Wilder. Mark my words.”

This guy is relentless. For now, though, I ignore him.

When I reach Fable, I don’t hesitate to wrap an arm around her waist, to lean closer, to sweep her hair away from her neck.

I don’t check to see if the jackass is looking or worry that he’ll see through the ruse. Because nothing’s fake when she leans into me, her scent tickling my nose, her nearness frying my brain. Turning closer, she whispers, “You’re good at that, sugar plum. No one can tell.”

Yes, I am good at this, and I don’t want to stop. Reluctantly, I break away from the private moment and focus on the party, on being a good host. All my attention goes to the guests.

Right until Fable heads to the kitchen and Brady follows her.