Page 27 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
She doesn’t look up.“Yes, I do.”
It’s not performative.Not this part.She’s not spiraling for attention.She’s building armor.One backstory bullet point at a time.I get it.I do the same thing—only mine involves sarcasm and shutting down before anyone gets too close.
The questions come quick, intrusive, and relentless—each one more personal than the last.Favorite pet names.Cringe-worthy high school stories.Our fake origin story.Whether we’ve ever been on a couples’ retreat.
Somewhere between listing my top three embarrassing medical moments and agreeing on a fake anniversary, a tea service appears.Then dinner—light, but as usual, it’s good.I pretend not to notice the way she lights up at the chocolate truffles—the ones I specifically asked my assistant to include while I requested she prep the jet for me.
It lasts almost four hours.Somewhere in the middle, she kicks off her shoes.Sips tea with one leg tucked under her.I pretend I’m not watching how her expressions shift when she’s thinking too hard.She pretends she’s not noticing how I answer her questions, like I’m memorizing the way she asks them.
Eventually, we’re quiet.
“So,” she says, voice deceptively light, “in this backstory, did we fall in love slowly, over years of bickering?Or was it one of those enemies-to-lovers fireworks situations where we kissed once, and the world caught fire?”
I lift one brow.“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
She shrugs, but her cheeks flush.“I like good structure.Sue me.”
I lean in, elbows on my knees, and meet her eyes fully.
“It was slow,” I say.“Annoyingly slow.You snuck up on me.One sarcastic, very snarky comment at a time.”
She goes very still.
“Ugh,” she says after a beat.“That was almost sincere.”
“I’ll do better next time,” I murmur, but I’m still watching her.
The pilot’s voice comes through the speaker.“We’re starting our descent into Boston.Please prepare for landing.”
She pulls away first.Back to her list.Back to her safety net of structure and sarcasm and curated chaos.But for a second, I saw it—the crack in the armor.The flicker of something I’ve never seen in my life, and it scares me more than anything she’s ever told me since she moved next door to my house.
ChapterEleven
Soren
We reachthe front desk of the Merkel Hotel, and for a fleeting, delusional second, I think this might actually go smoothly.That’s on me.
Winnifred stands beside me, balancing her weekender bag like she’s auditioning for a perfume ad called “Emotional Baggage: The Limited Edition.”She’s still a little flushed from the flight, wind-blown from that brief tarmac sprint, and doing her very best to look unimpressed by the cascading chandeliers above us.
It’s not going well.
She keeps glancing up at them like she’s conducting a secret ranking system based on ‘most dramatic sparkle,’ ‘best-supporting crystal,’ and ‘most likely to blind a guest with wealth envy.’
The concierge greets us with a smile that’s been ironed to perfection—creased just right at the corners like it graduated from a finishing school where you major in expensive linen and minor in charm.His name tag gleams like it’s been buffed between guests.
“Welcome to the Merkel Hotel.Checking in?”
“Thorn,” I say.“Reservation under Soren Thorn.”
His fingers move with efficiency along the keyboard.Then he looks up and smiles wider, the kind of grin that says,Brace yourself, sir.I have the best for you.
“Yes, Mr.Thorn.We have you in the Grand Terrace Suite.”
Grand.
Terrace.
Suite.
