Page 34 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
“So you need a boyfriend for Christmas?”he asks, that slow grin teasing the edge of his voice.
“Or I need to learn how to fake my death for a season.”I sigh.“If not, what’s the alternative?Marriage or exile?”
A moment later, he bumps his shoulder lightly against mine.“Go back to bed, Wolfcraft.You’re freezing.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
“Always.”
He watches as I walk back inside, and when I glance over my shoulder, he’s still staring at the skyline.
Still broody.
And somehow, he looks very beautiful, and he’s mine for the weekend.Not that I would keep him, but what if ...what if we can fake it until Christmas?
ChapterFourteen
Winnifred
I wake up to knocking.
Not the gentle room-service-at-your-convenience kind.No, this is apocalyptic, someone-pulled-a-fire-alarm-in-the-hallway knocking.
I jolt upright.Breath stuck somewhere between inhale and swear word, hair a disaster, body tangled in the duvet like I lost a fight with it sometime after midnight.
Across the room, Soren is already on his feet—bare-chested, bleary-eyed, looking like he’s two seconds away from drop-kicking whoever’s on the other side of the door.If hotel-induced homicide is about to happen, at least he’s committed to it shirtless.
“It’s just room service,” I croak, rubbing at my face like that’ll make this less embarrassing.
His eyes don’t leave the door.“Room service was not requested.”
The door opens before either of us can make a decision.
A hotel staffer strolls in with the bright-eyed enthusiasm of someone who’s had exactly the right amount of espresso and zero emotional baggage.She’s holding a silver tray stacked with flaky pastries, two cappuccinos topped with perfect foam hearts, sparkling water in tall glasses, and a note scrawled withA sweet morning for our sweethearts!—complete with enough hearts to qualify as a stationery-based medical emergency.
I groan into the nearest pillow.
Soren glares at the tray like it insulted his ancestors—the entire lineage.
Then he turns and looks at me.
And stops.
Freezes, actually because I’m wearing his T-shirt.Can he blame me?It’s soft, gray, comfortably oversized, and definitely not part of my suitcase.It hangs off one shoulder, drapes around my thighs, and screams morning after in a way that no amount of explanation can undo.
I tug at the hem with zero chill.“I got cold.”
He says nothing.
Which, coming from Soren, is practically a soliloquy.
The staffer beams like we’ve just been cast in a Hallmark movie.“Oh, this is adorable.Let me get a photo for our romance reel.”
Soren blinks.I die a little inside.
“Nope,” I say quickly, scrambling for dignity and failing.“We’re not camera-ready.I don’t have any mascara on me, and you haven’t even had caffeine.This is not our peak era.”
She laughs like I’m joking.
