My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 19

Wilder

“I don’t know why you think it was me,” Mac says dryly—too dryly—after she spits out her toothpaste that night.

I lean against the bathroom door, arms crossed, shaking my head. I will get her to break. It’ll just take a little more time. “I can’t imagine.”

As she sets her toothbrush in the holder, she shrugs nonchalantly. “I mean, do I look like the sneaky type?”

With her blonde hair in a braid, and her too-big eyes, she’s the picture of innocence. “You? Not at all.”

“Exactly,” she says, then rinses her mouth with water and spits it out, setting the cup on the vanity like it’s a gavel. “Case closed.”

“Have you considered law?” I ask as she reaches for a towel and wipes her mouth.

“Actually, I have. Environmental law. I think I’d be a good attorney protecting the forest and polar bears.” Her gaze drifts pointedly to her pajamas—they’re covered with cartoon polar bears wearing Santa hats.

“I’d hire you,” I say as we head down the hall to her room.

“I already have my first client, and I haven’t even gone to law school yet.”

“Let alone high school,” I say as she turns into her room and flops down on the bed. Her desk is still a mess, but she helped with the party clean-up, so I table the request to tidy her desk till tomorrow. She grabs a book from the nightstand but doesn’t thrust it at me. “So how was the party?”

She sounds too eager for a report.

I could tell her, but two can play at her game. “Good,” I say evenly, giving nothing away since she gave nothing away when I asked if she’d hung the mistletoe.

“Just good?” Her little voice pitches up.

“Yes, just good.”

She heaves a sigh. “Dad. How could it have been just good?”

I adopt an intensely curious expression. “Why would it have been more than just good? Any reason in particular?”

She rolls her eyes. “Dad!”

“Mac,” I deadpan.

She drops her head into her hand, then mutters, “Fine. I hung the mistletoe.” She lifts her face, scowling. “There. Are you happy?”

“Very much so.”

“Now tell me. Was the party good? Did the mistletoe work?”

“Now you tell me. Why did you hang it?”

She pushes up on her elbows. “Because you’re fake dating,” she says, so amusingly impatient that I nearly double over in laughter. “And you want it to be believable. Couples kiss under the mistletoe all the time. I know the drill. I’ve seen the movies. Now, did it work?”

Too well.

But I won’t tell her that. I won’t tell a soul that Fable’s kiss is playing on an endless loop in my head and it will be for days. I won’t utter a word that Fable’s scent—strawberries and champagne—is branded in my mind, and the soft, sweet taste of her lips is intoxicating me hours later. That if our first practice kiss in my office did a number on me, this one will be my downfall.

“It worked to help sell the romance,” I say since that’s true, and since my kid is damn good at being a sidekick.

“Good.” Then she pats my arm. “I know you didn’t want Bibi to set you up. So I want this to work for you.” She pauses, brow knitting, cogs turning. “And I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” I say, trying to figure out if there’s more to her sidekicking than meets the eye.

“You’re happy with work and me,” she says, then curls her hands tighter around the covers, “but maybe the mistletoe made you happy too?”

Ah, hell. I can’t let her get ideas. Even if her mistletoe was strategic, I can hear the little bit of hope in her young voice. Mac is eleven. She’s sharp as a tack and more clever than a book. I could see her engineering a romance even out of a fake one.

But that’s not in the cards. Love is for other people. It’s for people who don’t have trust issues a mile long. And I could never trust a fake romance. For a romance to truly work, it needs a solid foundation—not one built on a game of trickery. This is a fun, intoxicating, wildly addictive game, but a game, nonetheless. Hell, I couldn’t even make a romance work with the mother of my child. And she’s a kind, warm, thoughtful person. Clearly, I’m not cut out for big love. Best to remind my daughter of the score. “It’s a fake romance, Mac. That’s all,” I say, letting her down gently.

“Okay.” For a second, she looks sad, but she seems to dismiss the emotion quickly as she hands me the book. “Let’s read.”

I read to her for a long time. Finally, she yawns. Her eyes flutter closed as she murmurs, “So the party was more than good.”

She sounds as satisfied as Penguin rubbing against my leg. I ruffle her hair and say yes, but she’s already asleep.

I head for my home office and do some work, stealing glances at my phone. The third time I do it, it hits me why—I’m hoping Fable texts.

But I don’t even know what I want her to say. I can’t stop thinking about the kiss?

Well, yeah.

I sigh in frustration—with myself. Then I stare out the window over the city, festive lights twinkling in red and white on the houses in Cow Hollow, the Presidio, and the Marina, up to the ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge. A pang digs into my chest. Too bad it’s not snowing. It hardly ever snows here. But if it did, I’d bring Fable to my office and we’d gaze at the view, the flakes falling, making the whole world hush. Then, I’d tug her against me and kiss her until her fingers roped through my hair and she begged for more.

And on that note…I shake off the fantasy.

Annoyed that I let my mind wander that far, I dive back into this report. A few minutes later, my phone buzzes. Maybe it’s her.

