My Favorite Holidate

by Lauren Blakely

Charlotte told Leo, then he must have mentioned it to Wilder, and then Wilder went ahead and covered our entire Christmas shopping trip. Talk about thoughtful.

When we’re done, and laden with gold and silver bags, stuffed with beautifully wrapped gifts, I feel a little bit like I’m in another world. Shocked by what the man did. But also, I feel…frothy. And special. Something I’ve never really felt before either.

Besides, I need to thank Wilder for this wildly unexpected gift. Then focus on making it through seeing my awful ex nonstop the week of the wedding, showing that jerk how a woman should be treated, and in the meantime—all the time—saving for my new business. Funny though, how Wilder already showed me tonight how a man should treat a woman.

Fable: YOU DID NOT JUST DO THAT!!! He replies a minute later. Wilder: I trust you had a good evening. Fable: Seriously! THANK YOU! I can’t believe you did that! That was above and beyond the brief. Wilder: Disagree. It’s exactly what a fake boyfriend should do.

Fable: And it was so thoughtful and I’m so very grateful. I truly appreciate it. How can I thank you? Wilder: You just did.

Fable: I hope I’m as good a fake girlfriend as you are a fake boyfriend. Wilder: You’re wonderful, Fable.

I sigh contentedly, enjoying the compliment so very much. Those were rare with Brady too. And he never really treated me to anything. But I don’t want to get too lost in the Cinderella fantasy.

Fable: They look hot. Wilder: Of course they do. They’re on you.

Once more, my jaw drops. Is he for real? No, he’s fake, girl. But seriously. This is elite-level fake boyfriending.

My heart pounds. I don’t deserve this level of fake boyfriending, but holy fuck. I am going to enjoy the hell out of it.

But then, maybe it wasn’t unreadable. Maybe it was actually that he enjoyed watching me…have fun.

On Sunday morning, my eyes are bigger than moons when the car pulls up outside a three-story, slate-gray home on a cul-de-sac in Cow Hollow. I didn’t even know there were cul-de-sacs in the city anywhere. But then, I’ve never had a reason to cruise down a street populated by nine-figure homes before.

“I bet you can make great ones. My dad says you’re really talented.” “He does?” “He said she’s the best designer in the business. Still can’t believe we were lucky enough to snap her up, but the sales don’t lie.”

I turn around, and my pulse surges wildly, beating in my throat. I’ve seen Wilder in suits before. But this time feels different. Because we’re in his house? Because he’s barefoot and that just makes him seem a little vulnerable for the first time? Because of that test kiss? Because of all his extravagant gifts?

But no. I dismiss all those reasons. Today’s different because he asked me to pick his costume. Like a real girlfriend would do. Because he sent me photos of the suits in his closet so I could choose for him. I picked black slacks, a white shirt, a black jacket, and no tie. Like the iconic scene at the end of Love Actually when Hugh Grant appears at the children’s Christmas show at the school in the dodgy part of town. A smile takes over my face.

It’s make-believe, this holiday romance, but it’s not hard to pretend I’m in a fairy tale as he takes me through this castle of a home.

That warmth I felt earlier spreads. He understood how frazzled and hurt I was that time in his office when I spilled glitter Christmas dicks on him. He understood me the next time when I felt guilty over not telling my sister the full truth. He understood me at dinner when we talked about snow and winter and songs.

And he’s trying so damn hard to make sure we pull off this fake romance. Brady hardly tried at all with our real relationship. My own father barely tried to fix things with my mother after cheating on her over and over, and she still gave him chance after chance. And sure, some of my past boyfriends tried, but not to the extent of this man.

Wilder? He shows up every single time for every single thing. It’s admir...

“She was supposed to be Mac’s. A few years ago, she wanted to adopt a cat, so I took her to Little Friends, and she picked this cat. Then, once we returned home, the cat…well, she picked me.” As if on cue, Penguin rubs her head against his chest. A laugh bursts from me. “Your cat is obsessed with you.”

“She matches you, tuxedo cat and all. She’s the perfect feline for you.” He glances down at his suit. “I’m not wearing a tuxedo right now.” “No, but I bet there’s one in your closet.” He steps closer and holds my gaze, his eyes gleaming. “Two, Fable. Two.”

Before we leave his room, though, he sets a hand on my arm. His expression serious, he says, “Let’s be the best best man and maid of honor there is. And let’s show Brady that he’s the one who lost.”

He takes my hand, and we walk down the stairs like that—even though no one’s looking. But I’m looking. And I’m liking this. “You’re holding my hand,” I whisper. He starts to let go. “I was…practicing.” “We’re getting good at that. Practicing.” There’s a slight hitch in his breath, then he grits out, “We are.” I grab hold tighter on his hand so he can’t stop. “Keep practicing.”

