Page 11 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
I'm not sure how many times I have to explain to her that I’m not her guinea pig.She could use the people in the neighborhood, but somehow, I always end up being the poor asshole who might drop dead because instead of baking powder, she added cyanide.But the truth?Her baked goodies are dangerous, not in a poisonous way, more like you can’t-only-eat-one kind of dangerous.
Would I buy her cookies or cupcakes?
Last week, my assistant placed an order for three dozen of her cupcakes—plus a full catering spread—for a company event.The cupcakes were a hit.Winnifred has no idea it was my company who hired her.The invoice went through our corporate account like every other vendor request.
To her, we’re just another job.She dropped off the delivery, thanked my assistant, smiled like she hadn’t just baked half the city into a sugar coma—and left.
We use her a few times a year.Quarterly lunches, client mixers, strategy days.She thinks we’re some small-time company, and I’d like to keep it that way.If she ever finds out it’s me behind the orders, she’s going to turn it into a whole thing—with emojis, hashtags, and probably a custom cookie called “Soren’s Secret.”
And I’m not prepared for that.Plus, I like to keep my life separate from ...her antics.
Which, I know, sounds insane considering she lives next door.But I manage.I listen to her spiral.I offer zero commentary.I dodge every personal question with a level of precision that would impress any spy.It’s a system.
You have to have a system with someone who can’t keep herself focused.We don’t even have to go that far.There’s the bakery name.“Frostationship”—or was it “Tiny Crimes of Batter”?I can’t keep track.She changes it every five fucking seconds like it’s her password, and she’s dodging hackers.Meanwhile, she swears she’s opening it by March.
Good luck with that.
Right now, though, she’s not focused on cookies.She’s deep into what she calls her “love story,” which honestly feels more like the origin story of a very charming villain.She’s slowly building the perfect boyfriend—curated, filtered, emotionally accessorized—to win her parents’ approval.Newsflash: it’s going to bite her in the ass.
I step out from the house onto my deck, beer in hand, ready to enjoy ten solid minutes of peace—only to find Winnifred already outside.
Across from her is the boyfriend she’s trying to turn into a dream, Chad.He’s wearing chainmail.Not metaphorical chainmail.Not a hoodie with armor-inspired stitching.Actual chainmail.Over a graphic tee that says “Ye Olde Meat on a Stick.”
I pause because—what in the Comic-Con fuck?
He beams like a man who has just conquered a village.“I’m ready for our weekend.The fair’s gonna be epic—are you going to get changed so we can leave?”
Winnifred doesn’t speak right away.Her face goes slack in the way only heartbreak and shattered dreams can manage—death by Renaissance cosplay.
“Fair?”she states, her voice doing that thing where it tries to stay bright but is already fraying at the edges.
“Yeah.Larkspur’s Medieval Days.”Chad tightens the belt around his hips like this is a real moment.“It’s like an hour away.They’ve got turkey legs, sword fights, a falconry demo—super immersive stuff.It’s gonna be sick, babe.”
From my vantage point, I can see her vineyard dreams screeching off a cliff.The Spa robes, vineyard selfies, and the bath bomb moment—dead on arrival.
“That’s ...the romantic getaway?”
Chad blinks, confused by her confusion.“Uh, yeah.You said we needed new experiences.I promised to plan the perfect getaway.”
“Umm, yes, new experiences,” she confirms, but those pretty brown eyes are saying, ‘how the fuck am I going to fix this?’
He takes a step forward, looking like a puppy wrapped in chainmail.“I knew we were meant to be.Wait for next year.I have an entire map of Renaissance fairs across the country.We can do a full loop—twelve stops, all themed.We could be legends.”
I bite the inside of my cheek because—well fuck—he’s serious, and this is not what she planned.
Winnifred blinks like she’s been hit with a foam sword.“Right, but I was thinking more ...Napa-like experiences.Massages.Wine tastings.Pillows with a thread count that cost more than my rent.”
Chad laughs, not catching a single hint.“Oh, no.That’s not for me.We’re going LARPing.”He beams like he’s offering her a proposal.“I even rented us a tent in the reenactment campgrounds.You get to be my tavern wench.”
“Tavern ...wench.”
“Yeah.You get a corset and everything.”His grin stretches like this is the best idea anyone’s ever had.
I glance at Winnifred—glorious, disillusioned, holding her phone like she’s waiting for someone to call and wake her from what might be a nightmare.
She wanted cozy-modern Napa.She got late-medieval England circa 1300 and a guy who calls a turkey leg “romantic cuisine.”
And I hate to admit it—but they might actually be perfect for each other.
