My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 35

Wilder

Sometimes people surprise you. Like, say, Brady. That evening as I’m walking along Main Street toward the town square for the caroling competition, the little troll I want to send back to the bridge he crawled out from under catches up to me.

“How’s it going, big man? I crunched some numbers last night and I am ready-i-o to help you out,” Brady says, grabbing the chance to schmooze while Fable is several feet ahead, walking with her friends past A Likely Story. Mac’s back at the cabins playing board games with her friends and my sister’s kids.

“Did you now?” I ask, amazed he can’t take no for an answer.

“Sure did.”

I already turned him down at the shower. I could turn him down again. Especially since the more time I spend with Fable and the closer we become, the less Brady matters.

But then again, this asshole toyed with the woman I adore. The woman who made me a homemade wreath, a crocheted snowman, and Santa cufflinks. The woman who cheered on my daughter in sledding. The woman who insisted on being honest with my mother. The woman who wanted to know what my dreams are.

Fuck this punk.

But if I get to know him a little better, I can learn what makes him tick, and that’ll help me as we take him down in the Christmas competition. “Tell me, Brady-i-o. What do you have in mind?”

As we walk, he babbles on and on about his stock management skills and how he’s aces. Okay, the man thinks he’s good at everything. No surprise. He’s cocky, and that means he’s likely careless. When we reach the gazebo in the town square, he claps my shoulder like we’re best buds. “Admit it—I’m convincing you right now?” he asks jovially.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“How about if I win the caroling competition, you’ll definitely grant me an audience to make a formal pitch?”

Keeping a poker face, I mull on his offer. While I won’t be winning the singing competition—I can’t hit a single note—I doubt he will either. I’m quite familiar with the field. I’ve heard Aurora from the Sugar Plum Bakery, and she has the voice of a Christmas angel. He hasn’t heard the others. Once again, Brady’s playing chess with the wrong guy.

“Fine,” I say, confident he’ll lose to Aurora and be bested by his own misplaced bravado. “You’re on.”

He pumps a fist. “You won’t regret it, boss man!”

He’s right. I won’t. The goal is to take him down, and even if I’m not the one directly doing it, I’m on the right track.

He rushes ahead, catching up with Iris, whispering something in her ear that leads her to smack a kiss to his cheek. I clench my fists. The sight of the two of them pisses me off. Even if Fable’s over him, I hate that she was ever hurt at all. That she felt ashamed. That he made her feel small.

All the more reason to compete hard the next couple days and prove that asshole wrong.

A few minutes later, all the competitors are gathered in front of the charming white gazebo, adorned with blue icicle lights that shimmer in the snow blanketing the ground. As I stand next to Fable, I drape an arm around her, making sure Brady knows she’s with me now, only with me. Like that, I scan the crowd, sizing everyone up. I recognize most of the competitors from years past. Aurora’s here. That’s good. She’s the racehorse I’m betting on. Fable’s dad is here too, and I’d be willing to bet the man can sing. But if he can’t, that’s fine as well. It looks like there are a couple of new contestants as well—three burly men who resemble lumberjacks. They’re all bearded and dressed in flannel and Timberland boots. If they can croon, all the better for me.

Still, I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of everyone, but especially Fable. I turn to her, reminding her of our game plan. We reviewed it earlier today. No matter the song, she’ll take the lead. I’ve heard her sing “Happy Birthday” in the break room and it’s top tier. “You’re all set to be the lead singer, right?”

“Of course. But why are you so worried?”

I maintain a stoic expression. “Not worried. Just planning ahead.”

“Of course you are,” she says with affection.

But the truth is—I didn’t tell her I can’t sing for shit. Maybe she won’t notice. My palms sweat a little, even though it’s cold out.

Mayor Bumblefritz trots up the steps to the gazebo with his megaphone and declares, “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The Christmas caroling competition. We’ll assign songs and supply the words on screen, karaoke-style,” he says, gesturing to a TV screen set up in the gazebo, “And you’ll have to simply…go!”

Fable grabs my arm, her eyes bright. “It’s like improv singing!”

Which I hope is for the best since it means only one chance for Fable to hear my terrible voice. “One and done,” I say.

“Maybe we’ll get ‘Let It Snow,’” she adds, then looks up at me. “Snow makes everything beautiful. You can have the busiest day, a million things going on, but when the snow falls, it calms the whole world down.”