He blinks, and for a few dangerous seconds, I swear I see something real flash in his eyes. But that can’t be. He’s just very, very good at everything he does, i...

The number of men here in undershirts with smudge on their faces is…well, there are too many. At least that’s better than adults in bunny jammies.

“Another costume that’s an excuse to wear pjs to a party. Wrong too.” He turns to me. “Does that make us scrooges?” “If we are, I’ll die on Scrooge Hill. You shouldn’t wear slippers, bathrobes, or pajamas out of the house. Or to someone else’s house. It defeats the basic premise and promise of pajamas,”

It takes every ounce of restraint not to give him a piece of my mind. I know what he did. And he’s scum. He hurt Fable. There’s also part of me that’s keenly aware that if she hadn’t walked in on him, we might not be faking it. And so far, this fake romance is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

Yes, I am good at this, and I don’t want to stop.

Brady is Alan Rickman from Love Actually because only a person with zero self awareness would pick that character. The cheater.

The Alan Rickman who broke all our hearts in his square glasses, a thin black scarf, and a black jacket. The Alan Rickman who got Emma Thompson a Joni Mitchell CD instead of the necklace she deserved. The most hated character in Christmas cinema.

I want to kick him in the knees and watch him fa...

Why did I ever date him? Was he this odious when I was with him? Please, universe, tell me he was a smidge less odious then.

Smart, powerful, and fuckable.

And…where did that come from? I’ve never thought of him, or anyone as smart, powerful, and fuckable, but now that I’m looking at Wilder, those adjectives go nicely together.

They make it genuinely easy to take my charcuterie board and walk away from Brady without a second thought. I want to sit next to the so very fu...

I suppose it’s a good thing we practiced that kiss in his office. But as I wait to be kissed once more by my smart, powerful, fuckable billionaire fake boyfriend, the run-through seems superfluous. Because my desire is no lie.

This kiss needs to seem like our twentieth or fiftieth—not our second. I don’t want to mess this up. But when Wilder meets my gaze, my worries disintegrate and something else takes over—an insistent need that climbs the stairs of my heart. The need to be kissed…by him.

I melt like snow under the winter sun as Wilder kisses me under the mistletoe.

I don’t know how it happens or when, but my foot pops up like in every iconic kissing photo, like in every movie smooch. Now I’m having my own kissing moment,

My chest tingles. My belly swoops. There’s not even tongue, yet I’m dizzy everywhere. It’s the best fifteen seconds I’ve spent in ages, and I want it to become five minutes. Five hours. When he breaks the kiss, I miss his lips terribly. My breath hitches, and I nearly whimper.

Wilder’s eyes lock with mine. Heat flickers across those clever green irises. Something else too. Fondness? Affection? No, I’m not sure it’s either of those. It’s something I can’t quite name. Desire mixed with longing, maybe.

What is happening in my head? I’m fantasizing about ornament design with his daughter? About after-dark kisses with him? This is foolish and dangerous.

But surely that’s just the side effect of an unexpected sultry kiss. It’s a byproduct of fake dating. Someone could even list it on a pill bottle—side effects of fake dating may vary and include, but are not limited to, swoons, stomach flips, and naughty thoughts. You may want to talk to your pharmacist about what to expect and watch out for. If symptoms persist, see your love doctor.

My chest twinges with hope, with a dangerous ache. But I can’t spend this party wondering if he liked his daughter’s Christmas decorating touch. Or if he liked our kiss in the same way I did.

My boss wants us to be the best fake daters there are to get his aunt off his back and to show my ex what he’s lost. Wilder’s a competitive man so of course he’d give me the best fake kiss in the history of Christmas. Even if I liked it, even if it felt real.

And I’m a little turned on at the way Wilder’s putting Brady in his place.

But I burn hotter, this time with irritation, frustration, and, fine, I’ll admit it—hurt. This jerk hurt me at Thanksgiving. And for a while here earlier today, when Wilder kissed me under the mistletoe, I nearly forgot why I’m faking it with my boss. Now it’s all coming back to me. I’m faking it because this asshat thinks it’s okay to treat women like crap.

I flash back to Wilder’s words in his office the day we decided to do this. You deserve to be treated with respect. With adoration. With real affection. Then to Bibi’s that same day. I hope you beat that Brady character in the competition. Cheating exes who think women are disposable don’t get to win a damn thing.

I jerk my gaze to him, a smile forming fast on my lips. I’m impressed. That was even hotter—the throwdown and the gesture.

Round one goes to the best man and the maid of honor. Take that, Brady.