My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 4

Wilder

“Do you have everything?”

Mac cuts me a did you really ask me that look in the sleek foyer as she hoists her backpack onto her shoulders. “Dad, I think the question is—do you have everything?”

I gaze up at the minimalist chandelier hanging from the ceiling of my home in Cow Hollow. It’s hardly minimalist anymore. Mac insisted on decorating it with icicle lights. “The sass. Dear god, the sass from you, Mackenzie Elizabeth Blaine.”

“Well. Do you?” my daughter asks again, her hands parked on her hips. “You have a meeting this morning with your designer. Did you remember to review the five tips for talking to creatives that I sent you the other night?”

A cackle echoes from the nearby kitchen. It carries, reverberating across the sunken living room, to where we’re standing. “I wonder where she gets it from,” Bibi calls out.

“You, Bibi. You,” I say to her, then return my focus to Mac. She has her holiday recital rehearsal with her mom, so I need to get her to the Abernathy School even earlier than usual. “Bibi’s driver is waiting.”

I nod to the door. But my daughter is undeterred from her goal. “Dad. Did you read it? It’s really important that you interact with all your employees with an open mind about what they do. That’s why I sent it to you. But you can read it in the car too,” she says, then nibbles on her lip as she taps on her phone, presumably hunting for the list of tips.

Before I can even tell her that I read it mere seconds after she sent it, she brightens. “Oh, here it is!” She swivels her screen my way.

There’s a list on it so I read it out loud. “One: new instant camera. Two: that Pegasus series with the sprayed edges. Three: a secret door?”

Oh, I know what this is. And when I look up with an arched brow, Mac oh-so innocently says, “My bad. That’s my Christmas list. But I’ll send it to you so you can review it later anyway.”

“I’ll give it my full attention. What kind of secret door do you have in mind, Mac?”

She waves a hand airily. “Oh, any kind, really. Something that’s a portal to another dimension or leads to a secret room. I’m not picky in the secret door department,” she says, like the variety of secret doors is akin to picking Cosmic Crisp or Gala apples at the grocery store. “Anyway, did you read the list for your meeting?”

“Of course. It was helpful,” I say. I would never not read something my daughter sent to me. Also, I am familiar with how to run a damn corporation. I’ve done it for nearly two decades and have the track record to prove I’m good at it. No, make that excellent, especially these last couple years as I’ve expanded Blaine Enterprises into new business areas. And yet, my own daughter is not convinced.

“Good. Because the world is changing, Dad. You have to make sure you meet people where they are.” Mac is intensely serious as she doles out advice. “Don’t point out mistakes. Welcome…opportunities. Don’t laugh at them. Laugh with them.”

“Someone has Future Director of HR written all over her.” Bibi emerges from the pristine kitchen, her low heels clicking across the tiled floor. She has a dark red Santa hat with silver snowflakes perched atop her head and her travel mug in her hand.

“More like future boss of me,” I mutter.

Bibi smiles at Mac and hands her a small pencil bag shaped like a long cat. “But as someone reminding her dad to take things to work, it seems you forgot your colored pens.”

“Oops,” Mac says, a little chagrined as she takes them and stuffs them into her backpack.

“Do you have everything you need for this morning’s dress rehearsal?” I’m pretty sure she missed something when I asked her the same question earlier.

Mac smacks her forehead. “What is wrong with me?” She whirls and races up the floating stairs strewn with garlands, past the floor-to-ceiling windows with the stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge, to her bedroom on the third floor.

“Apparently, managing you is a full-time job for her,” Bibi says, then pats my cheek since she’ll never stop patting my cheek.

“Eleven going on forty,” I muse as Mac’s boots echo through the house.

“I’m surprised you let her go upstairs with shoes on,” Bibi says, glancing around.

I know what she means. Nothing is out of order in my home. The coffee table is neatly covered with a tasteful array of pinecones, and a mini Christmas tree perches next to the gleaming baby grand piano in the corner. The holiday decor is classy, courtesy of my daughter. She has an eye for it. I don’t. Chess pieces I can visualize—not furniture pieces.

