Page 44 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Instead, I stay there, frozen.
Because somewhere underneath the panic and the lipstick and my mother’s texts, all I can think is that ...well, I liked it.I liked the kiss too much.
The way he looked at me after.
The way he didn’t say anything like “nice acting” or “we sold that well,” because I think he knew.Just like I knew.
That wasn’t a performance.
Not for me.
And maybe—just maybe—not for him either.
But I can’t afford to believe that.
Not when my mother is already freaking out, and she might come all the way to his family’s property to drag me back home, arguing that I can’t be kissing the enemy.
And dating a Thorn?
God help me, what if I am?
ChapterEighteen
Soren
Applause.
There’s actual goddamn applause.Like, I just finished a play on Broadway, and there’s a standing ovation and all that shit.Though, this wasn’t just for a kiss.
Well, it’s not just some kiss, but our kiss.
Our first kiss.
Win’s and mine.
A kiss I initiated like an idiot with no impulse control and even less self-preservation.Like I forgot where we were, what this is, and that I’m supposed to be acting—not catching feelings.But the moment our mouths brushed against each other ...it just happened.It even feels as if it stopped being pretend.It might have turned into something that didn’t just feel real—it was real.Unforgivably real.
And now people are clapping.
Because apparently, I’ve starred in a live-action fairy tale.One with canapés and coordinated napkins.It probably lands somewhere betweenThe Princess Brideand Emotional Crisis with cocktail sauce on the side.Not that I’ve ever watched said movie.But I’m ninety percent sure it ends with a soulful kiss.It’s just that this one, ours, was not supposed to be in the script.
Which means—what the fuck did I just do?
I’m still staring at the space where Winnifred used to be.The air somehow still molded to her shape.Her heat hasn’t left my skin.Her taste?Still on my lips.But she’s gone—bolted into the house like the kiss ignited a fire beneath her, and she needed to evacuate before she spontaneously combusted.
Which ...fair.
If she hadn’t walked away, I would’ve kissed her again.Slower this time.Deeper.With zero concern about the crowd or, the cameras or my carefully constructed, emotionally unavailable persona.
And this time, I don’t think we would’ve stopped.
Someone whistles when the clapping is over.One of my aunties is openly crying into a cocktail napkin like we just announced a palace baby.
“I told your mother this girl must be the one since you were bringing her home, and she is,” Grandma Rita crows beside me, smug and glowing and absolutely not helping.“You don’t kiss someone like that unless you mean it.”
“Grandma—”
“Don’t you Grandma me, Soren,” she snaps, waving a deviled egg like a gavel.“I’ve survived four husbands, a house fire, and decades of uncomfortable polyester pantyhose.I know the difference between a publicity stunt and a man who’s halfway in love and about to propose to the love of his life.”
