My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 31

Fable

I guess it’s been decided—the sleeping arrangements. “And I was prepared for you to keep fighting with me,” I blurt out.

And oops. Did I accidentally let on that I’m still thinking about the way my boss tongue-fucked me on the couch in front of the Christmas tree? But at least that was better than any of the alternatives. Like can you please take off your shirt and show me if it’s true that there’s one billionaire in the world who has ripped abs? Or, can you stop being so stoic and let me return the favor because visions of your cock are dancing in my head?

He sets down the paperback he’s reading. “Would you like to keep fighting, Fable?”

He says it with amusement. With a little bit of flirt in his voice. Like an offer. Or maybe I’m just reading sex into everything.

Get a grip, girl. You’ve had sex on your mind ever since you were pretty much grinding on your boss during a practice kiss.

“No. It’s fine. Couch for me, right?” I ask breathily, my head fuzzy from the too-sexy image in front of me.

In a heartbeat, he’s out of bed. He prowls across the room over to me by the door, and in no time, he scoops me up in his arms and carries me to the bed, dropping me on it. I’m too shocked to think or speak. He looks down at me with fiery eyes. “In case it’s not clear…you’re sleeping in the bed. And I’m going to sleep right next to you, behaving like a good boss.”

Hello, bossy Wilder!

I’ve been chastened and I’m loving it. But I also kind of want to tease him, too, so he’ll talk that way to me again. “But what if I don’t behave?”

He stares at me with wild eyes. Heat flickers across his green irises. He breathes out hard through tight lips. “I guess you’ll replace out,” he says, cool and in control. He’s the man in charge, and that tone sends a charge through me. One I want to feel again. One I crave.

With our gazes locked, it seems like we could break once more. We could shatter any second now and lunge at each other. He could claim my lips, pin me down, fuck me into next year. But that’s so risky. Even if we were to give in, we’d still have to make it through this wedding, then we’d have to return to work as broken-up boss and employee. Ugh. The aftermath would be messy. I don’t need another mess in my life.

I breathe out hard, push up on my elbows, and say innocently, “I’ll be good.”

He nods toward me, resolute. “You do that.” Then he sits on the edge of the bed, shifting focus, concern in his eyes. “Is everything okay with Charlotte?” He’s serious again. No more teasing in his voice.

“She figured it out,” I say with a frown. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

His brow furrows. “Why would I be mad at you for that?”

I shrug, feeling more emotional than I should be. It’s true—back when we were outlining the rules in his office, Wilder said that I could tell Charlotte if I wanted to. That he didn’t mind. But Wilder hasn’t told anyone besides his daughter. Yes, he told his mother, but I encouraged him to. I wanted him to. I’m the weak link in this situationship, the hot mess, the girl who couldn’t keep a guy. And Wilder? He’s so good at everything that he’d never blab about a fake romance, like I’m doing. “I know you said it was fine to tell her, but some people say things and don’t mean them.”

Wilder reaches for my arm, his thumb stroking my wrist. It’s tender, soothing, and it threatens to melt my bones. “Know this—I mean what I say.” He takes his time, perhaps weighing his words, sensing I need this reassurance. “I trust you. And I’ve gotten to know you. You adore your sister. You put all your focus on her. But you also don’t want to lie to someone you love that much. I understand.”

Words Brady never said. Not when I told him about my dream shop. He never really understood me, but I think Wilder does. “Thank you. I’m doing a terrible job keeping this a secret,” I say. “But you’re kind to be so supportive.”

“It’s easy with you,” he says gently. His thumb rises higher on my forearm. Stroking lightly. Pretty sure my wrist is a brand-new erogenous zone and his thumb is lighting me up. Flames lick under my skin.

Earlier in town, I wondered if his touching was for show. For Bibi. But it’s just us now, and he still can’t seem to stop. I feel a little mesmerized, and my voice is feathery as I tell him the details of the conversation, finishing with, “But the good news is she really hates Brady now and wants to beat him too—ideally with a pointy candy cane—and she promises she won’t tell Leo.”

Wilder smiles, an it’s all good here style one. “Good. Pointy candy cane or not, Leo doesn’t need to know. He looks out for Brady and frankly, he always has. It’ll be fine.” Another slide of his thumb down my wrist. Another hazy moment where I’m caught up in my boss’s touch. Where maybe he’s caught up in touching me.

There’s no show now—just him and me and this room that’s heating up even without the fireplace on.

Abruptly, he lets go of my wrist, but only so he can reach for my face and run his thumb along my jaw. I’m boneless with the tender way he’s touching me. “I don’t think I could be mad at you,” he says, with fondness but also…some angst. Like something is eating him up inside. Weighing on him.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yes.” He swallows it down, and whatever that weight was, it’s replaced by a delicious grin. “And we’re going to have so much fun destroying him.”

He sounds Machiavellian and powerful, and his confidence goes straight to my panties. I’m outrageously aroused. So much so that I leap away from him. “I need to shower.”

As I hustle to the en suite bathroom, I wonder how risky or risqué it’d be to jill off while I’m showering. What a hedonist I am. He already made me come this afternoon and I want to go again. News flash: I restrain myself. But fifteen minutes later, I return to the bed, wearing a cami and fuzzy pajama pants. Wilder’s under the covers now, but he pats the pillows for me. A paperback sits next to him on the bed.

“That whole fight earlier over the couch and the bed? We’re going to share and that’s that, like I said earlier,” I say. “But I also liked fighting with you. I mean, obviously I liked your apology. A lot.”

His eyes sparkle with dirty delight, but something else, too—something I can’t quite name. “I loved saying I was sorry.”

