Page 35 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
I’m not joking.
Soren finally finds his voice, low and gravel-rough.“We’re good on the photos, thanks.”
The tray is set down.A wink is thrown in our direction.And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her like the end of a very short horror film.
We’re left in the silence, and my brain starts playing a highlight reel of every possible way that just looked worse than it was.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says finally like he needs the words out loud to confirm that this is, in fact, his life now.
“I’m also stealing one of those croissants,” I reply because I’ve decided to lean into the spiral.“So technically, I’m making it worth your while.”
He stares at me for another long second.
“So,” I say slowly, “we’ve just been soft-launched to a luxury hotel’s marketing team.”
He takes a cup of cappuccino.“I hate everything.”And he hands it to me.
“Everything?”I cock an eyebrow.
“Not everything,” he mutters, then walks away.
Which is fine.
Totally fine.
Except for the part where I’m starting to wish we could fake it just a little longer—can I manifest something that big?
ChapterFifteen
Winnifred
We’re not eventhrough the main gates, and I’m already regretting my decisions.I’m not talking about my outfit, more like ...do I really want to go through with this fake relationship?
What if my parents find out about my boyfriend?
Oh, Win, you’re really losing it this time, aren’t you?The answer is probably.One moment, I want to ask for this to be extended ‘til Christmas, and the next, I want to run back to Colorado and forget I agreed to this nonsense.
Do I need to be at a vineyard?This is the Vineyard of Subtle Torture, where the lighting is golden, the wine is plentiful, and every corner looks like it was designed for couples to propose under fairy lights and lies.
I don’t want to be in this place at night because I’m sure it’ll be dreamy.One hundred percent dreams and zero percent reality, which will crash and make me think everything I’m working for isn’t at all fake.We’d go from fake arrangement to tragedy.Not the Romeo and Juliet kind, where we can’t be together because our families hate each other.
More like ...the fake relationship is over.I’d be madly in love.He’ll give me a reality check and will have to look for another townhouse at an affordable price.Probably somewhere around the Midwest—which is a no, no.Nothing good happens there.It’s too cold and humid during the winter.There’re tornadoes almost all-year-round, and they don’t have any mountains or oceans nearby.Definitely not appealing for Winnifred.
I’m so deep in thought I barely register that the woman checking us in is all dimples and whisper-voice and, “We hope you enjoy this romantic escape from the world.”
Soren, meanwhile, is visibly trying not to choke on the word romantic, like it’s something he was tricked into saying during a séance with a very aggressive after-life couples’ counselor.He just stands there, silent and still, managing to radiate the exact amount of discomfort someone would have if they’d been gifted a velvet robe and told to “just relax.”
To everyone else, he looks silent and devastating for anyone else who doesn’t know him.To me, he looks like a man whose soul is being personally assaulted by the idea of intimacy paired with complimentary grapes.And maybe a charcuterie board shaped like a heart.Not that I know him that well.Not in the I’ve-seen-his-tax-returns-and-know-how-he-takes-his-coffee way.It’s more like I’ve learned his mood throughout the years.He has a lot of easy tells.
Soren Thorn isn’t a mystery.He’s a predictable system.Most of his tells fall somewhere between professional curmudgeon and reluctant ogre—and yes, that is a valid descriptor when it comes toSoren Thorn.Somewhere, deep inside, he probably has layers.I’m just not emotionally reckless enough to go peeling them.
And yet, today, he has that broody-hot look going on.The sleeves of his button-down rolled to the forearm like he’s starring in a marketing campaign for responsible heartbreak.Sunglasses tucked into the front of his collar.Jaw freshly shaved.Hair doing things that should require a warning label.
I hate how good he is at this.
Like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing to people.
Like this whole ‘I’m allergic to emotional availability, but I’ll help you, oh-so-beautiful demoiselle in distress’ isn’t a highly marketable brand.
