Page 41 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Grandma dabs at her eyes.“It’s just so beautiful.”
Somewhere behind us—maybe from a cousin, or the catering staff, or someone who’s been eavesdropping with their whole chest—I hear a soft, breathy whisper: “God, I hope they make it.”
What’s weird is that a voice inside me almost screams,Me too.Worse, even if this is fake ...it doesn’t feel fake.
Not when she’s looking at me like that.Like I’m not just part of the performance.Like I’m real.Hers.Wanted.She tilts her head up, chin lifted, lips parted slightly, and I can see the moment she decides.
Or maybe I decide.
My hand slides around her waist, pulling her closer.Not roughly.Not like a claim.Just enough to close the gap, enough to feel the warm shape of her body press against mine.She doesn’t flinch.Doesn’t freeze.She steps into it like we’ve done this a hundred times before like her body already knows the rhythm of mine.
And then—fuck—it happens.
Our mouths meet.
Slow.Intentional.Like we’re rewriting gravity one second at a time.
Her lips are soft and cool from the champagne, but she’s warm beneath them, and I want to taste that warmth.I deepen the kiss just enough to draw a soft hum from the back of her throat—and that hum wrecks me.My fingers tighten at her waist.Her hand curls into the front of my jacket like she’s bracing herself like I’ve knocked the ground out from under her.
Her tongue slides against mine, slow and teasing, and my pulse jumps like it’s just caught on fire.She tastes like citrus and heat and every single thing I’ve ever told myself I couldn’t have.
We kiss like no one’s watching.
But everyone is.
And I don’t give a single fuck.
Because right now, nothing matters except the way she feels in my arms and the quiet, devastating way she sighs into my mouth like I’ve just given her a reason to breathe.
When we finally break apart, barely an inch of air between us, she’s looking up at me like she forgot the lines to our script.And I’m looking back like I want to rewrite the whole damn show.
She blinks once.Then twice.
Then whispers, “Well ...that wasn’t in the rehearsal.”
I smile, slow and real.“Improv, I learned from the best.”I wink at her.
Her eyes linger on my mouth.
“Do it again,” someone says.
And yeah—yeah, I fucking do, until the applause interrupts us.
ChapterSeventeen
Winnifred
After those kisses—theclapping, the enthusiastic applause, the whirlwind of polite shrieking and unsolicited commentary—I make a graceful, borderline-deranged escape to the bathroom.
I’m not panicking.
Nope.
I’m simply experiencing a perfectly rational internal combustion in response to a completely unreasonable amount of sensory betrayal.
He kissed me.
He—or ...I kissed him?
