Page 38 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Did I have fun at the vineyard?
Weirdly—yes.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t a disaster.It was more than manageable after Winnifred stopped taking what were objectively the world’s most perfect pictures of us.No faces, all golden-hour silhouettes and blurry laughs and two wine glasses clinking like we were in a slow-mo champagne commercial—her words.It was a sort of aesthetic that influencers caption “just us, just vibes” while tagging their management agency in lowercase italics.
None of the photos made it online.None of me did, at least.And I appreciated that more than she probably realized.I’m not a social media guy.My digital footprint could file for witness protection, and no one would notice—and I plan to keep it that way.
But the vineyard?
Winnifred made it easy.She was warm, quick-witted, and didn’t try too hard.She didn’t ask me to explain my job or, my childhood trauma or my five-year plan.She just sipped her wine, leaned into my side when the breeze picked up and made fun of the wine guy who insisted the rosé had “notes of emotional intimacy.”And when she smiled—really smiled—I felt something in my chest shift in a way that didn’t feel entirely like mine anymore.
Once the mission was over, we headed back to the hotel to change.And now ...when we arrived at the engagement party, all the quiet ease we’d built over the last few hours evaporated the second we stepped into the party.
Not because of the venue—it’s my home, the place where I grew up.Okay, that in itself makes it awkward and unwelcome.But then add that the moment I step onto the stone path lined with towering floral arrangements and string lights so perfectly arranged they look like someone hired a team of overachieving wedding stylists with a God complex, and I regret every decision that’s led me here.
This doesn’t look like a simple engagement party.It’s more like a wedding that hasn’t signed the paperwork yet.
There’s a string quartet playing.Candlelit tables covered in custom-printed menus.Servers in crisp black uniforms pass around truffle arancini like we’re at a fundraiser.
“This is ...are you sure it’s an engagement party?”Win asks, her brows doing that sarcastic little arch that says,Babe, we took a wrong turn, and we might as well go home.
“That’s what my mother said over the phone.”Right before…” I made a series of deeply stupid decisions I now have to carry like an emotional hangover.
“Right before what?”she asks, cocking her head suspiciously.
“It’s not important.”
“The only way this relationship is going to survive is if we’re honest with each other, Thorn.”She draws out my last name like it’s both a warning and a dare.
I look at her, unsure what she wants from me.Is this part of the fake relationship method?A trick to pull me into confession?
Or maybe she’s serious.
I don’t get a chance to decide because just then, I hear it: “Soren,” a familiar voice trills, loud enough to send a tremor through all the champagne flutes within a five-mile radius.“You’re actually here.And Mom was right—you did bring a plus-one.”
My sister, Daisy, appears like she’s entering a Vogue spread, not her own engagement party.Her dress doesn’t beg for attention—it simply assumes the room belongs to her.Her phone’s in one hand, a dangerously pink cocktail in the other, and somehow, she’s still got that smile that says,I love you.
Liam follows behind her, perfectly pressed and oozing polite superiority.Her fiancé.Her soon-to-be husband.The same guy who once tried to teach me tennis while I was visiting in the Hamptons while subtly explaining—without saying it out loud—that he’s better at everything, including sportsmanship, fashion, and probably foreplay.
“Winnifred,” I say, placing a hand on her back—a small move, but it’s enough to let her know I’ve got her.“This is my sister, Daisy.And this is Liam, her fiancé.”
Daisy’s eyes sparkle like she’s already planning a dinner party, where this moment will be the opening anecdote.“You’re the girlfriend?”she says, tilting her head as if she’s just discovered a long-lost painting that might be valuable in her garage.“You look familiar.”
Winnifred tilts her head right back, matching her tone with a smile that could slice diamonds.“Familiar?”she echoes.“As in, we locked eyes across a boutique in SoHo last summer, or you used to strategically avoid the library during recess while I was alphabetizing the fiction section for fun?”
Oof.That one lands hard—too hard.I glance at her, then at Daisy, wondering if my sister was casually cruel to her back in high school.I wouldn’t know.I was already long gone from Winterberry Cove by then, too busy pretending New York internships made me grown-up.
Before the awkwardness has time to settle in, another voice chimes in—one I didn’t expect.
“Winnifred, darling, I didn’t expect to see you here—or in town,” says Mrs.Rogers, the librarian, as she approaches us with the enthusiasm of someone who actually likes small talk.“How are you, sweetie?Does your mom know you’re?—”
“In Winterberry Cove?”Winnifred cuts in, smile still polite but now teetering toward brittle.“Nope, and I’d prefer if she didn’t.It’s just a quick trip.Wouldn’t want to trouble her with something as frivolous as my presence.”
Mrs.Rogers laughs, clearly missing the subtext.“Well, it’s so good to see you.You look radiant.Colorado suits you.”
“Must be the honey treatments—every night before bed.”Winnifred deadpans, lips tugging into a perfect, practiced smile.Her fingers twitch slightly where they brush mine like she’s barely holding onto the script.
And fuck me, I hate how much I notice that.
