Page 54 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
But now she’s talking jets and real estate portfolios, and my brain—bless it—is starting to spiral.Wait, does he own a business?A plane?I flew in a private jet.
Is this man faking something?
He has a surprise Colorado-based empire I somehow missed between living next to him, fake-dating him, and fake-pregnancy ruining his sister’s engagement?
I scrub a hand down my face, more confused than horny for once, which is saying something.Because now I don’t know if I’m the one pretending to date Soren Thorn ...or if he’s pretending to be someone I don’t even fully know.
And worse—I’m starting to think I care either way.
God help me.What the fuck is he hiding?
And worse, why am I falling in love?
ChapterTwenty-One
Soren
I landedat Heathrow at six a.m.local time.Slept a grand total of twenty-two minutes—upright, miserable, and in a chair engineered by someone who’s never had a spine or a soul.My back hates me.My brain hates me.And I’m one bad coffee away from declaring international war.
This is all Winnifred’s fault.
Don’t believe me?Let’s rewind.I could’ve booked a private charter.Slept like a king in a seat that reclines into a goddamn bed.Had dinner served on actual plates.Instead, I remembered her voice, “The carbon footprint, Soren.Do you hate polar bears?”
I couldn’t do it, so I asked my assistant to find me a commercial flight as if I was trying to impress the moral compass I’m currently dodging.
What did Gretchen find?A middle seat in fucking coach.It was all the way in the back where knees go to die.
If that wasn’t enough, on one side, there was a man who treated his true-crime podcast like it was a one-man show for the entire cabin.No headphones.Full volume.Enthusiastic commentary.Apparently, Barbara Nolan was dismembered and dumped in a ravine—but not before her spleen was mailed to Minnesota.And the worst part?I never got to hear the ending.I don’t know if they found the guy who did it.Which, honestly, feels like a metaphor for my life right now.
On the other side, a couple locked in a marital death match over a single first-class upgrade.I offered to pay for a second ticket just to shut them up.
Did they stop?
Of course not.
They pivoted.Seamlessly.Argued about whether they’d left the oven on.Whether the dog has abandonment trauma.Whether cilantro tastes like soap or sin.Whether guacamole requires it or whether that’s just a crime against avocados.I was trapped between the podcast and the guac war, wishing for one of those oxygen masks to drop so I could disappear inside it.
It was like being stuck inside a real-time group chat with my extended family, except with worse snacks and no bourbon.So yeah, all of this?Win’s fault.
Well.Maybe mine.
Because I didn’t have to fly to London early, I had time.I could’ve waited.But I didn’t.I couldn’t.Something in me needed to move the fuck out of there.East felt right.Symbolic.Like if I kept going far enough, I’d outrun the memory of that kiss trailing after me like a song I can’t get out of my head.The way she looked at me afterward.The way she ran.
Like I set fire to something, she was only just starting to trust.
The car hums softly as we cut through the foggy morning streets of London.Everything’s gray and old and elegant like the city is judging me for showing up disheveled and emotionally compromised.
The car pulls up to the Merkel Hotel.Grand, imposing, way too proper for the state I’m in.
The doorman tips his hat as if this is the 1800s and I’m not wearing the same jeans I’ve slept in, sweated through, and possibly cried silently into somewhere over the Atlantic because the flight was overstimulating.
A British man in a black waistcoat greets me with a professional smile that feels suspiciously like judgment.“Mr.Thorn, your suite is ready.The Great Expectations, just as requested.”
I didn’t request it.But of course, Helena or my assistant or the universe did.
“Brilliant,” I mutter, dragging my suitcase like it wronged me.
In the elevator, I lean back against the mirrored wall and stare at my reflection.I look like someone who made bad choices and is considering making worse ones.My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I ignore it.It’s either my mother, my cousin, or a new group chat dedicated to lavender baby blankets and the brunch we skipped.