Take it slow, man. Don’t be all over it.

But I don’t listen. I grab the device, hope jumping inside me until I click on my texts.

My shoulders sink. Yes, of course I sent it to Mom. I sent it to him, too, just to be a good son. But I’m not irritated with him this time. I’m irritated with myself for wishing the text was from Fable.

But did he? He was hardly around. He was always off at the tables, gambling, trying to win the big one. He was wandering into casinos, casing out private poker parties, hunting for a score. Mom was the parent who was around every morning, every evening. She was there for my sister and me. And the three of us were left to pick up the pieces he left behind. Broken, dirty pieces.

I send the text even though I don’t entirely mean it. But my mom raised me to be polite, so there’s that. Then, I pick up the phone and call my sister, chatting with her about her kids, her holiday plans, and what we can do for Mom for Christmas when she arrives in Evergreen Falls. “It’ll be a fight to the death to see whose team she plays on,” I say.

“Because she’s your secret weapon. She’s as cutthroat as you are,” Caroline says.

“Ouch.”

“The truth hurts,” she teases, but it’s not a joke. I am cutthroat. Am I that way with romance too?

I dismiss that thought because it’s good to have standards.

“I’ll survive your arrows,” I say dryly.

“Of course you will. Nothing gets to you.”

What the hell? Is it pile-on-Wilder night? “Do you think I’m a robot?”

She laughs. “I think you’re a badass,” she says, then shifts topics. “And how’s your girlfriend?”

“She’s great,” I say, maybe too easily.

“Good. Because if she’s not, she’ll have me to answer to. Also, I seriously can’t believe you started dating someone right when I was going to introduce you to my friend Claudia. She runs a horse therapy farm, and she loves football.” So much for not introducing me. She’s teeing me up for the next match when this one ends.

And it will. But I don’t want to think about that yet.

“Believe it,” I say, and at least it’s true enough through Christmas.

“And now, I am ready to be fabulous,” Bibi calls from the kitchen the next morning, having replenished her coffee in her travel mug.

“You’re always fabulous, Bibi,” Mac says as she holds the door open. The three of us leave my home, taking off for Bibi’s limo.

Once in the car, my aunt sips her morning fuel and adjusts her hat. Today’s installment of the twenty-five hats of Christmas is a red baseball cap with a pom-pom on top. “So, how was the shower?” she asks casually.

“It was fine.” I can’t get all hearts and fluttery and tell her that it was wonderful and that spending time with Fable is too good, too fun, too fantastic. Sure, it would help keep up the ruse, but I don’t want to give Mac any ideas, and I’ve got a full day ahead. I can’t walk into the office like a cartoon version of me. I don’t want to linger in memories of kisses that felt all too real.

This is why nothing can come of this dangerous attraction. I can’t even trust our fake real kisses. My head hurts just trying to untangle if they’re authentic or not.

“Did you have a nice time with Fable?” Bibi asks.

“I did,” I say, again keeping my answers simple, remembering the rules Fable and I set last week—People get busted when they try too hard to sell something.

Bibi smiles. “Good. It’s good to see you dating.”

Yes! Even if she’s not responsible for the pairing, Bibi seems pleased I’m paired. That’s a relief. I’ve succeeded in avoiding her holiday romance machinations so far. Shay’s and Caroline’s too. I just need to keep it up a little longer.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying my love life,” I say dryly as the car weaves through Monday morning traffic en route to Abernathy School.

Bibi takes another drink and crosses her legs. “I am. Especially since you’ll bring her to the team party this week, right?”

I sit up straighter. Blink. Wait. “What? We’re not having one this year. The staff voted to donate the money we’d spend on a party to charity.”

“Wild child,” she chides. “I know that. I don’t mean the staff party. I mean the fancy team holiday party—the one for all our sponsors and corporate partners. It’s Thursday night at your own hotel. Did you forget?”

I did.

I fucking did. Because I’ve spent the last week thinking of that kiss, and that wedding shower, and showing up for Fable and being the best damn fake boyfriend I could be so Brady would know he was a stupid jackass to do wrong by the best woman ever. So, yeah. Maybe I nearly forgot the party.

Okay, correction: I couldn’t possibly forget the annual holiday party for the football team I own—the one where we make the sponsors happy by giving them a chance to fanboy with the players. But yes, I absolutely forgot that, of course, I should bring my girlfriend to that fete.

There’s only one problem—I haven’t asked her yet. Is she even free? My chest tightens, and I’m about to improvise when Mac tilts her head and smiles Bibi’s way. “Dad didn’t forget. He just mentioned it this morning,” Mac says about as subtly as a kick under the table. “Right?” she prompts. “We talked about it at breakfast.”

“We did.”

“And weren’t you mentioning it to Fable yesterday? She said something about needing a new dress. I hope she has time to shop.” Mac smiles serenely. She is the greatest sidekick ever.

“Yes. I hope she does too,” I say.

“I’ll make sure the party organizer knows you have a plus one then,” Bibi says.

After we drop off Mac, I send Fable a text.