My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 17

Fable

Brady is Alan Rickman from Love Actually because only a person with zero self awareness would pick that character. The cheater. The Alan Rickman who broke all our hearts in his square glasses, a thin black scarf, and a black jacket. The Alan Rickman who got Emma Thompson a Joni Mitchell CD instead of the necklace she deserved. The most hated character in Christmas cinema.

I want to kick him in the knees and watch him fall to the floor. That guilt I felt when I first fibbed to Charlotte about being with Wilder? I don’t feel an ounce of it now. Because of Brady.

Nope. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. Ever.

I’m in the kitchen, freshening up a charcuterie board like a good hostess, when he strides over, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Wow, Fabes,” he says. “I didn’t realize you’d moved on so quickly.”

He’s one to talk. “Quickly?” I whisper-seethe under my breath. “Not any quicker than moving on to someone while still being with someone else.”

The jackass smiles smugly. “I had a feeling it’d be hard for you to see me with Iris. That’s why I didn’t bring her.”

I ignite. Flames roar in every cell in my body. “You didn’t bring her,” I bite out, “because she wasn’t invited. We didn’t invite everyone who’s coming to the wedding.”

He gives a chin nod as he reaches for an olive. “Sure. Right. That’s the reason.”

Why did I ever date him? Was he this odious when I was with him? Please, universe, tell me he was a smidge less odious then.

I draw a deep, centering breath, then move the fuck on. “I’ve always had a thing for Wilder,” I say, arranging the final slice of Gouda as I gaze lovingly at the man across the room, chatting with guests but looking at me with eyes that promise—say the word and I’ll come for you.

I give him a reassuring smile, telling him I’m okay.

A subtle nod comes from him.

Wilder does look seriously handsome as the prime minister—debonair and hot at the same time.

Smart, powerful, and fuckable.

And…where did that come from?

I’ve never thought of him, or anyone as smart, powerful, and fuckable, but now that I’m looking at Wilder, those adjectives go nicely together.

They make it genuinely easy to take my charcuterie board and walk away from Brady without a second thought. I want to sit next to the so very fuckable man who’s my Christmas boyfriend.

Wilder and I sit on the couch with the twenty-or-so guests gathered around. There’s Maeve and Josie, along with my sister. Everly’s here too, her blonde hair in braids since she’s dressed as Cindy-Lou Who. Her boyfriend, Max, is the Grinch. At least, I think he’s the Grinch. A green fluffy collar is his only nod to the costume theme. But that fits—he had a reputation as the league’s grumpiest goalie until Everly, as the team publicist, helped him rehab his image.

Mariah Carey belts out her holiday wishes on a state-of-the-art sound system while we play our wedding shower game—He Said, She Said, Who Did.

Wilder reads from a card. “Who made the first move?” With patient eyes, he looks to the guests.

Josie, Everly, and Maeve shout Leo.

The groom gives a can you blame me smile and then drops a kiss onto my sister’s cheek.

Josie takes the next card and reads, “Who said I love you first?”

We all shout, “Leo.”

Charlotte raises a finger, her candy-red polish shiny under the chandelier. “I said it a second later.” She kisses her groom’s forehead, and Leo smiles dopily.

Max goes next, clearing his throat and reading, “Who, after their first date, said, ‘I met the person I’m going to marry?’”

Everly adds, “Awww. So sweet.”

I snap my gaze toward Wilder, who grins as we shout in unison, “They both did.”

His shoulder slides against mine as we laugh, and a spark shimmies across my neck. I peek at his face and catch a glimpse of his green eyes. They flicker with something playful but soulful too, and then he wraps an arm around me, tugging me close. A tingle slides down my spine then spreads through my whole body, warm and bright.

Across from me, Brady’s chatting amiably with Leo and some of the other guys. Maybe the condescending Sure you moved on comments are finished and we can all have fun and celebrate our friends’ happiness.

I hope so. It’s nice right now with everyone getting along. It’s nice, too, to play pretend with Wilder, like when he held my hand. Like how he’s touching me now.

“We should refill drinks,” I say.

“Good idea.”

He stands, and I follow him, but a high-pitched squeak from my sister stops us before we leave the living room. It’s followed by an excited, “Mistletoe alert!”

She points at us, standing under the archway into the kitchen.

Wilder and I crane our necks in sync.

Directly above us is a sprig of mistletoe. Who hung it? Did Wilder put this here when he and his daughter decorated? Or was this the party planner’s doing?

Who cares? It’s showtime.

The rest of the guests are cheering now, too, chanting, Kiss her. Including my ex.

I suppose it’s a good thing we practiced that kiss in his office. But as I wait to be kissed once more by my smart, powerful, fuckable billionaire fake boyfriend, the run-through seems superfluous. Because my desire is no lie.