Page 46 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Fuck, I’m so screwed.
“You asked me to bring my girlfriend.”Not sure why I blurted that, it’s probably the worst defense.
“Oh, it worked, alright.The photographer is already asking if we should move the family portrait session to include her.”
“We could,” I mutter.
My brain is unusually betraying me faster than my mouth can course-correct.
“What?”My mother blinks, brows arching with a blend of suspicion and what-the-fuck maternal concern.
“What?”I echo too quickly.Playing innocent, as if I didn’t just say the thing out loud.
As if I’m not actively imagining Winnifred in that portrait, tucked under my arm, smirking like she knows she doesn’t belong in the picture but kind of wants to be in it anyway.
Mom narrows her eyes and folds her arms in a way that says she already knows the ending to this story, and it’s not a happy one.
“You kissed her too well, Soren,” she says, voice low, crisp.“People are going to start asking questions.”
“They did, which is why we told them our story and ...well, here we are.”
“This woman is a Wolfcraft, Soren,” she says as if the name is contagious.Almost as if I’ve just dragged the devil’s daughter to my sister’s engagement party and offered her cake.“We don’t tangle withthatfamily.”
There it is.Right on cue.Winnifred swears this tension between our families runs deeper than a Shakespearian tragedy, and I’ve always rolled my eyes—because Mom’s not like that.
Except, apparently, she is.
“Mom’s not like that,” I say anyway.Weak defense, especially when I sound like I’m trying to convince myself.
“This is going to end badly,” she hisses, scanning the crowd like someone might be eavesdropping.“And we’ll be laughingstocks.Again.”
I could ask something like, when were we ever laughingstocks?But I choose not to do it.“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“No, you’re trying to control,” I say, softer than I mean to because the last thing I want to do is start a fight with her.“You want everyone to see a Thorn family tree without any inconvenient branches—but just so you know, Win isn’t an inconvenience.”
Her jaw ticks, but she doesn’t deny it.Suddenly, I need to find Winnifred—I just need her.
Not for damage control.Not for appearances.I just need to see her face and make sure she’s alright.
To ensure I didn’t imagine the way she kissed me back.
To remind myself that whatever that was—it happened.And it meant something.At least to me.
And I hate how badly I want her to feel it, too.
I peel away from my mother’s frostbitten silence and make my way inside.The house hums with curated celebration—laughter rising in controlled crescendos, clinks of crystal glasses, someone retelling the same story for the fourth time.The party hasn’t noticed I’m unraveling.
My steps carry me past stiff portraits of dead relatives who all look like they’d disapprove of PDA and feelings.Past rugs so antique I can see generations of denial woven into them.Past mirrored furniture that throws my conflicted face right back at me.
And then, I stop at the guest bathroom.The door is locked, light on.I’m pretty sure she’s there.I feel it in the air—the tension, the lingering heat, the echo of that kiss hanging between the hallway and my stupid heart.
I lean back against the wall and press the heels of my hands into my eyes, like I can massage clarity into my brain—like maybe if I push hard enough, I’ll make this make sense.But it doesn’t.Not really.Because here’s the truth—bare, raw, and quietly wrecking: at first, I didn’t mean to kiss her like that.
It wasn’t calculated.It wasn’t part of the script.It just happened like that and felt so natural, like we belonged.
Do I regret it?
