Page 37 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
I stop walking.Stare at him.
“Did you just make a joke?”
He shrugs like he didn’t just blow a hole in the space-time continuum.I should document this.Soren Thorn made a joke—without prompting.
“Still,” I say, dragging us back to reality, “I can’t go from one guy to another in less than seventy-two hours.It’s weird.I look unstable.And not the fun kind of unstable where you go viral for singing breakup songs in your ex’s driveway.The sad kind.”
Soren scrubs a hand over his face.The gesture is part frustration, part why did I get involved in this nonsense, and part where the fuck is the emergency wine?“We need a better plan.”
“We need a fake breakup,” I breathe.“Or a fake engagement.Or—fuck.I don’t know.A vacation with no cell service, no families, and definitely matching pajama sets.”
“I’m not wearing matching pajamas.”
“You say that now,” I say, pointing a finger at him like it’s a binding legal agreement.“But give it one night, two glasses of wine, and a themed gift basket, and you’ll be wearing ‘His & Hers’ flannel faster than you can say ‘awkward family photo.’”
He exhales, and it’s almost a laugh.Almost.
I toss up my hands.“Let’s not spiral.Not yet.Let’s just get the best possible pictures.I’ll save my inevitable freak-out for tonight, maybe around the second hour of the engagement party when someone brings up when we plan to have our first baby.For now, daylight, wine, and—” I glance at him.“Your ...jokes.”
Soren lets me drag him forward without resistance.The man moves like someone who’s wandered onto the set of a photo shoot he didn’t sign up for—but can’t deny he’s unnervingly perfect for.The lighting favors him.The breeze cooperates.The fucking grapes probably blush when he walks by.
And still—he stays next to me.Letting me spin, letting me scheme, letting me fall apart in that subtle, practiced way I do when I’m pretending to hold it all together.
We find a bench under a curtain of vines, where the sunlight slips through just enough to say we’re blissfully in love while pretending we don’t owe anyone context.
“Here,” I say, pulling my phone out.“Sit like you’re so in love with me but also vaguely detached.”
“That’s ...specific and probably impossible to create.”
“Welcome to my coping mechanism.”
He sits, one ankle crossed over the other, arm stretched across the bench like an invitation or a dare.I settle beside him, tilt my head just enough to find the good light, and lift the phone.
“Wait,” I say.“I need my wind braid.”
I tug a loose strand forward like I’m in a windswept perfume ad.He doesn’t even bother to hide the eye roll.
The photo is perfect, blurry enough, sunlit just right, and best of all: no faces.But something about the line of his arm behind me feels too natural.Like he’s not posing.Like, he forgot this is fake.
I look at the screen for a beat too long.
“So,” I say, half to distract myself.“What’s the plan when someone from your side spots us?”
“No one will find us here,” he says calmly.“We’ll handle the rest during Daisy’s engagement party.”
“That’s worse.”
He doesn’t even blink.“I know.”
Great.A fake boyfriend, a public lie, and an engagement party with his family.All we’re missing now is a slow dance and a nervous breakdown.
What’s the worst that can happen?Besides literally everything.
ChapterSixteen
Soren
This day has been...unpredictable.In the same way that skydiving without a parachute is technically an adventure.