My heart slams against my chest. We discussed Christmas songs. But she’s quoted me back to me. Everything I said. My throat goes dry. My pulse spikes. “You…remembered every word.”

“I did,” she says, and she sounds pleased. Like she’s been wanting to share that party trick of hers with me for some time.

And I almost don’t care that she’ll hear my terrible voice. Because she remembered. She fucking remembered. And I’d better wipe the smile off my face. I can’t let on to the whole damn town that I’m falling head over heels against my better judgment.

I clear my throat and mutter a “thanks” since I don’t know what else to say. I’m speechless. Fable turns her gaze toward the crowd. Maybe she’s sizing up Brady too? But when I follow her eyes, she’s looking at her pack of friends—Maeve, Josie, and Everly. She waves, then makes some kind of funny face. No idea what it means, but when she turns back to me, she shrugs and says, “We have our own language of gestures.”

“You can communicate through mind meld, basically,” I say.

“Yes. You understand.”

I smile. “I do.” And I replace it utterly endearing how close she is with them. But then it’s like my brain stops in place. She didn’t look at Brady once. Did she? She didn’t check him out to see what he’s up to. She doesn’t seem perturbed by him. It’s like she doesn’t even care.

Nope. I don’t want to think that yet.

Fortunately, the event begins, giving me a new focus.

I adjust the cuffs of my peacoat as a few townspeople go first, belting out “Jingle Bells,” then Fable’s mom and Julio hit the stage and sing a playfully off-key version of “Frosty the Snowman.”

When her mom leaves the stage, she swings by and says, “I could never resist that one. It’s like they know me!”

“You and Frosty are OTLs.”

“Hey now,” Julio says, with a smile. “Your mom’s my one true love.”

“Fine, fine. Mom, Frosty and Julio,” Fable says.

Her mom gives me a little wave. “Knock ‘em dead, Wilder,” she says, then whispers, “and keep taking good care of my girl. I see the way you look at her.”

A pang digs into my chest from the truth and the lie twined together in her mom’s observation, but I say, “I will.”

A kernel of guilt wedges into my heart as we return our focus to the stage. Leo and Charlotte bound up the steps, and they duet “Santa Baby” with the groom looking like he’s going to be coming down the bride’s chimney tonight for sure. Aurora’s up next on stage and she sends the crowd swooning with a soulful take on “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

“One of your favorites,” I murmur.

Fable loops her arm tighter through mine. “I still love that song,” she whispers.

“I know.” I don’t tell her I already have it on a playlist for her and I’m waiting for the right moment to play it.

A few more townspeople go, then Fable’s father and his wife are up. “And it’s ‘The Christmas Song’ for you,” Mayor Bumblefritz says.

Fable’s dad crows. “Watch out Nat King Cole. The king of Christmas croon is here.”

I…cringe.

Fable winces, then hides her face briefly against my chest.

“Sorry, honey,” I whisper just for her.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, and I hold her tighter as her father and his wife sing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire while I contemplate whether there’s any way I can arrange to have a bag of sizzling-hot chestnuts waiting on his seat at dinner to burn his ass.

When they’re done, the lumberjack trio climbs the steps to the stage, forming a makeshift choir. With their deep voices and thick beards, they ooze rugged charm, then launch into a rendition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” with such enthusiasm and gravelly gusto that it’s almost impossible not to be charmed by them. Almost. The tallest of the crew is staring at my Christmas girlfriend from the stage.

Staring like he wants to take her home.

Like he wants to unwrap her.

Like he wants her to be his Christmas present.

That won’t do.

I’d like to deliver a message to him. I slide a hand down Fable’s back all the way to her fantastic ass. I squeeze. Hard.

She jerks her gaze to me, then waggles a finger. “You have to make Christmas cookies,” she says, like I’ve been caught in the act.

Right. Our naughty and nice list. Worth it. So worth it. “Consider it done.”

“I want them tomorrow.”

“You’ll get them,” I promise.

Our moment breaks apart, though, when the wood chopping trio finishes.

Mayor Bumblefritz booms into the megaphone. “Brace yourselves, I think this competition is about to get even more interesting. I’d like to invite my darn good friend, this town’s very own Sheriff Alejandro Hardick to the stage with his so very lovely teammate, Bibi Hunter-Shipman!”

Fable cheers like she’s on the sidelines of a football game as my aunt and her new friend rock out to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” bumping hips and doing a swing dance.

“They’re too adorable,” Fable says.

