Page 19 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
“To you.”
“To the aesthetic,” she corrects, straightening her spine like she’s a general going into battle.“If we’re doing this, we’re not half-assing it.There will be a believable origin story, emotional subtext, and at least one romantic photo convincing enough to make your ex wonder if she’s made a terrible mistake—if there was an ex-girlfriend, of course.”
I stare at her.
She stares back—unyielding, possibly manic, definitely terrifying.
And I realize she’s right.I don’t have a way to stop her.
But maybe I can redirect her.
“Let’s keep it simple,” I say, holding up a hand like I’m taming a wild animal with glitter in its teeth.“Just go pack a bag and be my girlfriend for the weekend.”
She gawks.Mouth open.Eyes wide.I should take a picture, record her, or at least note in my calendar that this is the first time since she moved in next door.Winnifred Wolfcraft is completely, utterly speechless.
It’s ...unsettling at best.
I’m not sure if I should feel victorious or start drafting my will.
I press on, rushing the words before she regains full cognitive function.“We’ll leave tonight.I’ll book a hotel in Boston, and in the morning, we’ll drive to Rhode Island, hit the vineyard, sip wine like two completely stable people in love, and then ...”I inhale like a man walking willingly into a storm.“Deal with my family.”
Her eyes narrow again.“You say that like it’s a casual errand.Like we’re just picking up a carton of milk with a side of emotional trauma.”
“It’s not that deep,” I lie so casually I almost believe myself.“Just a weekend.Low effort.Smile, nod, fake a few inside jokes.Done.”
“I can’t just be your girlfriend,” she says, already pacing like she’s planning an entire cinematic universe.
“Why not?”
“It’s not that simple,” she mutters, gesturing wildly now.“We need history.A meet-cute.Who made the first move?Do we have a shared playlist?Inside jokes?Do we hold hands in public, or are we more of a lingering-glance, stolen-touch couple?”
I blink.“Are you seriously building us a relationship canon?”
“Yes,” she replies without pause.“We need continuity.Emotional scaffolding.A believable foundation rooted in chemistry, history, and mutual respect.”
“This isn’t a period drama.”
“No,” she snaps, grabbing a notepad from her bag like she’s about to go full Shonda Rhimes on my life, “it’s worse.It’s your family.And they live way too close to my family.We can’t just be fake dating for funsies.This is dangerous territory.Emotional landmines—we’re sworn enemies, Thorn.Potential small-town fallout.”
“They’re not the Montagues and Capulets,” I mumble.
She waves me off.“Nah.They were adults.Our families are more like tragic teenagers with no impulse control and unlimited metaphorical pitchfork access.And if we mess this up, we won’t get a season two.”
She’s spiraling again.Drawing lines and boxes like she’s planning a heist.
I sigh.“Freddy.”I press the bridge of my nose.“We don’t need season two.It’s a one-time deal.”
She freezes.Then slowly looks up at me, clearly unimpressed.Whatever I just said?Not a hit.Obviously, I’m underperforming.Sure, she complains about her family’s obsession with competition—but let’s be honest, she’s cut from the same gilded cloth.
“I’m not asking for a Shakespearean-level romance with flashbacks and a tear-jerking finale.”I fold my arms, trying to look as serious as possible.This has become a negotiation.“I’m asking for seventy-two hours of fake affection and light snark.”
She frowns.“Light snark?Do you even know me?”
Unfortunately, I do.‘Light’ will be impossible, and if I want to make this work, I have to give a little.“Okay, medium snark—but that’s all, Fred.”
She thinks for a beat, then points her pink pen at me like she’s about to rewrite my entire existence.
“Fine.But I’m writing the backstory.And I get creative control over our fake meet-cute.”
