Page 20 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
I should say no.I should draw a line somewhere—preferably one that doesn’t end with glitter and emotional vulnerability.But this is Winnifred.Logic doesn’t apply.Boundaries are just casual suggestions she decorates with washi tape and animal stickers.
I should count this as a victory.I got her to say yes, didn’t I?
Fuck, what am I doing?
Still, I hear myself say it anyway.“Deal.”
“And a vineyard photo,” she adds with zero shame.“Something that can pass as a soft launch.”
“This might be the worst decision I’ve made since buying that Pressure Cooker Air Fryer duo I’ve never even used.”
She grins—wide, wicked, completely delighted.“Oh, Thorn.Not only am I your best decision, I’m going to teach you how to use your neglected kitchen appliances when we get back.”
And somehow, I already know—deep in my bones and probably my soul—that I’m going to regret this before the weekend is over.
Maybe even before we get on the plane.
ChapterEight
Winnifred
I have approximatelyone hour to pack for a weekend-long fake relationship that could potentially ruin ...what, exactly?
My dignity?
My already-questionable decision-making record?
Honestly, if this blows up, it’s his problem.
No—wait.If it blows up, my family will find out.And when my family finds out?It’s like setting off a chain reaction of passive-aggressive group texts, guilt-laced phone calls, and possibly a family Zoom intervention with my grandmother sighing into her knitting needles.
Failure isn’t just frowned upon in my world.It’s ...hereditary shame.A legacy.I can’t afford it.
Not when this is supposed to be easy.All I have to do is smile pretty, pretend I’m the perfect girlfriend, charm a few wine-drunk strangers, and then vanish like a seasonal ghost—Christmas present-style.I’ve only failed at this exact scenario with one group of people—my own family.Repeatedly.Spectacularly.
Luckily, his family hates my family.There’s a solid chance they won’t even realize I’m there until I’m not.And by the time they do?I’ll have already posted a mournful Instagram story with a cryptic breakup caption and some carefully curated sad lyrics.Something about wilted love and vineyards.
Closure.Rebirth.Vibes.
Or, at the very least, it’ll be a distraction until I figure out how to permanently avoid my relatives without officially changing my name and moving to Finland.
Should I back out now and come up with a better solution for Soren?
No.He’s taking me to a vineyard.That buys me time.Time to figure out how to either fake a new identity or craft a compelling narrative arc for my life that doesn’t involve awkward Christmas brunches.
Plus, this is my chance to get one of those moody windblown selfies where I stare into the distance like I’m contemplating life, not just trying to keep my hair out of my lip gloss.
I’m spiraling.And yet, I’m fine.Totally fine.Not even a little panicked.I’m the definition of composure.
Which is why, obviously, I’m currently flinging half my closet onto my bed like a woman possessed, trying to find the one outfit that screams: Yes, I’m his girlfriend.Yes, I’m flawless.No, I’m not emotionally unstable—I’m just really expressive.
I am a vision of grace.
“Wait.Back up.”Aiden’s voice bursts through my phone speaker.She’s been listening to my packing-induced meltdown for the past half-hour, and now I’ve finally said something worth interrupting her podcast for.
“Your hot next-door neighbor asked you to ...what now?”
“Annoying, grumpy neighbor,” I correct because we are not giving him the satisfaction of ‘hot.’That’s a line we don’t cross.“He asked me to be his girlfriend.”
