Page 77 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
He sits across from me, dims the lights just enough to make things dangerous, then lights one of the hotel candles.It smells like cinnamon, sugar cookies, and the very specific brand of seduction found exclusively in seasonal, bougie furniture catalogs.
The food—because, of course, I’m noticing now—is plated beautifully.Sliced turkey with cranberry glaze, mashed potatoes piped into elegant spirals, and those damn sweet potato fries in a tiny skillet I suddenly want to marry.Everything feels like it’s trying to seduce me into domestic bliss.
But it’s not the food.Or the suite.Or the atmosphere.
It’s him.
It’s Soren—watching me across the table like I’m the main course.It’s him buttering a roll and sliding it onto my plate without being asked.It’s him pouring more cider into my mug and acting like this isn’t his first time playing house.
It’s his eyes when he catches me staring.They’re warm, attentive, and there’s that annoying little crinkle at the edge that makes me forget how to breathe.
“Do you like it?”he asks, voice low and almost shy.
I nod.“Too much.”
“Too much?”He feigns offense, all mock drama and raised brows.
“It’s dangerous,” I say honestly.“You’re dangerous.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table like he has no idea what he’s doing to me.“Only to people who underestimate how charming I am.”
“I’m not underestimating anything.That’s the problem.”
He doesn’t respond right away, just watches me—eyes warm, unreadable, a little too focused.I should say something.Maybe crack a joke or change the subject.Instead, I reach for my wine.
The candlelight flickers between us—soft, golden, a little too perfect for two people who are supposed to be faking it.The air smells like cinnamon and sugar cookies and something slower, sweeter, more dangerous.
How did we get halfway through dinner without me noticing?
One minute, I was unpacking emotional baggage in my head and wondering if cheesecake counts as a coping mechanism.Now I’m sitting across from him pretending ...I’m hungry.But honestly, I’m not anymore, at least not for food.
Then he grins—lopsided and utterly unfair.“I like you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Halfway through dinner.Just tired enough to be honest.And smiley.And a little rumpled from the flight.”He gestures at my hair, which—fine—is absolutely a mess.“I’d call it borderline criminally cute if I weren’t afraid of you stabbing me with a cheese knife.”
I throw a sweet potato fry at him.
He catches it.Eats it.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to throw food?”He shakes his head.“This is exactly why the Thorns think they’re better than the Wolfcrafts.”
I shrug a shoulder.“Hey, I was raised by wolves.”
We both laugh at my silly joke and continue eating.
We talk about nothing and share the cheesecake like two people who forgot to draw lines in the sand.There’s no pretending right now.Just warmth and a sense of safety I didn’t realize I’d been craving since he left for London.
I really miss this, us hanging out bantering without an agenda.Even when we never shared a meal before.Maybe we should do it often—forever.
And that’s when I realize it.The quiet realization that sucker punches me in the middle of dessert.
I’m not at sixty-three percent anymore.I’m not even in the seventies.
Red zone alert.I’m falling.Hard.
I don’t think there’s any coming back.