I shiver, wanting to say do it again, be a dick again, apologize all you like. But I’m a good girl, so I say, “But before the apology? When we were all…” I lift my hands, pretend I’m a cat scratching. “Going after each other? That was…kind of great.”

He nods tightly, an admission. “I liked it a lot too. It’s a little addictive.”

So are you.

But I’m sure now what I’m hearing in his voice. Right along with the desire, there’s restraint in there too. I flash back to what he said this afternoon when we arrived. I don’t want to get addicted. To practice. I need to respect that. Wilder’s thoughtful and caring, and even when he’s fiery and fighting, he never hits where it hurts. His remark earlier must have been his way of saying once was a slip-up, twice was understandable since it was an apology, but a third time would be nothing but deliberate.

“It is…addictive,” I say. But there’s nothing to be done about this addiction to him. I slide under the covers. It’s past midnight, so here goes this wild next step—sleeping next to my boss.

I try settling into the pillow. Paddling my feet under the covers. Getting comfortable. As if I can.

I’m wide awake, so I cycle back to something Wilder said in the car. Something that’s safer than all these rampant sex thoughts. I stack some pillows, then sit up a little higher. “You said it was your mom’s dream to go to art school?” I ask, prompting him.

He sets down his book on the nightstand and turns to me. There are a few feet of space between us. “Yes. It was.”

“Did you make it happen for her?”

A pleased smile shifts his lips. “I did.”

Warmth floods me. A sense of pride too. I’m proud of him for how he takes care of the people he loves. “Of course you did. I had a feeling.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You like making people’s dreams come true, don’t you? You did it for me with the paint-and-sip class. And the suite at the football game. It’s your…” I don’t want to say love language because that’s presumptuous. I pause then finish with, “Your thing.”

He seems to give that some thought as he tilts his head, looks my way. “I do like to.” He pauses, then pushes forward. “What’s yours?”

I go still for a long beat, feeling more vulnerable and exposed than I ever have been with him. I flash back to the day of the wedding shower at his house. I tested the waters, telling him a sliver of my hopes. Well, that’s not true. I hardly admitted a thing. He guessed, asking if I had an Etsy shop as a side hustle.

And I held back, keeping parts of myself close to the vest. Out of fear. Fear he’d think I was a disloyal employee. Fear he wouldn’t want to know I had dreams beyond the Renegades. But mostly the fear of opening up and someone trouncing on my feelings.

I opened up earlier to my sister, though, and she’s squarely on my side. Wilder’s been my biggest supporter for the last few weeks. He’s been my protector. He’s been my encourager.

I don’t have to hide pieces of myself from him. I’m safe with Wilder.

I take a steadying breath. “I want to open an eco-friendly jewelry store someday. In the city. Maybe even a line of them. A handful, then keep growing and bringing my designs to more and more people across the country. I want to change the industry. Make it green. Revolutionize my slice of the fashion world.”

I feel so raw. So exposed. So vulnerable. Especially since he’s quiet for a beat. Unreadable. He just nods, as if he’s taking that in. Then he shifts closer, his eyes locking with mine, holding my gaze. “Made By Fable is a big dream.”

“Yes,” I say nervously, twisting my fingers under the covers. “Do you think I’m a disloyal employee?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not at all. You’re one of the most talented people I’ve ever worked with. You should do it. I know it’ll be a hit. It’s an exciting possibility, and I believe in it.”

Relief washes over me. Pride, too, from his certainty. His confidence. And once again, his support. “Thank you. I appreciate you saying that. Really, I do.”

His lips quirk up. “So a little more than an Etsy shop, Fable?”

“Just a little,” I admit, but I’m smiling, maybe even enjoying that he’s caught me in that tiny little lie that was hardly a lie.

“I knew there were bigger things in store for you. Now tell me more about it. What do you envision? What do you see? The Santa cufflinks were just the beginning.”

I share more of the type of necklaces I like to make, how I source materials, where I’d want to open the first shop—in Russian Hill. “My favorite place in the city,” I say.

His brow furrows. “There’s a good block for shops right there on Polk.”

I swat his shoulder. “Hey now! Don’t go surprise me with a jewelry shop for Christmas,” I tease. The man is a real estate magnate too. I need to rein him in.

He cracks up.

“I mean it. Just because I told you, you can’t go out and buy me one, like it’s fuzzy socks or ice cream. I mean, to you it would be.”

His laughter burns off. “I wouldn’t treat it like fuzzy socks.” Then he holds my gaze. “Thank you for sharing that.”

“Thanks for making it easy.” I pause and then, not wanting to end this conversation, I say, “What’s your dream?”

He smiles, rests his head against his pillow, and parks his hands behind his head. “Being the best father I can be.”

My heart catches. My throat squeezes with emotions. Tears prick my eyes. “I think it already came true.”

He looks to me, a softness in his mouth, a tenderness in his eyes. “I have to make it come true every day.”

“And you will,” I say, then settle into my pillow too.

We’re quiet for a long moment.

I glance around the suite, drinking in the woodsy decor with exposed wood beams, the Douglas fir tree rising to the ceiling with its strands of colorful lights blinking on and off as we chat late into the night, then a fireplace just for us. It’s not crackling tonight but maybe we’ll light it tomorrow. Peaked windows offer a view of the glittering mountains. Earlier, I discovered that the bathroom is well-appointed, with a rainfall shower. The carpet is so soft your toes sink into it. The bed is out-of-this-world comfy.

“Wilder?” I whisper.

“Yes?”

“Here’s one thing we won’t fight about.”

“What’s that?”

I sweep my arm out to the side. “These are definitely chalets, not cabins.”

A smile tips his lips. “You’re right, Fable. They are.”