Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
I stare, smiling stupidly at the two of them in their snow gear, flying down a hill. “Is there sledding in the Christmas games at Evergreen Falls?”
Mac pauses, then her eyes twinkle. “Yes! There is.”
“I’ll have to do some recon. Get in some practice runs.”
“But it’s only for kids. Still, sledding is always a good idea.”
“It is.”
She points to an ornament made out of a walnut and decorated like Rudolph, with lopsided googly eyes and a red puffy ball for a nose. “I made this last year. That was my walnut phase. But I should have used a better…nose thingy.”
“No.” I immediately cut off that notion.
“No what?”
“It’s perfect the way it is. It has so much personality.”
“Really?” She sounds so doubtful, a contrast to the girl who opened the door.
“You’re talented, and it looks like you had fun making it,” I say. That’s what matters. I point to a matching one a few branches up, this one missing an eye. "Especially since there are two.”
“Oh, my dad made that one.” She drops her voice. “He’s terrible at crafts. Don’t tell him I said that.”
I bring my finger to my lips. “I won’t say a word.” Even though I find this intel as delicious as the sledding tidbit.
“He tries, but it’s just not his thing,” she says with a what can you do shrug. “But he’s good at other stuff.”
Understatement of the year. “He is. And you’re good at photography. I saw my sister’s proposal pics. They’re so good, Mac.”
“Thanks,” she says, and now there’s real pride in her voice. Photography must be important to her. “I’m taking a class, but I also just learned by doing it. Over and over.”
“Best way to learn.”
“I like it better than singing,” she says as she shows me more ornaments. “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.”
“Thank you for sharing that.” I might be floating.
The sound of footsteps pulls me back to Earth, then his voice. “Good to see you, Fable.”
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.
“You look just like the prime minister,” I say, a little mesmerized, “when he’s caught kissing his Natalie behind the curtain on stage.”
“You really do,” Mac seconds.
Wilder swivels to her. “I asked you not to watch it. The movie is rated R.”
She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t, Dad. I googled the pics, okay?”
“Okay,” he acquiesces, then runs a hand gently over her hair, careful not to mess up her braid.
Then we’re both quiet as he looks me up and down.
Red sweater. Black pants. Gold belt. Like the prime minister’s love interest in the oft-debated Christmas flick everyone loves to hate and hates to love. And a delicate necklace that’s all mine. Something I made myself in the jewelry-making class I teach once a week—to show the students what’s possible.
“And Fable looks perf,” Mac says. Then she eyes the neckline of my red sweater critically. “Except, hold on.”
She runs off, racing up the floating stairs.
It’s just Wilder and me, standing in front of the tree, looking like a Christmas movie couple. The weight of this moment hits me. We’re doing this—faking it. Not just for ourselves. But for others. I’m faking it for my sister, her fiancé, and all their friends, as well as our own families.
And also for Brady—that asshole who thought he could hurt me. But he’ll see I’ve moved on when he arrives in a few hours.
Thoughts of Brady fall from my head when Wilder says, “You look…lovely.”
Impulsively, I say, “So do you.” But just so he doesn’t think I’m hitting on him, I quickly add, “You look just like the character. In the movie. Except for one thing…”
He tilts his head. “What’s that?”
“Your hair’s not quite as messy.”
His lips quirk up. “That so?”
I don’t think. I do. I step closer and run my hands through his perfectly combed, wavy brown hair.
It’s soft.
His hair feels so good.