My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 30

Fable

The kitchen in the main cabin is quiet. The snow covering the foothills gleams through the windows, shimmering against the inky black sky and the mountains beyond. Everyone’s retreated to their cabins for the night, so it’s just Wilder and me several hours later.

Us and the twinkling lights strewn around the open-plan kitchen, flickering in purples, pinks, blues, and reds as they climb over windows, around doorframes, and along the sliding glass doors leading to the deck.

The snowball fight crew had dinner together at a cute diner on Main Street. I made sure my dad and his newest wife didn’t sit near my mom—or Charlotte. I don’t want my sister exposed to my father’s romance toxicity during this happy time for her. Or his bloviating. I can’t believe he thundered into the competition like a conquering hero.

Typical, though—the man has zero self-awareness—but I put him out of my mind.

With the space to ourselves at last, and the clock ticking close to ten-thirty, it’s time to celebrate the first naughty and nice list accomplishment.

As Wilder walks past me in the kitchen, I catch the faint hint of his cedar and snow cologne, and it makes my chest ache. He reaches into the cupboard for mugs, his cashmere sweater nice and snug on his stretched arm. Does he even own anything for lounging around? Maybe he doesn’t ever relax. I feel underdressed in my leggings and Renegades sweatshirt, but I can’t complain about his attire since that soft gray sweater hugs his strong chest and those jeans fit his toned legs so well.

He hands me a pair of matching Santa Claus mugs, and I thank him.

Even if he doesn’t lounge much, at least he’s indulging in hot cocoa, and I’m glad I can give him that chance since he probably wouldn’t take it otherwise. This man deserves a little treat especially after what he did for me this afternoon in the Evergreen Falls park.

That was simply hot.

After I pour the cocoa, I hand him a mug, then lift my cup high in a victory toast. Hours later, I’m still riding high on the way Wilder absolutely pummeled Brady with a snowball. Did I know that watching my protective pretend billionaire boyfriend pelt the world’s douchiest ex-boyfriend with a snowball would be so satisfying?

I did not, but it was perfection.

We clink ceramic Santa heads. “You earned this thanks to this afternoon’s takedown.” I sip the drink and lick my lips, savoring the sweetness.

He moans in appreciation, a rumbly sound that sends a little charge through me. “Tastes good,” he says in a low voice, and those words rattle my brain a little.

So simple, but so suggestive too. Tastes good.

I hear the echo of what he said this afternoon when he wiped the evidence of my orgasm off his lips—You taste fucking delicious. And I shudder all over again, but the tremble is chased with questions too—like how the hell are we going to handle sleeping in the bed we’re about to share?

Are we even sharing a bed? I don’t think we resolved our couch-bed issue. The only resolution we arrived at is that we both like fighting. Probably because it was foreplay. And I definitely need a distraction from my very naughty and not-at-all nice thoughts.

“Seriously? How awesome are we for that snowball fight?” I try to force my mind away from the sex at hand.

Wilder laughs. “You are shockingly ruthless.”

“I will take that as a compliment. Especially coming from you.”

“You’re a shark, Fable Calloway. And that’s the highest compliment.”

I preen but then turn the praise back on him as I lean against the kitchen counter. “The way you launched a missile at Brady and knocked him down? I didn’t know I needed that in my life, but I’m rating it a ten out of ten.”

For a second his expression shifts, his smile disappearing. Something dark passes over his eyes. A storm cloud? A mood? I’m not sure. Maybe mentioning Brady is the wrong thing. But Wilder seemed excited to wallop him. Rather than wonder, I decide to simply ask. “It seemed like you really enjoyed it too?”

With a lift of his brow, he takes another sip, perhaps considering my question, then sets down the mug on the counter. “I’d be a liar if I said I don’t enjoy besting my enemies. And he’s one of them. Mostly, though, it felt really fucking good to deliver our message, as subtle as it was…” He pauses and levels me with an intense stare as he says, “That he can’t fuck with you.”

I shiver.

That darkness? That mood? It’s his protective side rearing its head again. Wilder is a man of his word. A man who sticks to his guns. A man of pure passion. “You really like doing this to make a point?” I ask, kind of amazed.

