Page 55 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
As the elevator glides upward, I glance around at the soft gold lighting, the velvet panels, and the carved trim that probably has a name like Gilded Regency Luxe.Win would’ve had thoughts.About the aesthetic.About the mood-board potential.She would’ve whispered something about the lighting being perfect for boudoir photography just to make me lose my shit in public.
I smile despite myself.Or because of her.
And suddenly, I’m missing her like a limb.Like something vital was pulled out of me and replaced with this hollow buzz of almosts and what-ifs.
She’d hate the stuffy formality of this hotel.But she’d also secretly love it.She’d run her fingers along the furniture, tell me the crown molding was criminally good, and then threaten to redesign the whole place in sage velvet and sexy lighting for mood.She’d probably call it “corporate seduction chic.”And I’d agree to anything if she said it with that smile.
I close my eyes for a second, just long enough to imagine her next to me.Commenting on the hallway carpet.Quoting something ridiculous.Smudging her lipstick on my shirt because she can’t keep her balance while ogling at things.
By the time the elevator sighs open, I’m wrecked.Not just jet-lagged or cranky or wired from mediocre coffee and in-flight existential dread.
I’m hard for a woman I haven’t seen in more than twenty-four hours.
Because apparently my body didn’t get the memo that this trip was about avoidance.That I’m here to work.To clear my head.To not think about Winnifred’s mouth.Or the sound she made when I deepened the kiss.Or how she looked at me like maybe—just maybe—I was something worth staying for.
Spoiler: avoiding her didn’t work.Running away didn’t fix a damn thing.
Now I’m starting to admit the part of this fake relationship that’s messing with my head isn’t the fake part.It’s how much I wish it wasn’t.
The suite door clicks open like it’s sighing at my tragic lack of self-awareness.I step inside and take in the Merkel Hotel’s very specific idea of luxury: all minimalist elegance and dim lighting, a place where even the complimentary water bottle wears a cashmere sweater.
Winnifred would hate the sconces.She’d walk in, arch a brow, and declare the lighting an affront to human warmth.Then she’d mentally gut the place—add warm tones, layered textures, something that didn’t scream “corporate spa for the emotionally vacant.”Less funeral chic, more playful elegance.She’d pretend to scoff at the aesthetic, but I know she’d already be redesigning it in her head, like an HGTV host with a grudge and impeccable taste.
God, I fucking miss her.
I drop my suitcase by the armchair and sit at the edge of the bed like a man who doesn’t know what the hell comes next.The duvet is crisp.The room is silent.I’m alone, which is what I asked for.But my chest’s wound tight like I packed it wrong, and now I can’t get it to open.
What do you even do after the best kiss of your life?
You know—the kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen.The one written in sarcasm and social obligation.A fake-out, a performance.Smile for the crowd.Say the right line.Tilt your head just so.Add heat, but not heart.
Except her mouth softened under mine like it forgot we were pretending.Like it remembered something we hadn’t admitted out loud.
My hand found the small of her back without thought like my body knew what to do before I did.Not a stage cue.Not a move.Just ...instinct.Maybe even ownership.Not of her—but of the moment.
She breathed me in—slow, sure, wrecking.Not scripted.Not performed.Just her, wanting me.I kissed her as if I’d been waiting for that exact moment longer than I should admit.As if claiming her was instinct, not impulse.
And for a second, I let myself believe we weren’t pretending at all.
Then?
I left the country.
Because pretending it didn’t mean anything?That was starting to feel impossible.
So I did the next best thing.
I left the fucking country.
Because nothing says emotional stability like booking an international flight instead of having a conversation.A move that probably gets me a gold star for maturity.This makes me no different from the LARPer.I don’t even have a good excuse.
I told myself this meeting in London was urgent.That coming early was a smart business decision.But the truth is, I believed work would keep my mind busy from Win, my family, or the whispering post-party hordes who now think I knocked up Winnifred Wolfcraft during a quickie that never happened.
I open my phone and refresh the Thorn Family Group Chat.
Still chaos.
Grandma Rita has crocheted three possible baby blanket prototypes.Helena changed the group name to “Baby Thorn Watch 2025.”My mother, God bless her passive-aggression, has sent seventeen prayer hand emojis followed by an all-caps, “I RAISED YOU BETTER.”
