My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 24

Fable

Well, then. “Santa Blaine is in the car,” I say.

His lips curve up the slightest bit—a tease of a smile. “It seemed…on brand for us,” he says evenly, an explanation even though he doesn’t need to justify his list. “A naughty and nice game.”

But because I can’t seem to resist teasing him, I add, “And if I’m a good girl, will I get an extra present?”

He flashes me a quick glance as we near the Golden Gate Bridge. Correction: a quick, stern glance. “Ah Fable, you’d have to be an extra good girl to get an extra present,” he says, like a command.

I sit up straighter in the seat. “I can be very, very good,” I say, obedient. Then I arch a brow his way. “I promise.”

He breathes out roughly, like he’s enjoyed those words from me—the promise of them. But maybe that’s just part of this fake dating game, just like I’m into his naughty and nice list because I like a little competition. That’s all.

“What do you want for Christmas then?” he asks, his tone genuine.

I wasn’t expecting him to ask me that. My eyes slice to the rust-colored suspension bridge, a beautiful beast rising over the water. “The Golden Gate Bridge. In a snow globe,” I say, just for fun. And just in case he really does get me something, and I bet he will, since that’s so very him, a snow globe is an affordable gift.

“Then if you’re a good girl, Santa will make sure you have it.”

His voice is deep, hot, a little raspy. It sends a thrum through me. And I need a moment to get my bearings before I respond, “Then I’d better make sure I’m on the nice list.”

“Yes. That’s where you’ll want to be.”

My pulse beats a little faster. I take a long breath to calm down. Refocus. “So, this list. It’s designed to keep us on track in the romance department?”

“Yes, because a close call is too risky,” he says, and I want to tease him a little about the structured nature of his list, but the fact is, he’s right. We’re not simply dipping our toes into the fake dating kiddy pool at the Evergreen Falls Annual Best in Snow Winter Games Competition. After our two public appearances at parties already, we’re definitely a “thing” now. We need to be that thing for the next five days until Christmas since we’ll be in Evergreen Falls through then.

“I agree,” I say.

“If Bibi sniffs us out, that’ll be bad. She’ll have my head. Plus, my mother is coming,” he says.

“From London?” I squeak. I don’t know why this surprises me. Of course it makes sense that his mother would return from London. I just hadn’t thought about her. She has strong Libra energy, he told me at dinner. She’s into the zodiac signs and art and her granddaughter. But that’s all I really know.

“Yes. She’ll be there on the twenty-third,” he says, but his jaw ticks. Like he’s a little uncomfortable. “She’s…very astute.”

My stomach churns. She’s his mom, and moms always know what’s up. Guilt stabs at me. “Wilder,” I say, softly.

“Yes, little elf?” It’s a silly name, but he says it without an ounce of sarcasm. I suspect he’s using it to stay in character.

“Are we going too far? Lying to your mother?”

He seems to give that some thought for a minute. He’s weighing it, I can tell. “It’ll be fine,” he assures me, but that’s not the issue. The issue is I know how he cares about her. Of course he cares about Bibi too, but Bibi can be pushy. From what he’s told me, his mother is not.

“We can tell her,” I offer.

He snaps his gaze quickly to me. “Fable.”

“I mean it. Mac knows. I don’t want you to have to lie to your mother. Clearly you don’t want to.”

“She’ll understand,” he says.

He’s ready to move on. But I can’t leave it alone. “Understand that we’re faking it? Or understand why we didn’t tell her? I don’t want you to have to do something you don’t want to do.”

I feel like I’m imploring him. But this whole fake dating scheme was my idea in the first place. Yes, he went along with it. Yes, it benefits him. But I know he adores his mother, and I don’t want him to struggle with the guilt I feel over not telling Charlotte.

Briefly, he looks away from the road, his gaze softer, but determination still in his eyes. “I appreciate your concern. Truly, I do. But she knows what her sister is like. She knows what my sister is like. She understands the necessity.” He takes a beat then moves on. “But I don’t want to focus on me. I want to focus on the bigger issue—the man who’s determined to beat us. The man who wants to show off his new girlfriend in front of you. The man who thinks he knows how to treat a woman,” he bites out. “I won’t let him hurt you. But if Brady replaces out,” he says, and the sound he makes is downright feral. It’s a growl, low in his throat. I’m not at all sure what that’s about, but it’s sexy as hell. “He’d seize that opportunity and use it…to gloat.”

Shame crashes into me as I think about the man I mistakenly thought cared about me. For the four months we dated, I believed we were going somewhere. I genuinely liked him. He seemed fun, friendly, eager to please. And, he was eager to please—another woman.

That massive fail in my romance picker is Reminder Number One why I need to be careful with my heart. Why my caution with emotions is a damn good idea. The more I let people in, the more they can hurt me. I shared my hopes and dreams with Brady. I told him about my friends, and how important Josie, Everly, and Maeve were to me. I told him about my desire to open a shop of my own someday. I told him, too, that I was scared.

A lot of good that did.

I grit my teeth, fighting off a wave of tightness in my throat, the threat of tears over my own foolishness.

But I don’t linger too long in this emotion, since Wilder adds, “And I refuse to let him do that—gloat.” It’s said with steel as we wind past the craggy cliffs of the Marin Headlands. His hands grip the wheel tighter. His knuckles are almost white. His reaction to Brady is so intense. No man’s ever reacted that way because of me. I’m not sure what to make of it, but it’s oddly thrilling. Maybe even more so than the double dose of Os he gave me earlier in the week.

