Page 8 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Soren.
Looking like he was chiseled out of quiet judgment and denim.
He’s standing near his own deck, arms crossed, jaw clenched, watching me like I’m committing a misdemeanor with my very existence.He’s wearing that soft black Henley shirt again—the one with the buttons down the front that probably cause minor heart palpitations in most women within a ten-foot radius—not me, of course.Never me.
His sleeves are pushed up, revealing forearms that look like they’ve chopped wood, wrestled bears, or built cabins by hand.He doesn’t say anything.He just looks.Like my life is a questionable movie trailer, and he’s not buying the ticket but wants to check the trailer.
I wave at him as if saying hello, but also, ‘stay in your lane.’I don’t need his opinion during my conversation.Not that he gives it while I’m on the phone, but I want to set a boundary in case he’s tempted to cross it.
“Anyway, Mom, Chad, and I have plans this weekend.Romantic ones.Think ...vineyard sunsets.Maybe a couple’s massage.All very dreamy.”
Soren’s other brow lifts.Yep.He definitely heard that.
Perfect.Now, I’m lying to my mother and being silently judged by my ridiculously attractive, perpetually grumpy neighbor.I really hope this doesn’t reach Winterberry, or I’m fucked.
This is just another day in the life of Winnifred Wolfcraft: emotional chaos with a side of Pinot Noir.Where are my chocolates?
“Mom, listen, you would love him,” I say, forcing every ounce of enthusiasm into my voice like I’m auditioning for a holiday movie calledA Vineyard for Vows.“He’s thoughtful, grounded, loves animals, and—don’t forget—the family ranch.”
My mother hums like she’s already planning our wedding theme in her head.“Does he wear flannel?He has to wear flannel.”
I’m not sure if that’s a genuine requirement or just a coded threat, but I go ahead and embellish.
“He wears flannels and Henleys,” I reassure her, sneaking a glance toward Soren, who’s now leaned one shoulder against the fence, sipping from a matte-black water bottle like he’s watching a trainwreck in slow motion.
I don’t know why I add it, but I do.“He has very sculpted arms.And stubble.He’s hot.”
Soren quirks one brow higher, then slowly looks down at his own biceps, clearly wondering if he’s been roped into my fictional boyfriend’s résumé.Because we both know that Chad doesn’t look anything like I just said.
So I’m not being truthful here, but it’s my mother.I have to create something that will take her off my back.Do I have a romantic date coming?Yes, I do.We’re going to do something special, unique—out of this world.I’m not sure if those were Chad’s words or mine, but the point is that I have the perfect vineyard up in Aspen.It’s fall, and it’s the ideal time to go up to the mountains.
“You need to send me pictures of him,” Mom says, practically bouncing through the phone line.
“Pictures ...”I repeat weakly, opening my camera app and aiming at the glass of wine in my hand like it might magically reflect a fake boyfriend.
We can take pictures of the scenery when we’re up there, but I’m not taking a picture of him.Chad’s pretty skinny.He only lifts keyboards, phones, and the occasional game console.
“You should be more like your sisters,” she says, her voice smoothing into that familiar silk-wrapped blade.
Trish is always broadcasting some power quote from her corner office as if every email signature needs a TED Talk.Liz floods my feed with photos of my new niece—which, to be fair, I adore.And then there’s Chelsea, my sister-in-law, who never misses a chance to show off something or another.
“Did I mention Chelsea just posted pictures from their Cabo trip?”she adds like it’s breaking news.“The kids stayed with me over the weekend.”
“Oh, great.Glenn and Chelsea went to Cabo.How original.”I try not to sound sarcastic or add,Why are the kids always at grandma’s while the parents live the socialite life?
Not to throw shade at my brother and his wife, but sometimes it feels like my parents are raising their children.That should count as some kind of emotional abuse—Mom and Dad can be pretty toxic.
“Yes.You should do that.Go on a weekend trip with Chad.That’s going to be so romantic.”
She’s not even subtle anymore.I can hear her beaming—this is less about romance and more about finally becoming the daughter she’s always wanted.Not that I’m her only one, but obviously, I’ve been slacking according to her goals for me.
“I’m not sure if I can this weekend ...”I stammer, scrambling for a recovery.“But we’re planning something soon.”
There’s a suspicious pause.“I just checked your social media, and there’s not one picture of you and Chad.”
I choke slightly on my wine.“Excuse me?”
“Why do you have so many cookies on your feed?”she asks, suspicious, like I’ve been laundering money and not playing with flour.
