Page 30 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
I raise an eyebrow.“That’s not even remotely true.”
She grins.“I know.”
She pats the space beside her without looking at me.
I don’t move.
I don’t trust her—or maybe it’s that I don’t trust myself in one bed with her.
ChapterTwelve
Soren
Later,after we begin to unpack—or more accurately after she claims the closet and I pretend the edge of the armchair counts as a dresser—Winnifred disappears into the bathroom to change.
I sit stiffly on the edge of the bed like it’s wired to explode the second I exhale too confidently.There’s a rose petal stuck to the duvet.I try to brush it off.It clings like it knows something I don’t.
When she reappears, she’s swapped airport exhaustion for soft pajama shorts and a sleep shirt that boldly reads: I Nap Harder Than You Party.She’s holding a tiny travel-size facial mist and humming.
Humming.
“This is very casual for a woman who just threatened murder,” I say.
She shrugs, spritzes her face like she’s in a skincare commercial.“I had a snack.I feel better.”
My gaze flicks toward the room service cart.The Couple’s Welcome Package is in full force: chocolate-dipped strawberries, a chilled bottle of champagne sweating in an ice bucket, two flutes, and what I’m ninety percent sure is a hand-folded towel swan perched on a tray of macarons.
“A snack,” I repeat.“You mean the strawberries meant to seduce us?”
“They’re dipped in dark chocolate and come with their tiny forks.I’m not made of stone.”
“Did you open the champagne too?”
She gestures toward the half-full glass on the nightstand.“I poured one.For research purposes.”
“Of course.Purely academic.”
She plops down on the bed beside me, cross-legged and content, like this is all perfectly normal.“Also, I read the little card.”
“There was a card?”
She leans over, grabs it from the tray, and hands it to me.I read aloud.
“Tonight’s experience has been carefully curated for two.Please select your dinner preferences via the in-room tablet.Chef’s specials include aphrodisiac-inspired amuse-bouchées, shared entrées, and a ‘dessert for lovers.’”
That’s a lot of words to say that this room assumes we’re wildly into each other and allergic to boundaries.
“So,” she says, stretching like a cat with zero shame and max pajama confidence, “do we order the dinner, or do we pretend we didn’t read the part about ‘dessert for lovers’ and sneak out for pizza?”
I look down at the bed.The strawberries.The champagne.The two perfectly arranged place settings practically whisper ‘kiss already,’ waiting for food.
I’ve lost this round already.
“Depends,” I say.“Does the dessert come with a towel swan?Because I’m not sure if I can handle those things staring at me.”
She follows my gaze and makes a face.“It’s giving ...bedroom origami with ulterior motives.”
“Exactly.That swan might have expectations I am not emotionally prepared to meet.”
