Page 23 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
ChapterNine
Winnifred
So now thatwe’re en route to the airport—me in a car I didn’t order, next to a man who answers questions with shrugs and silence—my brain latches onto a new panic.Did he even get my info for a ticket?Are we checking bags?Because I have two.Okay, three.And he didn’t even complain about it, which is wildly off-brand for Mr.I-Run-This-Shit.
Not that I’d ever let him control me.Let’s just be clear about that.
Just as I’m about to turn and demand answers like the strong, independent woman I am, we roll up to the regional airport.Not the big, international airport—no TSA lines, no crying babies, no overpriced trail mix.No.This is the airport for people who eat caviar and consider it a personality trait.
I blink.My gears start turning.Something’s off.Something’s very off.I’m just opening my mouth to unleash a slew of questions when a man looking like an agent from the Secret Service opens my door like I’m royalty and ushers me out before my dignity can catch up.
Our luggage—yes, our—is already being handled by people who move with suspicious military precision.They’re talking to Soren in that efficient, code-speak way, and he’s nodding like this is just another day.Meanwhile, I’m trailing behind him with the vague, floaty panic of someone who’s just realized they’ve agreed to a second location with a man who might be a serial killer—or worse, someone who readsAtlas Shruggedunironically.
And then I see it.
The plane.
Not a plane.The plane.Sleek, black, unapologetically phallic.It’s the kind of aircraft that whispers.I have generational trauma and a portfolio of war crimes.
I stop on the tarmac like I’ve just seen a unicorn wearing Gucci loafers.“You own a jet?”I hiss, whipping around to face Soren.
“I don’t own it.”He sounds bored.“The company does.”
Of course, it does.
I narrow my eyes.“So, you’re telling me that your company lent you a jet for an emergency engagement party?”
He shrugs like private air travel is just part of the Colorado Welcome Package.“It’s for business.We share it.”
“Shared,” I echo.“Like a carpool.But instead of a Prius, it’s a flying Batmobile?”
He says nothing.Which is ...not a denial.
“What exactly do you do, Soren?Is this your quote-unquote consulting job?”I throw up some pretty aggressive air quotes.
“I never said I do consulting.”
“Oh my god.You’re in the mafia.”I gasp.“Is this a front?Are you laundering money through artisanal bread shops?Because that’s the only explanation that makes sense.Though this changes everything.”
“You said this wasn’t about me.You said it was for the aesthetic,” he says like that argument isn’t made of graham crackers and lies.
“Well, the aesthetic has pivoted.It was giving Cottagecore boyfriend.Now it’s ‘emotionally-distantSuccessionsibling meets broodingGodfather.’”
He sighs.The same sigh I imagine he uses when people dare ask for PTO.
The pilot waves at us from the stairs.“Mr.Thorn, we’re ready for takeoff.”
Mr.Thorn.Of course, he’s Mr.Thorn here, not Soren, the curmudgeon neighbor.
“Shall we ...should I call you Winnifred?”He flinches like the name physically injured him.“That sounds too harsh.”
“It’s my name,” I say and follow him up the steps, but my brain is now a tornado of questions.Who is he?What does he actually do?How much does he make?Does he have offshore accounts?A second family?A secret Canadian family?Is there a very sad wife and three perfect children he only visits on alternating weekends?
Who the hell is Soren Thorn?
He’s single.In Colorado.Why?What’s the catch?Is he a flat-earther?Does he collect Beanie Babies?Is he secretly into MLMs?
Also—“Are you even remotely aware of the carbon footprint we’re leaving behind by flying private?”
