Page 45 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
I could say she’s wrong, that this is just indeed a stunt just to prove to my mother that ...what was this supposed to prove?I can’t remember because what Grandma said hits dead center in the middle of my chest.
We’re not talking about the fabric of her pantyhose—I didn’t need to know that.Nope.It’s the whole ‘halfway in love’ bit.
I can barely process the kiss, and she’s already planning the engagement announcement.
And the worst part?
She might not be completely wrong.
This doesn’t feel halfway.It feels like I just flung myself off a cliff—and instead of splattering on impact, I landed somewhere warm, impossible, and terrifying in a way I don’t have the vocabulary to explain.
“I’m going to ...”I gesture vaguely toward the house.“Check on Win.”
“She ran off like her dress was about to catch fire,” my cousin Helena mutters as she drifts over with a glass of champagne and way too much smirk for one human.“Didn’t realize you were into live theater, Soren.You just stole your sister’s entire night.”
“I didn’t ...I’m not—” I’ve no idea how to finish my sentence.I realize Helena is right.Daisy might be planning my funeral because I’m dragging too much attention not only to myself but to Winnifred.
“Could’ve fooled me.”Helena walks away, but somehow, I feel like she’s about to get back at me because I ruined her favorite cousin’s party.
I run a hand through my hair, resisting the urge to swear into the sky.Fuck, what just happened in here?What did I do?We didn’t just sell this relationship.We branded it.Built an entire fucking emotional marketing campaign around a single kiss.
But did we sell it?Or just fucked it up?
I don’t get to linger on that thought because my mother descends like a hawk that smells sin and shame.
“Soren,” she hisses, voice low but razor-edged.“A word.”
Fuck me.
If Winnifred weren’t MIA, I’d already be in the car with the engine running.But I can’t do that to her.Not even now, when this whole moment feels dangerously close to every-man-for-himself territory.
I follow Mom, keeping some distance, weaving through party guests still buzzing about shrimp skewers and the Thorn family’s unexpected dip into public affection.My feet drag like I’m heading to confession.Which, honestly, wouldn’t be worse than whatever lecture she’s about to deliver on disgracing the legacy.
Once we’re out of earshot, she whirls around with eyes full of disapproval and a tone dipped in generational disappointment.
“What in God’s name were you thinking?”she hisses, her voice low, scandalized.“Sinning in front of the altar wouldn’t have been more offensive.”
“I kissed my girlfriend,” I reply, bone dry.“Not sure what’s the big deal, Mother.”
“That looked like foreplay on the patio,” she says, low and deliberate, each word measured for maximum judgment.“In front of family.Friends.Half the parish council.If Nana were alive to see that display, she’d have collapsed into the hydrangeas.”
A beat.
“You know she believed public affection was for French films and morally loose people.”I shrug, let it sink in, and then add, “If it helps, Grandma Rita was thrilled.”
“Your father’s mother is senile.She once married a man because he made a good cheesecake.”
“And yet she divorced, got alimony, and might be looking for husband number five,” I smirk because Grandma Rita is anything but senile.She outsmarts us all.
She glares at me.“This is not a joke.You kissed that woman in front of everyone.”
And yeah, this isn’t a fucking joke.I know because I can still feel Winnifred’s lips on mine.Worse?I’m starting to think I’ll never forget them.
Actually ...I don’t want to forget.
I want to feel them again.
I want a do-over.One where I’m not caught off guard or thinking about who’s watching.One where I get to kiss her like I mean it—slow, selfish, no pretending.No fake dating agreements.Just us.Mouth to mouth.Heart to heart.Maybe something ridiculous like fireworks in my chest and the dumb belief that if I kissed her right, she’d finally stay.