I have to admit, she’s right.

When they’re done, Mayor Bumblefritz says the words I’ve been dreading. “I’d like to invite Wilder Blaine and Fable Calloway to the stage.”

As we head up the steps, I groan privately, wishing I could jump ahead three minutes in time and be done.

“And your song is ‘Deck the Halls,’” he adds.

I fight off a wicked smile. That ought to be easy enough for her to handle most of it while I fa-la-la-la-la my way flatly through the chorus.

But once Fable opens her mouth to sing the first line—“Deck the halls with boughs of holly”—my stomach drops. I can’t hide behind her voice. She’s so damn good that the contrast is only going to be more evident. Her singing is full of energy and sass because of course she’s full of energy and sass. The best I can do is make my flat delivery seem deliberate. Like I’m deadpanning my way through the chorus all while she carries us through the season to be jolly.

When we’re mercifully done, she pulls me aside behind the gazebo, out of the way. “You’re human, and I like it.”

My pulse speeds up, and this time it’s not from nerves. “Yeah?”

“I do. You can run a football team. You can launch a fantastic hotel. You can speak Mandarin, and you can give me screaming orgasms. It’s okay if you can’t hit a single note.”

The last thing I suspected was that my terrible singing voice would turn her a little sweeter on me. My stupid heart squeezes and a warm, heady feeling spreads through my body, and my mind too. But I remind myself that nothing is coming of this fake romance. Nothing can come of it.

Trouble is her adorable response does nothing to stem the tide of my feelings for her. Feelings that are getting annoyingly stronger by the day. Feelings that I’ll have to put out of my mind once this ends.

But…not yet.

I have a few more days here to savor this fake romance.

I drop a kiss to her cold lips and warm them up for several seconds that go to my head. I nearly ignore Mayor Bumblefritz’s next words as he calls Brady and Iris to the stage then assigns them “Joy to the World.”

Brady’ll botch it, I’m sure. He’ll bumble his way through it. Iris will probably sound like a screechy starling. When Fable breaks the kiss, I decide I’d like to watch them be eviscerated by my chess strategy.

We return to the front of the gazebo where Brady’s on stage, his eyes twinkling with confidence and mischief.

Good luck.

“I’ve heard your carols, but you haven’t heard ours,” he says, then takes his phone from his pocket, sets it on the stage to presumably record himself, then reaches for Iris’s hand.

Please.

But then he launches into a powerful rendition of “Joy to the World” with a voice that’s richer, deeper, and smoother than I’d expected.

What the hell?

The man is like one of the three tenors, and I do regret taking his bet. Also, because…she’s humming. Iris is simply humming, dropping in an occasional background ooh or aah to provide the subtlest harmony. Why didn’t I think of that? I could have hummed while Fable fa-la-la-la-la’d.

But he can sing and they can strategize and once again, the man has surprised me with what comes out of his mouth.

He’s annoyingly good as he belts out the tune like he’s a show-stopping Broadway star. When they finish, there’s no question who’s winning the caroling competition.

My fears are confirmed moments later when the mayor announces the judges committee has voted Aurora in third, Bibi and Hardick in second, and Brady and Iris in first place.

“Told you I was going to dom-i-nate,” Brady shouts, pumping his annoying fist.

“You sure did, babe,” Iris seconds, cheering him on. He snaps a victory selfie of the two of them.

I didn’t think it was possible to hate him more, but I do. Not only did he beat me at my own game, he used his very own words from Thanksgiving—the day Fable discovered him cheating. I hate that Brady’s a much more formidable competitor than I’d thought he would be. “I can’t believe it,” I mutter to Fable, then meet her gaze. “I won’t let him win the next one.”

Her smile is soft, a little placating. “You’re cute when you’re jealous⁠—”

She doesn’t get to finish the thought though. Leo has found me in the crowd, and he claps me on the shoulder. “Mind if I steal the best man?” he asks Fable.

“Go ahead,” she says, then makes her way toward Josie and Wesley.

Leo nods to the edge of the square where a makeshift bar’s set up. “My cousin has a few talents. Singing’s one of them. Let me get you a scotch to make up for it.”

He’s the groom so I say yes, heading toward the towering ancient oak in the town square, where a bartender from the North Pole Nook mixes drinks at a red wooden cart. Leo asks for two glasses of scotch and a minute later, the man hands them to us. The warmth of the drink seeps through me, dissipating some of my irritation, but not much, since the competitiveness in me still burns. But it’s not my place to rain on Leo’s pre-wedding parade so I set my own feelings aside.

