My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 33

Fable

I’m not what you’d call a morning person, but I am a maple syrup person. Trouble is, I’m this close to missing it since I woke up late. I guess two orgasms take a lot out of a girl. Who knew? Not me.

But I also woke alone. Wilder was nowhere to be seen at nine a.m., but that didn’t surprise me. He’s an early riser, out conquering more worlds. (Or maybe acquiring more toys? Possibly a candy cane cock ring? Some happy holidays handcuffs? A set of ribbon restraints?)

I, however, like pillows too much so I fell back asleep. Then I finally got my butt out of bed at ten. Now I’ve showered and dried my hair, and my nose is leading me to the kitchen, following the homey scent.

Only I stop short several feet away, hanging back in the hallway to spy on the scene unfolding in front of me. Wilder and his daughter are at the stove, wearing aprons, their backs to me as they make pancakes.

“Can you hand me the other spatula? It’s better for flipping,” Mac says to her dad as she sets down a red spatula on the counter.

“But that one is the best one,” he says, pointing to the red one she’s relinquished.

“Nope. The black one is. It’s bigger and has more surface area for ideal flippability. I’ll show you.” She’s so much like her father that it makes my chest flutter.

She moves around him to grab the wider black spatula, then returns to the griddle, scooping up a pancake and sending it soaring, up and over.

It lands on the hot griddle with a sizzle. “See?”

He gives an approving nod. “I stand corrected.” Then he chuckles. “Also, flippability? Is that a new thing?”

“It’s definitely a thing,” she says.

“Let me guess—it’s a thing you saw online when you were watching videos on pancake making?”

“Are you saying the only place I learn anything new is from videos?” she retorts as she gently presses one pancake on the griddle, then does the same to another.

“I don’t think I was suggesting it. Pretty sure I was simply stating the truth,” he says, dryly. I love that he’s a little sassy with her, just like she is with him.

“I learn a lot of things online. I learned about how to make pancakes and how to make Christmas ornaments. About how to live on a houseboat, or in a tiny house, or in a tent.”

As he stirs more batter, he tilts his head, looking at her with a hint of real concern. “Does this mean you don’t like our home?”

My hand flies to my chest. He’s so full of dad angst at the moment, and it’s adorable and unexpected. This morning, he was commanding, bossy, and outrageously hot as he wrung orgasms from me and told me to get him off. Now, he’s human again, and it’s a wonderful sight.

“Dad, of course I do,” she says warmly, then wraps an arm around his waist. “I love where Penguin, you, and I live. I just like to see what the world is like. To check out different places.”

“You’re a true learner,” he says.

“Just like you.”

And I feel like a true snoop. I’ve been enjoying this sweet moment far too much. I should make my presence known.

I take a step from the hallway into the kitchen, clear my throat, and say, “Hi there.”

Wilder spins around, and my chest squeezes. His apron is red with Santa hats across the bib over the words Santa’s Official Cookie Taster. When his green eyes meet mine, they flash with filthy memories of early-morning trysts.

Mac turns her gaze toward me then waves her spatula my way. “Want some of the world’s best pancakes?”

“Does Santa come down the chimney? Is hot cocoa life? Are Christmas cookies the best food ever? Yes, yes I do. I love pancakes,” I say.

“Of course you do,” Wilder says, the corner of his lips tipping into a grin. “You have excellent…taste.”

Oh yes, his smile is full of…secrets between us. I’m pretty sure this dirty, dominating man is full of innuendo this morning, but I’d like to think he’s saying I have great taste in fake boyfriends.

Because I do. Wilder Blaine is sexy as sin, including in the morning with his messy hair and fleece Henley under that apron. His stubble is thicker than usual. He probably didn’t shave today, and I don’t mind the beard-ier look.

I close the distance between us and head toward the cupboards. “How about I grab some plates and set the table? Or really, the counter. I don’t want to get in the way though. I hear there’s a big flippability debate going on,” I tease, as I reach for three red plates with snowflake trim. Then, because I don’t want him to think I was spying, but rather to know I was, I admit, “I kind of overheard you two.”

Wilder arches a playful brow. “Kind of overheard?”

Busted.

“Fine. I definitely overheard since I listened to some of your pancake debate and also the tiny house one.”

