Page 90 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
This is ours because we chose this.We chose love.
I stopped waiting for someone to pick me and started picking myself.
Soren hooks a new ornament on the branch beside mine—an ugly little hockey puck with a Santa hat painted on top.
“Seriously?”I ask, laughing.
“What?”he grins.“It’s festive.”
“I love you.”
He pulls me closer.The room glows gold from the lights.Outside, the sky flirts with snow.
Inside, there’s music, warmth, the scent of cookies, and a man who kisses me like he plans to do it forever.
Today, I’m not holding my breath, waiting for it to slip away.
I’m just letting it be everything I didn’t think I could have—but, fuck, I’m keeping it.
Winnifred’s Epilogue
The ribbon is red satin.Ridiculous, over-the-top, and definitely not what I originally ordered.But somehow—it’s perfect.
It’s loud.A little extra—totally me.
Just like the bouquet someone delivered at dawn—huge, fragrant, and tied with a note that said nothing and everything.From Soren with Love.
Just like the espresso machine that showed up “accidentally upgraded” last week.
Just like the man standing next to me now, in a coat far too lovely for this early in the morning, flashing a grin that screams, ‘I absolutely help my live-in girlfriend, and I’ll never admit it out loud.’
I take a slow breath and hold the scissors in both hands.
The cold spring air carries the scent of peonies, powdered sugar, and fresh frosting.There’s a crowd gathering on the sidewalk—friends, neighbors, former clients who pre-ordered cookies just for an excuse to say, ‘I knew you could do it.’
There’s a local morning show crew setting up their tripod.Gretchen and Soren’s PR department had a hand in this, I know it.
Even my mother showed up—pearls on, spine straight, and an expression that almost passes for approval.Or at least not immediate disapproval.Which, honestly, is a win.Not that I’m competing with anyone.I’m done with her nonsense.
Oh, and the Thorns are here, too.
I’m still not sure what passive-aggressive game they’re playing with the Wolfcrafts, but Soren and I have officially decided not to care.
I glance up at the sign over the door.
Wolf, Thorn & Crumb Bakery and Catering.
It still doesn’t feel real, except it is.
Every sunlit inch in front of me—the warm walls, the cozy tables, the oversized chalkboard menu with crooked handwriting and a pun or two—is mine.
The pastry case, Soren and I totally didn’t steal from that auction but may have bid on aggressively and refinished in a single weekend.Mine.
The gold-trimmed counter I nearly cried over when the installer scratched it?
Yep.Mine.
And the people?