“She didn’t give me much choice.” And it wasn’t a battle I wanted to fight. When she’s older, I don’t want my kid’s main memory of me to be as the dad who never let her wear shoes in the house.

Mac flies down the steps, and the three of us head out, piling into the sleek black limo that carries Bibi everywhere she goes. “Thank you, Reagan,” Bibi says to the woman who’s been driving her since I first moved to San Francisco. “You are the absolute best.”

“Thank you, Barbara. I have Playlist Number Three all queued up and ready to go,” the driver says.

“Nope. I’m wrong. You’re not the best. You’re an official goddess. In fact, I had a dream in which I gave you a bigger-than-ever Christmas bonus this year, and that dream will come true later today.”

Reagan beams. “Thank you, Barbara.”

“You deserve it.” Bibi turns to me. “And will you be giving out bonuses, too, this year?”

I give her a seriously? look. “Is the sky blue? Is my daughter sassy? Is my aunt relentless?”

Bibi pats my cheek. “That’s the right answer.”

“They’ll be in the stockings we pass out before the holiday break.”

Reagan gets behind the wheel and pulls into Monday morning traffic as Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” fills the ride. Bibi likes to pick us up on her way into the office. It’s a chance to spend time with Mac every day, which she’s been doing more often since my mother—her sister—moved to London a few years ago to earn her bachelor’s degree. Then, Mom stayed because she fell in love—with school. Now, she’s working toward her master’s in fine arts, and I couldn’t be prouder.

Bibi fishes in her vegan leather bag, digs out a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses, then swipes open her phone. If she’s looking at her calendar, I’d better get out my shield. Tapping her regal chin, she says, “What’s your schedule like this week, Wilder? It’s December, so it’s time for my favorite holiday activity—proving I’m better than a dating app. And lucky you! You continue to qualify as my favorite project.”

Mac snort-laughs. “I wonder who she got this time,” she says to me under her breath.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I whisper back.

Bibi looks at me. “I heard you, and I do know how to pick ‘em, thank you very much. I was a matchmaker in a past life.”

Maybe so, but my answer’s the same as usual. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She’s not the only one I’ll say that to. I’ll say it when my sister, Caroline, and her wife plot my romantic future and when my assistant tries to write a dating profile for me. There’s not a man or woman I’m close to in a fifty-mile radius who isn’t trying to set me up, especially around the holidays.

It’ll be fun, they say.

Fun is a game of golf with my friends, a round of pickleball with my daughter, or a good book. Fun is not a string of bad dates leading nowhere, which is precisely where my aunt’s past setups have always gone.

Bibi gestures to the car’s tinted windows as it cruises through the city on a foggy morning in the first week of December. San Francisco is decked out for Christmas, with twinkling lights hanging from streetlamps and nutcrackers standing tall in store windows.

“And that means what?” I ask as Elvis croons.

“Wilder, it’s the holidays,” Bibi presses, like that’ll change my mind. “What’s wrong with a little romance?”

“Nothing,” I reply, and Mac joins in as I say, “I just don’t have time right now.”

I wince, meeting Mac’s gaze. “Do I say it that often?”

She nods with all the authority of an eleven-year-old. “Yes. Along with eat all your kale and no YouTube after six on a school night.”

“Sage advice.” Bibi turns to me, shifting from dreams analysis and past life regression to boss mode. “But you know I was very happy with my husband for forty fantastic years before he died. It was the real thing, and it was wonderful—especially having him by my side during the holidays. We used to dance to ‘Blue Christmas’ every Christmas Eve as the lights on the tree flickered and the fireplace crackled.” She sighs contentedly, and the picture she paints might be enough to make a weaker man second-guess himself. But not me.

“That’s a lovely memory,” I say. “And I’m glad you have it.”

“So…” she begins, “maybe you don’t think anything is ‘right’ with love because you haven’t met the right person yet.”

Because they don’t exist in my book. Fine, Bibi had a happy romance, but my mother did not. She thought she’d found Mister Right, and look how that turned out. I shudder at unwelcome thoughts of my father, then dismiss them just as quickly as they came.