“I should show you these tiny houses. They’re so cool, Fable,” Mac says, enthused as she slides several golden-brown pancakes from the griddle onto a serving plate while I grab utensils. I head to the counter and set napkins, forks, and knives down.

“But houseboats are amazing too,” Mac continues. “And did you know that some people have really remote cabins up in the snowy mountains and heat them with woodstoves? I’m not sure I’d want to live that far away from town.”

“I don’t think I would either,” I admit as Mac turns around, giving me a glimpse of her apron for the first time. There’s a drawing of a whisk on it, captioned, We Whisk You a Merry Christmas. “Nice apron.”

“Thanks. I found these two here last time we visited, and I hid them for us for this year,” she says, conspiratorially.

Wilder chides her, “Mac.”

“What’s wrong with that?” she asks.

“These cabins are available for others to rent,” Wilder explains. “What if the guests needed them?”

But I’m more interested in where she hid them. “Where were they all year?”

Mac smiles impishly, then points to a cabinet. “At the bottom of the kitchen towel drawer. So really they were hidden in plain sight.”

“So they weren’t entirely hidden then,” I say, sitting down at the counter.

“Exactly,” Mac says, then pauses, clearly thinking, before she adds, “But if you think about it, a lot of things are hidden in plain sight.”

Wilder meets my eyes and holds my gaze for a long moment that tugs on my heart. His eyes are softer now. More earnest. Maybe even vulnerable as he looks at me while answering her. “Yes, they are.”

I can barely catch my breath as I try to process his words. Does he mean…?

No. I can’t let myself think that. That’s too risky. Too unlikely. Besides, he warned me that he doesn’t trust easily, if at all. Best that I resist reading something into nothing.

Instead, I smile cheerily. “Truer words,” I say as the smell of maple syrup fills the air, and I feel a pang of longing for a family breakfast like this.

Where did that come from? I had breakfasts like this with Mom and Charlotte growing up. Only, were they ever truly like this? Easy, carefree, fun? Weren’t we always tense back then, waiting for Dad to barrel in and steal the show?

Maybe that’s why my holiday pancake breakfast memories are tinged with stress. Even when we sat down at the table when we were younger, Christmas music playing, the scent of pancakes and lazy mornings filling the air, there was always some unease.

Right now, with Wilder and Mac, I don’t feel anything but relaxed as they join me at the counter and we tuck in.

“When did you arrive?” I ask Mac.

“About an hour ago. We left the city really early, but that’s okay because I didn’t want to miss the sledding competition. It’s in a couple hours. I’ve been practicing my sledding all year so I can win.”

This I need to know. “How do you practice sledding?”

“You do it in your backyard. We have a small hill, and there’s a section that doesn’t have any grass on it. So I hose it down, and it makes it muddy, and that’s a perfect way to practice. I worked on my sledding moves this fall, like going backward, sledding sidesaddle, and going down on my stomach,” she says, then stabs a forkful of pancake and eats it before she adds, “I mastered them all.”

“And my heart was beating outside my body the whole time,” Wilder says warmly, but with a father’s worry, too, as he ruffles her hair, then squeezes her shoulder.

That flutter? It’s more like a swoon as he hugs his daughter.

She leans into him, resting her head against his chest. “I was safe, Dad. I wore a helmet.”

“Doesn’t matter. I always worry about you,” he says.

“I worry about you too. That’s why we’re a good team,” she says, then gestures to my pancakes. “Do you like them?”

“No,” I say, then sit up straighter. “I love them.”

Mac smiles. “Good.” When she finishes hers, she says, “I almost forgot. I made something for you two.”

I freeze with the fork midair, then ask, “You did?”

“I did,” she says, then pops up and races to the adjoining living room, grabbing something from a bag next to the coffee table as I take the bite at last.

When she returns, she’s holding an ornament. It’s a ceramic cartoon fireplace with four stockings hanging from it. “For the tree,” she says, then hands it to me with a hopeful grin that says she’s eager for me to like it.

My heart melts. She’s written names on the four stockings.

Dad, Mac, Penguin, and…Fable.

My throat tightens with so many unexpected emotions. My eyes are wet. I run a finger to swipe away the hint of a tear. “I love it,” I say, then I hug her too.

This feels too much like the family pancake breakfast I longed for. But I’d better not get used to this warm, happy feeling too much since it’ll end when the tree is thrown out.