Page 26 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
“What?”
“Quiz me.Prep me.Let’s do your fake-girlfriend boot camp—we got four hours to prep.But keep it quick—I’d like to mentally prepare myself to survive dinner with my mother tomorrow without spontaneous combustion.”
“Don’t forget the vineyard.”She gives me a flat look, unimpressed by my apparent optimism.“We had a deal, Soren.I bring my best performance to this ‘fakey special,’ and you don’t crash it with half-baked improv.”
“The plane is landing in Boston,” I start, shifting into logistics like it’s a shield.“We’re booked at the Merkel Hotel through Sunday.We’ll be driving in and out of Winterberry Cove.”
It’s not that I’m hiding details.I just ...don’t usually do the whole share-your-life thing.Solo mode is my comfort zone.This is new terrain.
“We’re not staying in town?”
“Do you want to stay in town?”
There’s a beat.
Then she lights up like someone handed her a glitter cannon and a completely irresponsible amount of craft supplies.“Not at all.”
I raise a brow.“Really?If you want to visit your family?—”
“I have no interest in running into anyone who remembers what I looked like with braces and bangs,” she cuts into the conversation.“Nor do I want Mom to find out I was there ...like, ever.”
“Noted.”
She grins.“Finally.You’re taking this seriously.”
“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”
She ignores me—shocker—and starts rapid-fire questioning.“Favorite song?”
“Anything that isn’t in your breakup playlist.”
“Wow.Hurtful.But fine.Dream vacation?”
“I don’t dream.”
She scribbles something furiously.“Okay, so we’re going with Arctic Pole.Broody, cold, and distant.It fits your brand.”
“I’m not a brand.”
She doesn’t dignify that with a response.Instead: “Most irrational fear?”
“You, in a craft store.”
She makes a loud, judgmental hmmph sound and keeps writing.
“Pet peeves?”
“People who talk through movies, people who clap when the plane lands and people who pretend brunch isn’t just a late breakfast.”
She looks up at that.“Okay, that’s fair.But if you insult brunch again, I’ll tell your mother you’re planning to propose over bottomless mimosas.”
I exhale slowly through my nose.“You’re evil.”
“I’m disciplined,” she says sweetly.
There’s a pause.She’s still scribbling.Her shoulders start to relax.Her hair’s falling into her face in that half-messy, half-perfect way she insists is unintentional, even though I’ve seen her redo it three times in one morning.I let the quiet stretch between us for a beat.
“You don’t have to work this hard, you know,” I say, softer.