“Bibi, I know you believe in the Pisces dream for love⁠—”

“That’s not an insult!”

“Of course it’s not,” I say, placating her. “I’m simply saying you do. But you’re also the exception to the rule. By that same logic, you could say Mom hasn’t met the right person, but look at her.” I’m thinking of the texts I exchanged with her over the weekend and her FaceTime call with Mac on Thanksgiving morning. “Mom’s single, but name one person happier than she is. She’s living her best life in London.”

“He has a point, Bibi,” Mac puts in. Dear god, I raised this child right.

Bibi tosses her hands in the air. “You’ve turned her into a mini-me.”

I laugh.

Mac scoffs. “I have my own opinions!”

“Exactly. That’s what makes you his mini-me.” Bibi smiles like the sap she is for her great-niece. “And it’s also why I love you like crazy.”

“Love you too,” Mac says.

We arrive at the school. I get out with Mac, smoothing the crisp front of my tailored shirt. “Your mom has you tonight,” I remind my daughter.

“I know. She’s right there.” Mac points to the woman with wavy blonde hair, bright red lips, and a Bohemian skirt floating over lavender Uggs. A burly security guard stalks a few paces behind her as San Francisco schoolkids stream past the wrought-iron gates and into the school’s main entrance, with its pristine white limestone walls.

“Hey, love.” Felicity greets Mac with her bright English accent and gives her a big hug. “You look smashing this morning.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

When they let go, Felicity flashes me a smile, pointing to my Tom Ford suit. “And you look…very CEO this morning,” she teases. “Was it tough choosing between suit number one, suit number two, and suit number three?”

Mac chuckles. “He has more than three suits.”

“And no, it wasn’t hard.” I don’t tell her why it was easy, the fashion choice for this meeting.

“How’s everything going? The Thanksgiving pics you sent were adorable. Sorry I missed it. I’ve loved that holiday ever since your dad introduced me to it.”

“Hmm, letting down ten people at Dad’s Thanksgiving or disappointing fifty thousand fans?” Mac pretends to weigh the options for her pop star mother. “Tough call.”

“Ten of my favorite people.” Felicity smiles. “But you’re right. I had committed to the concerts first. I can’t wait for the New Year’s Day one, though, since I’ll be here, and you can come.”

Mac pumps a fist. “I love the VIP suite. It has the best snacks.”

“That’s all I could want. Good snack reviews,” Felicity says.

“Your tour is getting rave reviews too,” I point out.

Felicity gives a grateful smile. “That’s always lovely to hear. I hope it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway—you’re welcome to come to the New Year’s Day show too, Wilder, if you don’t have a hot date.”

Mac snorts with laughter.

“What’d I say?” Felicity asks.

“Bibi is trying to set Dad up. Again.” Mac rolls her eyes.

I roll mine too. “She does this every year. You’d think the law of diminishing returns would dampen her enthusiasm.”

“The enthusiasm of a woman with more Santa hats than I have costume changes during a show?” Felicity says with fondness. But shifting to slight concern, she asks me, “But is it the worst idea? Maybe you could meet that perfect sparring partner at last.”

Great. First my aunt. Now my ex-girlfriend. But at least I can laugh at her too-correct acknowledgment that she was never the right sparring partner for me.

We met in the city more than a dozen years ago. She’s from London but has called California home for a long time now. We’ve always had an easy relationship. Felicity and I don’t argue—not about Mac, not about custody, not about anything. We share our daughter, and we get along. We have since we got together and since we’ve been apart. It’s…nice. I can’t complain.

I’m lucky in that regard. I’m lucky in a lot of regards.

And I know what it’s like to be raised by a father who doesn’t show up. I won’t be that kind of dad. Mac deserves all my spare time, even if my life is a little lonely when Mac goes to bed and the house is quiet. Or when she’s with her mom.

But I don’t need a partner to break the silence in my house. I can listen to music. Track down antique maps. Listen to a new episode of The Best Damn Heist.

No one wants to hear that the billionaire is lonely. I have plenty of things to fill my time.