His gaze holds mine, long and steady. The air between us is charged. Pulsing even. In the dim light of the kitchen, the world still and quiet, the mountains hugging these cabins, he says, “You have no idea how much I love delivering a message on behalf of the people I care about.”

Those words thrum through my body, a declaration, an anthem.

People he cares about…I’m one of those people. He cares about me. The thought is a little electrifying. I’m not sure what to do with it, so I take another swallow of the chocolaty drink. “As much as you love hot cocoa though?” I ask, feeling a little unmoored with him now. Wobbly even.

He takes another drink from the mug as if to test it, his eyes on me the whole time. “Hard to say. This is really good cocoa.”

He smiles, the easy, sexy kind. My pulse skips. I blink, trying to center myself. To figure out what’s going on tonight, why everything feels hazy, shimmery. “I won’t tell anyone the boss had hot cocoa in his Christmas cabins.”

“You’re going to have to keep all my secrets,” he says.

I can’t resist. Before I can think too long on it, I say, “What other secrets do you have?”

He eyes me up and down with longing in his gaze. “Lots of them, Fable. Lots of them.”

He takes one more drink, then spins around and sets the mug in the sink, his tone businesslike this time as he says, “I should go to bed.”

I—not we.

It’s like something inside him is pulling and tugging, maybe even in opposite directions. I don’t think it’s uncertainty. It’s more like he’s at war with himself. Understandable. I feel that battle too.

“Yes. I should too. Soon though. I’ll, um, give you space,” I add, in case he wants to get ready alone. “Since tomorrow is a big day in the competition.”

That didn’t come out nervous at all.

“Yes, it is.”

Oh! I spin around at the sound of my sister’s voice. I didn’t even hear footsteps, and I feel like I’ve been caught doing something naughty. But you’re allowed to drink hot cocoa in the kitchen at the cabin with your fake boyfriend, aren’t you?

With her blonde hair falling in soft waves down her shoulders, Charlotte’s standing in the doorway, wearing jammies covered in elves.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, all cool and casual, like I’m totally not thinking about banging my hot boss since I should not be thinking about banging my hot boss, even though Charlotte probably thinks I should, and why is my life so complicated right now?

“I was just looking for a midnight snack,” Charlotte says.

“Good evening, Charlotte,” Wilder says with a nod hello, always classy. “I’ll let you two have some time together.”

He retreats, and I watch him go till the scent of cashmere and cologne is gone with him and I miss it.

My heart pangs a little. I was enjoying that time with him.

I try to shake it off, these wants and wishes that have nowhere to go. I turn back to my sister—the reason I’m even here in the first place. I’m about to offer to make her a snack when she gazes at the remains of the hot cocoa on the stove. “That looks good.”

“Does this count as a midnight snack?”

“If it doesn’t, then I don’t know what does. Besides, you’ve always made the best hot cocoa in the world, so…gimme.” She makes grabby hands and I happily pour her some cocoa, then top off mine because why the hell not?

I nod toward the back porch. “Do you want to sit outside and look at the stars?”

She beams. “Like we did when we were kids? Let’s do it.”

A few minutes later we’re curled up in the corner of the outdoor couch, huddled under some blankets we grabbed from the linen closet. I’ve turned on the outdoor heaters and the electric fireplace. It crackles softly and warms us up in the December midnight air.

We reminisce about past holidays. Our favorite Christmas decorations. Some of our best Christmas moments. Some of them involve Mom. Hardly any of them involve Dad. Maybe because both of them were toxic in their own way, which is why I always tried to look out for my sister. To protect her from their warped notions of romance—my dad’s notion that it was okay to cheat and come back, marching into town, bestowing gifts to cover up his sins. My mom’s belief that it’s okay to just keep accepting…less than you deserve.

My sister, though, deserves the best and always has. “What’s your favorite Christmas memory?” I ask.

Charlotte hums, seeming to give that some thought. “Honestly, it’s that you always were so determined to make it amazing. I just wanted a nice holiday that Dad didn’t ruin,” she admits, then lifts her face and meets mine. “You were good at that. You always made sure I had some incredible homemade gift from you. That way if he was up to his usual shenanigans, I didn’t have to think about it.”

