Page 49 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Helena: Winnifred thought she was pregnant.
Aunt Millie: WHAT???
Uncle Patrick: Jesus, Soren.You just started dating.
Grandma Rita: Is this a joke, or do I need to start knitting?
Daisy: This explains the kiss.
And a notification with another message bubble appears, and Soren winces before it even fully loads.
Mom: CALL.ME.I just told you she’s a Wolfcraft.We can’t relate to them.
I cover my mouth, half-laughing, half-dying.“I told you she didn’t like us, but you wouldn’t believe me, Soren Capulet.”
“Montague,” he corrects me.
I wave a hand.“It’s all the same.We’re sworn enemies.”
His expression flattens.“I haven’t seen this many consecutive text bubbles since I accidentally used the group thread to RSVP to a wake.”
“You didn’t.”
“That’s how I thought they wanted it, and I included a gif.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper, horrified.“You need someone to fix your image.”
His phone dings again.
He reads it, then groans like it physically hurts.“My mom’s asking if she should bring a rosary.”
“For what?”I gape at him.“To bless the baby or banish me from the family line?”
He shrugs.“Could go either way.”
I pace in a tight circle, waving my hands like I’m trying to stir the air back into logic.“You need to respond.Fix it.Lie.Blame Helena’s thirst for drama or say she hit the wine table too hard—something.”
“She’s not drunk.”
“I’m not pregnant,” I shriek.“It’s all about optics.No one cares what’s real—they care about what plays well over prosecco and pastry.Send a bomb, and let’s go.We’ve hijacked your sister’s engagement party enough.”
Another buzz.Another sigh.
He holds up his phone.“It’s from Grandma Rita.”
Grandma Rita: I already ordered the yarn so I can start the blanket.Lavender and gray.Very gender neutral.
“Oh my God.”I slap a hand over my mouth.“This is escalating faster than my last spiral, and that one involved Google searches, a dream journal, and a deeply inappropriate horoscope.”
We speed-walk toward the car like we’re escaping a crime scene.
His phone buzzes again.
“Mom’s sending pregnancy brunch menu suggestions now,” he mutters.
“For who?The imaginary fetus?”
I snatch the phone.“No smoked salmon, caffeine-free teas, herbal infusions, gluten-free muffins?Are we catering for a delicate duchess or a fake pregnancy?”