“Your big day is soon,” I say, lifting my glass in a toast. “Have I mentioned how happy I am for you?”

His smile is wide and genuine. “Thanks. And things are going well with Fable?”

I don’t quite squirm, but I come close. Even though I don’t want to tell him the truth—that it’s fake—neither do I want to lie. I weigh what to say, then it hits me. I don’t have to lie, exactly. “They’re going great.”

Last night was great. That’s true. This morning was great as well. The moment next to the gazebo was even greater.

“I’m happy for you then.” He pauses. “Do you think this could turn into something more…?”

What a good question.

Across the snowy square, I gaze at Fable for a long beat, picturing something beyond Christmas. Maybe in some other world, I would make pancakes with her in the morning and we’d say goodnight to my daughter together in the evening. We’d venture up here for the holidays. I’d come to the opening of her first jewelry shop, and she’d cheer for her favorite team from a suite.

And we’d curl up on the couch together next Christmas Eve, turn on some music, and look at the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree.

Before I fucked her under it.

I shake off those dirty and wonderful thoughts. I’m not equipped for that type of romance. For that type of trust. For all that uncertainty.

Except as my brain repeats those familiar refrains, I think about earlier when she remembered all the details of my favorite song. I think, too, about how she found it endearing that I can’t sing. I think about the way she interacts with my daughter. And I wonder for the first time ever if I could live with all this terrible, horrible uncertainty of a romance that makes my heart beat like crazy from one minute to the next when I’m near her.

Could I?

I owe Leo an answer though. I can only give a vague, “It’s hard to say.”

It’s getting hard, too, to balance the lies I tell people. Fable’s mother. Bibi. Leo. But if this were real, I wouldn’t have to lie anymore.

But that’s a dangerous thought. Besides, it won’t happen.

I try to shake it off when my attention snags on the gazebo. I do a double take.

Fable’s no longer chatting with friends. Instead, one of the lumberjacks is talking with her. And he’s standing far too close for my taste. That won’t do. “Excuse me,” I say to Leo, setting down the glass on the makeshift cart.

With the lumberjack in my crosshairs, I stride toward them. A wave of possessiveness slams into me, filling every cell. I grit my teeth. My jaw tenses. I’m a predator, ready to fight. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, but whether we’re real or fake, there’s no way I’m letting another man come between us.

The lumberjack seems oblivious to my approach, still engrossed in his conversation with Fable. Fable’s eyes sparkle with interest—but it’s only polite interest. When she spots me, she gives me a weak smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she shakes her head at him.

I move faster. When I arrive, she pastes on a smile and says to me, “Joe was just telling me why the New York Leopards are a better football team than the Renegades, and I was schooling him. Then he wanted to discuss it over a beer.”

I drape an arm around her, tugging her against my side. “My girlfriend is not available to have a beer with you. She’s with me. Only with me.”

The man holds up his hands. “Chill, man.”

Are you kidding me? I narrow my eyes. “It’s not a chill, man situation. It’s a she said no situation,” I say calmly and clearly as I stand my ground.

“How do you know she said no?”

The nerve. The fucking nerve. I inch closer to him, making sure there’s no mistake when I say coldly, “Because I know.”

He blinks, swallows, then holds up his hands again and backs off. “Sorry, dude.”

When he leaves, Fable turns to me, her eyes etched with shock. “Possessive much?”

“Yes,” I say, still breathing fire.

Her breath seems to catch. “I had it under control,” she says, but her voice is wobbly.

“Of course you did, honey,” I say, gentling my tone for her. “But so did I.”

“You did,” she says, breathily. She takes a beat, studying my face, seeming to weigh something up. “Like I said earlier, you’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“Cute?”

“Like you were about Brady. But you really don’t have to worry about my ex. I’m over him.”

I knew that, yet I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that from her till now. “Good. That’s very good,” I say, relieved and maybe a little elated.

She slides closer to me, runs a hand over the top button on my coat. “But I’m not over the way you like to control things,” she says in a sensual tone.

“You’re not over it?” I ask, picking up what she’s putting down.

“Not at all.” She hesitates, then her eyes flicker with avid interest. “I think I’d like to know more about what you like to control.”

Fuck all the other guys. I seize the moment and cup her cheeks. “Let me take you back to the chalet and show you.”