I smile at the sweet side of that bittersweet memory. “It was your favorite time of year. I had to make sure you had the best Christmas.”

“Maybe you were the real Santa Claus,” she says with a wistful sigh. “I still have that book you made me about amazing things that happened in the year I was born. And the jigsaw puzzle that you had made from a picture of the two of us.”

“I hope you didn’t keep those hideous matching Christmas pajamas?” I tease. “We took silly pictures all around the neighborhood in them, everywhere from the gas station to the park.” I laugh as I trip back in time. “We always had fun.” I made sure of it.

“And if they’d have a fight you’d take me to your room and we would read or dress up or play board games,” she says.

My heart aches for those little girls. “And none of that spoiled Christmas for you? Their fights?”

She shakes her head. “Even though they were sometimes arguing, you and I always had the best time, no matter what. That’s why it’s such a special holiday for me. That’s why I want to keep that going.”

“You’re making a brand-new memory. You’re getting married on your favorite day.” My heart swells with emotions, but then a wave of guilt crashes over that organ in my chest. I’m glad she has these fond memories, but I’m still keenly aware of the secret I’m keeping from her. Just like Dad kept secrets. But this is a safe secret. A good secret.

She sets her head on my shoulder. “I almost want to speed up time but I’m still cherishing every second. I’m such a cheeseball, Fable.” She lifts her face and meets my gaze, her eyes imploring. “Tell me I’m the biggest cheeseball ever.”

I snort-laugh. “Like there’s any question about that. You’re such a cheeseball but you’re my cheeseball. And I’m so happy that this wedding is everything you want.”

This conversation right here assuages my worries. I know I’m doing the right thing by keeping my romantic foibles locked up tight. She doesn’t need to worry about this side of me—the one that’s terrible at love. So terrible she needs to fake it.

I take another sip of my hot cocoa, relishing the night air and this unexpected, sweet moment with my little sister. I’m drinking the cocoa down as she says, “And that’s why I think even for a free spirit like you, this new romance seems drastic.”

I spit out all the hot cocoa on the deck in a chocolate splotch. “W-w-what do you mean?”

She tilts her head like she’s saying give me a break. “Fine, I’ll admit you and Wilder are weirdly perfect for each other most of the time, so I didn’t spot it at first. But then there are these moments where you two don’t quite fit. And it happened so quickly—your romance.” She sits up straight, stares at me with a serious gaze. “What’s really going on?”

Guilt crawls up my throat. I had a sneaking suspicion earlier today that she was onto us. It’s so hard to keep a secret from somebody who knows you so well. And if I don’t tell her the truth now, when she’s asking me point-blank, I’m making the lie worse. I don’t like serving up the soft, vulnerable parts of myself—the parts that someone can hurt. But she’s my sister. We love each other.

I swallow past the uncomfortable knot of emotions in my throat. Past the guilt. The shame. And that residual self-loathing over the fact that I’m even in this spot, thanks to Brady dropping his drawers for Iris after turkey time.

I didn’t plan to tell Charlotte the truth this way, or even at all, but I can’t lie anymore. “We’re each other’s plus ones. That’s all,” I admit with some reluctance, using the same term I used with his mom, hoping that softens the blow of my lie.

Plus one sounds nicer than he’s my fake boyfriend. It sounds less like trickery and more like we’re truly helping each other—Wilder and me.

Charlotte isn’t one for dress-up words. “You mean you’re playing pretend. You’re fake dating?”

And let’s call it what it is.

I wince, feeling a little like my insides are being carved up with my own lies. “Yes?”

She frowns. But it’s not like she’s mad at me. It’s more like she’s disappointed. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

I sigh. That’s such a good question. But how do I even begin to answer it? At the time, the ruse made so much sense in my head. But now I don’t know if it makes any sense at all. “I just wanted you to have the perfect wedding, and I didn’t want you to worry about me,” I say, hoping my excuse doesn’t fall totally flat.

“But I do worry about you. You’re my sister and I love you. Why are you faking it?” Legitimate concern tightens her tone.

“I really do like him,” I say, meaning it. “We’re having a great time together. You shouldn’t worry.”