“Mac, show your mom the costume for the holiday recital,” I say, and Mac unzips her backpack and tugs out the fabric—a red sweater with snowflakes on it. The recital isn’t until next week, but the school wanted to get ahead of any potential costume issues, hence the early dress rehearsal. I can’t fault them for being prepared.

“It’s fantastic,” Felicity says breezily. “And I can’t wait to see the rehearsal. I know it’s going to be brilliant.”

It’s such a Felicity thing to say. No one wears rose-colored glasses twenty-four seven quite like my ex.

“All right, Mom. Let’s go,” Mac says, stuffing the sweater back into her bag. “But listen, I really want to know if I sound good. You have to tell me if I don’t.”

“I will,” Felicity says.

We both know she won’t. She’ll tell Mac she sounds fantastic.

I kiss Mac on the cheek goodbye and return to the sleek limo, parked among other sleek limos, and slide inside. This time, as Frank Sinatra reminds me, Santa Claus is coming to town.

Bibi speaks into the phone pressed to her ear. “You don’t say? Georgie broke up with the lawyer she was seeing?” There’s a pause as Reagan pulls back into traffic. “Well, I never liked him. He defended that oil company.” Bibi shudders dramatically. “So Georgie’s seeing a matchmaker? Do I ever have a match for her. I had a vision about this, in fact.”

Shaking my head vigorously, I pop in my earbuds and listen to a podcast about a one-hundred-million-dollar diamond heist at an airport in Morocco while, on the phone, Bibi tries to engineer a date for me.

One I don’t want. If I were to imagine a romance—down the road, of course—none of Bibi’s prospects are women I could picture myself with. I’d want someone funny and kind who wasn’t afraid to keep me on my toes.

But that’s not in the cards now.

At the stadium, Bibi and I go our separate ways—she handles our charitable contributions, and I handle, well, the whole damn business.

When I reach the C-suite, I stop short at the sight of my executive assistant. Shay is about my age—late thirties, though his pale complexion and devotion to sunscreen make him look even younger. His desk is covered with photos of his wife and cats, but those aren’t felines on his sweater. Is that a fleet of Santas riding unicorns?

“Good morning, Mr. Blaine. I’ve emailed your agenda for the day to you. No printouts, just the way you want. Is there anything else I can do for you?” he chirps, then pops up from his desk, and whoa. Not just unicorns. 3-D unicorns.

I’ve been trained not to comment on employees’ clothes—thank you, Mac—but this time, it’s a struggle to pretend I don’t notice the golden horns sticking out from his sweater.

“Thank you, Shay. And I’m all good right now. How are Tater Tot and French Fry?”

I give myself points for my poker face and for name-dropping his cats.

But Shay just smirks. “Nice try, boss. But that means this sweater isn’t just ugly. It’s super ugly, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your reaction.” He points at me. “The whole ‘blank face’ and focus on the kids thing.” His grin widens. “I’m field-testing options for the ugly sweater contest. My mom sent this from the homeland, so it’s one hundred percent Norwegian ugly sweater. How is it on the ugly scale?”

Eye-wateringly horrifying. “It’s nice,” I manage since it’s not my place.

But he sees through me, pumping a fist. “Ten out of ten levels of hideousness. Yes! I can’t wait to tell Lucia that Mom nailed it this year.”

Lucia’s his wife, who works in building ops.

Then, he’s poised and professional again as he says, “Don’t forget your ten a.m. with Fable Calloway from design.”

“I won’t,” I say with an even stonier expression.

How could I? I’ve only been looking forward to that meeting since I woke up. Once inside my office, which overlooks the field and the best damn football team in the world, I check the time on my watch. One hour till my meeting with my lead designer. I check my reflection in the window. This suit does look sharp. I run a hand over the midnight blue jacket.

I did pick it for a reason. This is my best suit, and I like to look nice. The fact that the meeting is with Fable has nothing to do with my selection.

Fine.

Maybe it has a little something to do with it. But it’s nothing I can’t handle. Or hide.

Just like I’ve been doing for the last year or so.