Page 75 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
I clear my throat.“I’m not sharing a bed with you, by the way.”
“You say that now,” he says, not even looking at me—just studying the cheese board with a suspicious level of interest.“But let’s not rule anything out until the end of the weekend—or whenever we have to go home.What if the throw pillows convince you otherwise?”
“Throw pillows are not an aphrodisiac.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says.“There’s a pillow on that bed right now that says Talk Turkey to Me.If that doesn’t make you feel things, you might be dead inside.”
I laugh.Not the polite holiday party version I’ve perfected this week—but the real deal.It startles both of us a little.
He looks at me then—really looks—like he’s trying to memorize something he’s afraid to forget.Like I’ve just shifted into focus for him in a way that matters.I have to glance away before I fall headfirst into whatever he’s thinking because why if I forget how to climb back out?
I stand and wander toward the window.The city is dusted with snow already, white flakes swirling under streetlamps like we’re in a snow globe someone shook too hard.There’s something undeniably cozy about being stuck here.Away from the judgmental eyes of our families.Away from the pressure to perform.It’s just us in this suite, suspended in time.
“You, okay?”he asks softly.
I nod.“Weirdly, yes.”
His voice lowers.“You’re not disappointed?”
“No.”I turn, facing him now.“Honestly, I think this is the best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a while.”
He raises an eyebrow.“This is pre-Thanksgiving dinner.And you haven’t even tried the sweet potato fries yet.”
“I don’t need fries when you’ve got a fireplace app and Talk Turkey to Me pillows.”
He grins, that maddening, slow-burn kind that makes my spine hum.“So you do feel things.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
But my smile gives me up, traitorous as ever.He sees right through it, through me, and he takes a step closer—just one, but it’s enough to erase every inch of space between us.My breath snags somewhere in my throat like it’s caught on his name.
“Win,” he says, voice husky and low, like he’s about to say something he can’t take back.
My heart stumbles.Trips.Full-on faceplants.
We should discussthekisses, but we keep choosing not to.That’s not very smart, but at what point is too late to say,By the way, your lips on my mouth ...what’s that about, Soren?
I mean, there’ve been too many.Too often.
They seem not to be intentional and lingering.
Also, they’re full of things we’ve both been pretending not to feel.
Every one of them feels like a conversation we keep having with our mouths because neither of us knows how to say it out loud yet.
He reaches up, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.His fingers brush my cheek, linger for half a second too long.
And then—there’s a knock on the door.
ChapterThirty-One
Winnifred
Nothing says divine intervention,like a knock at the door right before I throw logic out the window and kiss him like my entire body already thinks he’s mine.
Which is ridiculous.A full lie dressed up in sexual tension and without a fake dating contract.We should draw one and have clauses before it’s too late.Since we don’t, I remind myself that we’re just two people who’re pretending to date.Acting.Yes, I agree that our performances wouldn’t get us an award.Not even a Razzie for worst acting.It’s probably because we’re performing something that only exists in the cracks between glances and almosts.
We have thirty days left to play house.Thirty days to smile for the camera, keep the lies believable, and absolutely not fall into bed together—or in love.