With worry flickering across her pretty brown eyes, she asks, “Then why fake it? Why not date for real?”

I wince. “The billionaire and the jewelry designer?”

She shakes her head. “The woman and the man who’d both do anything for those they love—including fake a relationship.” She sighs, then hits me with a tough question. “Why are you doing this for me?”

This is so hard. This is everything I didn’t want to tell her. My gut churns. “I didn’t want you to worry about me on your special day. I didn’t want to pull any of the focus from you.”

“How would you even do that?” she asks, seeming genuinely confused.

And it’s time for the full truth. “I have to tell you something, and I don’t want you to tell Leo. I feel like such a jackass for asking that. I know he’s your groom and it’s a terrible thing to say, but I don’t want you to tell him what I’m about to tell you—the reason.”

In no time, Charlotte puts two and two together as she hisses, “Brady.”

The embarrassment hits me all over again but in a different way this time. It doesn’t hurt in the gut like it did on Thanksgiving. It doesn’t eat away at me like it did a week or so later when Charlotte told me Brady would be going to the shower. Now, after spending time with Wilder, I feel…rationally embarrassed. Logically ashamed. There’s no sting in my heart or my stomach anymore. But it was still a shitty thing to experience, so it still hurts to woman up and say, “Brady cheated on me with Iris at Thanksgiving and I walked in on them,” I explain calmly.

Charlotte is not at all calm. Red billows from her eyes. Smoke curls from her nostrils. She’s a cartoon character about to blow. “I will kill him now. With a pointy candy cane. Cousin Troy probably has a duffel bag full.”

“No doubt, but Brady is not worth the murder rap. Trust me.”

She crosses her arms fiercely. “Leo will kill him. Now. Tonight.”

“Yeah, that won’t cause any problems for your wedding at all if your groom becomes the candy cane killer,” I say dryly. Then I pat her hand. “See? This is the thing. I don’t want to draw attention at your wedding. Please don’t tell Leo. Please don’t say anything. I feel terrible asking you to keep this from your fiancé, but I know they’re close. They’re family and I don’t want to get in the way.”

“But I hate Brady with the fire of a thousand, million suns burning up his underwear so he has to run down the mountain streets naked in a hailstorm.”

I giggle at my sister’s dastardly mind. “That is sister love right there. But I can’t give Brady the satisfaction of me being the pathetic ex-girlfriend, so he can’t know this is fake.”

She nods crisply, like a dutiful soldier. “I understand completely. And you know what? This is war. We are going to make sure he does not win the Christmas competition.”

I crack up, long and echoing against the quiet night. “It’s like you can read my mind.”

“I’m not your sister for nothing. That asshole can’t come to my wedding and think he can possibly beat you in a competition.”

I stage whisper, “That’s partly why Wilder and I teamed up. To take him down.”

She grins like a nefarious raccoon rubbing its paws together before it plots to topple a garbage can. “That’s perfect. And you have my sister-to-sister promise. I’m not going to say a word. But I also want you to know I love you and he can really suck it because I will always look out for you.” She gives me a hug and then whispers, “My number one regret now is introducing the two of you. And I get why you kept it from me. I just hope you forgive me for setting you up with him.”

I laugh. “Oh, please! You could never have known he’d do that. I didn’t think he would either. We can’t always tell what people are capable of,” I say, though already in this fake relationship with my boss, I’m dead certain he’d never pull a wrapping room move.

“Well, I once liked Brady, but now I officially hate him.”

“He’s really hate-able.”

But the funny thing is…I don’t really have very strong feelings about Brady one way or the other anymore. What I do have feelings about? Feelings I’m barely beginning to understand? They’re for the man in the cashmere sweater sharing a bedroom with me.

I let go of my sister and grab a towel and water to clean up the hot chocolate. When that’s done, I say goodnight to Charlotte and then head to my room, feeling a little unburdened but completely unsure what to expect when I open the door.

Will he be asleep on the couch, like a stubborn man? The floor? Or will he be in the shower?

When I turn the knob, I have the answer to whether my boss owns anything for lounging around in. He’s in a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, and he’s stretched out on the bed, and my mouth goes dry.