My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance
My Favorite Holidate: Chapter 48

Wilder

After a half hour of pacing the grounds outside in the dark, crunching through the snow on hills by my cabins like a fucking caricature of a lonely billionaire (cue the violins), I’m fed up with myself more than I’d thought possible. I miss Fable horribly, but I don’t know what the hell to do about it.

I don’t have a spreadsheet to figure out this ache or a deal memo to stop these pangs of longing. There’s no business plan to navigate safely to the other side of these damn vexing emotions that have no place to go.

All I know is this—I’ve messed up spectacularly, and I need to go back to square one.

Fix one thing at a time.

I stop pacing, draw a deep breath of crisp winter air, and let it fill me with the first answer.

I’ll start with my friend. Maybe because that’s the easiest, but sometimes that’s how you have to begin.

I return to the main living room, march down the hall to Leo and Charlotte’s cabin, and lift my fist to bang on the door. Before I knock, though, I call out, “Look, I fucked up. I should have told you. But don’t fight with your bride because of⁠—”

The door swings open, and a disheveled Leo appears, tugging on a sweatshirt, hair a mess, a cocky grin on his face. “What were you saying?”

I blink, taking a beat to process the obvious. “I thought…you and Charlotte were…”

The corner of his lips quirks up. “Fighting?”

“Yeah, you seemed pissed earlier,” I say.

He shrugs. “I was for a minute. But then she explained that some shit went down with her sister and my cousin, and that was all she needed to say.”

Oh. My brow furrows. “It was?”

A voice calls out from beyond the door, “Yes, it was!” Charlotte adds, “We’re all good. I mean, we’re great. Really great. Oh so very great.”

“Clearly.” I breathe my first real sigh of relief. “I thought I messed things up for you two.”

Leo scoffs. “Impossible.” He calls over his shoulder, “Be back in a bit, sweetheart.”

“Don’t take too long,” Charlotte warns in a sensual tone that hints at another round of makeup sex.

“I won’t.” He shuts the door, claps my shoulder, and nods down the hall. “Deck and scotch?”

“A perfect pairing for tonight.”

A few minutes later, we’re parked on the outdoor couch under the stars, the electric fireplace on, drinks poured. Leo holds up a glass. I don’t feel much like toasting, but the way I feel isn’t important, so I clink back and say, “To your wedding tomorrow.”

He shakes me off. “You don’t need to toast my wedding tomorrow. It’s going to be great. We’ll toast to you telling me the truth.” My nice, happy-go-lucky, charming, green-flag best friend who’s kind to everyone shoots me a stern look. “What really happened with my cousin?”

I pause, debating how much truth to tell him, pinch the bridge of my nose, then say fuck it. Half-truths won’t fix this mess. Avoiding the real story because it might cause awkwardness in the wedding party won’t help anyone. “I didn’t want to tell you. He’s your cousin and a groomsman. You looked out for him growing up. He’s family.”

But Leo just beckons with his fingers. “Serve it up.”

Gladly. Fucking gladly. “At my Thanksgiving dinner, he hooked up with the caterer at Aunt Bibi’s house, sneaking off with her to the wrapping room, where Fable found them right while Brady was singing ‘Joy to the World’ while Iris hummed along with her mouth full.”

Leo freezes for a second, then the glass falls from his hand.

Our hustle to clean up shards of glass on the deck feels like a fitting metaphor for tonight.