“Thank you,” I say, kind of amazed he cares this much about my feelings. It’s new and different.

“It’s your sister’s wedding. I don’t want her or you to worry about a thing. I want you to be able to celebrate your sister like I know you want to.”

My chest squeezes with brand-new emotions. Warm, soft ones. Tender ones. “That means a lot to me.”

“Leo adores her. They’re the real thing,” he says almost solemnly, with heartfelt admiration for the two of them.

“They are.”

“That’s why we need to pull this off. If we make a mistake, and Brady replaces out that our romance isn’t real, he will be a dog with a bone. He will never let it go. I can’t have that happen during this special time for your sister. And you. Is that clear?”

Boardroom Boss is absolutely in the car, and I am into it. I love that he wants this to go off without a hitch not simply for himself, but for me and for my sister. His passion is addictive.

“Yes. So how does the list work?”

As we cruise along the highway past Corte Madera, he goes into detail. “At the team party, we made a tactical error by being too over the top with our…affection.”

Ironic, considering we crossed all kinds of affectionate lines already. But there’s a difference between stolen touches behind closed doors and public displays of affection. “Now that the competition is beginning and we’re all in close quarters, we need to come across as real and authentic. We need to sell it less and be it more. First, I suggest we dial back the nicknames, to ‘honey’ perhaps instead of ‘little elf’ all the time. To ‘sweetheart’ or ‘sweetie’ instead of ‘sugar plum.’”

That makes sense. I can see his point. “Simpler names. More believable ones,” I say, then get started right away with a purposeful, “sweetie.”

“Thank you, honey.” He flicks the turn signal and hops into the next lane before he adds, “Along those lines, here’s how I see the game working. There will be plenty of activities in the common area for the cabins. So obviously, when we’re with others and anytime there is some sort of over-the-top gesture from you or from me, we get to call the other one on it.”

“It’s like a game within a game? I am definitely here for that. So what do you have in mind? If I squeeze your ass too hard do I have to make you Christmas cookies?”

A laugh falls from his lips. “As a matter of fact that sounds like a perfect consequence. I might be rooting for us to fail then.”

“Nah. You’d never root for that. Even if you like cookies and cheek squeezes.”

He laughs. “True. Very true. Here’s another. If you tell a ridiculous story about me that feels unbelievable, I get two hours to relax in front of the fireplace.”

He deserves time to relax. I almost want to tell a silly story to give him that moment. But I wouldn’t sabotage us. “Fair. And if you call me by a nickname that is certifiably sickeningly cutesy, I get a massage. I do love massages,” I say, wiggling in the seat and saying deeply, in pre-appreciation for a massage, “I don’t get nearly enough spa days. I wouldn’t mind more of them.”

“I should replace a spot to send you to if that happens. In Evergreen Falls?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second, looking at me like maybe he’d rather not send me to a spa—that he’d rather touch me himself.

My breath catches unexpectedly from his gaze. “Unless you’re offering,” I say before I even have a chance to think about the temptation of those words. “You are good with your hands.”

He growls, low and rumbly, deep in his throat. Perhaps that was too risqué, especially since we agreed what happened on his desk was a momentary lapse of reason. A one-time practice.

His voice lowers to a smokier tone. “And I like using them…on you.”

My skin tingles. I might like this naughty or nice list too much. “Now I kind of want you to call me a nickname that’s sickeningly cute,” I say, a little tease in my tone, like a sexy invitation.

He’s quiet. Focusing dead straight on the road. His hands grip the wheel tighter as if he’s fighting off the urge to say me too.

Or maybe I’m imagining that’s the battle he’s waging.

For a few miles we’re silent, perhaps both processing the list. What it means to be naughty and nice together. What it means to be over the top in a fake relationship and what it means to be real.

Perhaps, most of all, what it means to break the rules we’ve set for ourselves—a momentary lapse of reason.

Which raises a question. “What if we’re just good at it? What if we’re believable and authentic? Can I still make you a hot cocoa?” I ask.

He steals a glance my way as we pass the rolling green hills of Novato. “I would love that,” he says, so earnestly it makes my heart go soft.

I give in to another impulse, this one to set a hand on his arm. “You probably haven’t had one since last Christmas.”

“That’s true.”

“Then maybe that should be an addendum to our naughty and nice list. If we’re believable—truly believable—we’ll have hot cocoa together some night just like you wanted.”

“That sounds nice too,” he says, like he’s fighting to keep the vulnerability out of his voice—fighting but failing. I hate that he feels he can’t be vulnerable with me.

If we weren’t driving, I might scoot closer, rest my head on his shoulder. Instead, I lift my hand and gently run it across the hair just above his ear. “Does that feel real?”

He shudders. Subtly, but still, it’s there. “Yes,” he admits.

I shouldn’t do this while he’s driving. I really shouldn’t. I’m not even sure if it’s the competition spurring me on or something else entirely. Something I’m just beginning to grapple with. But I do it anyway. I set my hand on his arm, giving a gentle rub of his shoulder. “How about that?”

“Real,” he mutters, his jaw tight.

I move my hand on the denim of his jeans, just above his knee. Like a girlfriend would. “Authentic?”

He takes a beat for a quarter-mile stretch of the road. Then, he says in a barren whisper, “Perfect.”

I’m tempted to leave my hand right here for the rest of the drive—for authenticity’s sake and all—but when his phone rings and the name Mom flashes across the screen, I rip my hand off him.