Page 18 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
I stare at her deadpan.“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.You brought this issue into my life, and I will not be half-assing it.”
She sets everything down with a flourish and pulls out a Sharpie like she’s about to rewrite my life.
“Step one: define your romantic brand.”
“Oh, God.”
I smack my palm against my forehead with the grace of a man who clearly made a series of poor life choices.What did I do to myself?
“Forget—”
“Step two,” she cuts in, bulldozing right over my plea like a woman possessed, “determine how your tragic romantic origin story begins.Meet-cute?Office slow burn?Reunited lovers with tortured eye contact and unresolved trauma?”
“Winnifred—”
She raises a hand, silencing me with the conviction of a courtroom attorney mid-closing argument.“Nope.I’m in it now.This train is moving.You, Soren Thorn, are getting a vision-board-worthy fake love story, and I’m the unhinged but well-meaning conductor.”
And just like that, I realize I’ve lost control of my life.
Probably forever.
I should be worried.I should be panicking.
Instead?
I look at her.Really look.Not at the glitter explosion happening on my table or the twenty-two color-coded markers she’s somehow unearthed but at her.This isn’t just her usual brand of chaos.She’s not spiraling because I asked for help.
Nope.
She’s redirecting.
Winnifred Wolfcraft, a world-class fixer of other people’s nonsense, is pouring every ounce of her energy into my emergency because it’s easier than facing the dumpster fire flickering behind her breakup and the consequences of all her lies.
So, in a moment of weakness—or compassion—or maybe a complete break from reality, I say something that I’ll absolutely regret for the rest of my life.
“I know a vineyard where you can live your perfect-boyfriend fantasy.”
She stops mid-magazine-flip.
Literally freezes.
One hand suspended in the air like she’s placing a star on top of a Christmas tree in a romantic movie finale.
Then, her head turns slowly.There’s a slow blink.Then another before she speaks, “Excuse me?”
“You need a vineyard,” I say, already regretting everything that’s led me to this point—including my birth.“I know one.”
Her eyes narrow like she’s decoding me in real-time.Like, I’m a late-season plot twist, and she’s not sure if she’s watching a rom-com or a thriller.
“What are you saying, Thorn?”
I gesture toward the vision board she’s aggressively assembling on my property.“The party’s tomorrow.I don’t have time for ...”I wave vaguely at the chaos.“Whatever this is.Your mood-board scrapbook summit.”
She follows my gaze.The board is already half-covered in sticky notes, potential couple hashtags, and what might be a disturbingly detailed seating chart based on zodiac signs and perceived romantic aura.
“I can’t just stop.This is important,” she says, all defensive posture and puffed-up determination.
