My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Fable

I’m early this time. I don’t want a repeat of the other day where I fly in late and, I dunno, my bra detaches itself from my boobs and flings itself at my boss. I mean, that could happen. Sentient bras could be a thing and then an eye could get poked out.

The Lyft drops me off ten minutes before we’ve planned to meet, and I hope that gives me time to settle in and, well, not trip and fall face-first into his lap.

This girl learns from her mistakes.

With my chin up and confidence on, I walk to the white door with the holiday garland hanging around it, warm white lights softly twinkling overhead. Wilder picked a place called Dahlia’s in Presidio Heights, and it looks like a bistro in Florence. When I walk inside, a confident woman with an ivory complexion and diamond Christmas tree earrings greets me before I can even say hello.

“You must be Fable,” she says.

I laugh nervously. “Yes. I am.”

“Perfect. I’m Dahlia. We’re expecting you.”

“Um, okay,” I say, and I’m not normally speechless but I’m not normally greeted like a special guest at a restaurant or even recognized before I’ve given my name. And I’m definitely never greeted by the owner herself, especially for a Michelin-starred restaurant.

“We have the best table in the house for you,” she says as she guides me through the packed place past a dozen or so tables with small vases filled with white roses and holly berries, surrounded by white votive candles flickering in the dim lighting. The brick walls are lined with art, some abstract, some landscapes of Italy, I think. Maybe Tuscany. I’m not sure, but chefs in the open kitchen plate dishes of steaming pastas and herbed chicken next to mouthwatering bread. As we pass the kitchen, I say, “The decorations are amazing. Classy but cozy.”

“Ooh, that’s a vibe I like,” she says, “And are you having a good weekend so far?”

“Yes. It’s great,” I say, mostly because I don’t know what else to reply with. It’s a standard question, but at the same time, I wasn’t expecting this sort of star treatment.

“We have you out here on the patio. I hope you love it and if you need anything at all, let me know. Any of my staff is happy to assist,” she says, then opens the door to a star-lit patio with heaters set up under an outside tent. It’s like…a Christmas garden in the middle of the city. Poinsettias hang from brick columns. Short evergreens stand in terracotta pots in the corners, with red bows and twinkling lights on the branches. Above us, strings of blue and white lights form a makeshift ceiling. Music plays quietly on a speaker, the soft notes of Nat King Cole making me warm all over.

Yes, it’s good I arrived first so I can catch my breath in this most unexpectedly romantic restaurant.

When Wilder sent me the name of the venue this afternoon, I only looked up the menu. I didn’t poke around and check out the photos. But now that I’m here, it’s clear this is definitely a place where you bring a date. It’s warm and intimate and an escape from the city.

Dahlia guides me toward a corner table, and I guess I won’t beat a man like Wilder to the punch. He’s early. Of course he’s early. That makes all the sense in the world. He’s not a man who arrives late.

He’s not looking at me though. His head’s bent over a book, a few lines in his forehead creasing as he reads. I can’t quite tell what it is, but it’s a small paperback, almost like the kind of thing you’d buy at a garage sale.

It’s jarring. Maybe because I figured he’d be summoning a private jet for a quick flight to Madrid to meet a new business partner or reading some book with a ridiculous name like Pears Never Ripen when it’s really all about 101 Tips on How to Convince People to Do What You Want.

Instead, his nose is in a paperback.

I step closer and he stops, closes it, and takes his time letting a smile form. When Dahlia and I arrive, he stands.

My breath catches.

Here, in the soft light of the patio, Wilder doesn’t look like my boss. He looks like…a man on a date. He’s wearing dark slacks and a cashmere V-neck sweater with the hint of a white T-shirt under it. The cuffs are rolled up twice, revealing those corded forearms and the artwork on them.

His green eyes sparkle. He’s not wearing his big game rings.

“Here you go,” Dahlia says, but her words are faint. I can barely focus on her and she drifts out of sight, out of mind.

I swallow roughly. Try to get my bearings.

“Good to see you, Fable,” he says, then leans in, cups my arms, and almost, almost kisses my cheek. But his lips don’t quite touch me. It’s like an air kiss and it takes a surprising amount of willpower not to lean closer. When he lets go, I’m left with the scent of falling snow in a forest and a fresh new ache in my chest.

“You look lovely,” he says, like a declaration.

I open my mouth to speak, but once again, I come up empty. I’m at a loss. I feel a little wobbly. Like my breath is coming faster than I’d expected. Like my skin’s a little tingly. Like…holy shit.

I’m stupidly attracted to my boss. This is bad. This is so bad.

“Hiiiii,” I say, then gulp and then sit, patting the cushion tied to the wooden chair. “Nice…chair. It’s a nice chair. Good for sitting.”

What even are words?

“Yes, it is,” Wilder says with a hint of amusement as he takes his seat.

I glance around but can barely focus on the other diners or anything but this out-of-sync beating in my heart. “This place is…nice. For, um, eating.”

“Yes, restaurants can be good for food, I’ve heard,” he says.

Get it together, girl.

“The owner is nice. That’s nice for…”

“Owning?” he asks with a warm smile.

Oh god. I set a hand on my sternum and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know…Do you feel sorry for me?”

What the hell is it about Wilder Blaine that makes me say things I normally wouldn’t?

“No,” he says with kindness, certainty, and crystal clarity.

“I hate when people feel sorry for me,” I admit. I can’t seem to stop with him.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.” He tilts his head. “Do you feel sorry for me?”

I scoff. “God no. Why would I?”

“Exactly,” he says, cool and in control. “I could say the same about you.”

He’s quiet for a beat, while his words sink in. He doesn’t see me differently. He sees me…as an equal. We may be boss and employee, we might be a billionaire and just a woman who’s barely paying off her college loans, but here tonight, in the context of our pretend Christmas romance, we’re on even footing.

He nods to the empty wineglass on the table. “Do you want wine? Champagne? Water? A stiff drink?”

I laugh, full of relief and gratitude. Then, because we are on even footing, I find mine once again. “Are you saying you think I need one?”

“Perhaps.” He smiles, the corner of his lips lifting in an electric grin that makes my chest squeeze. With his chiseled jaw, light dusting of dark stubble, and emerald eyes, Wilder Blaine is obviously good-looking. Of course I’ve always known that. But I’ve known it in a distant way. An inaccessible way. In the way you admire the ocean, or the Golden Gate Bridge, or a photograph in an art gallery.

He’s been out of reach.

He’s not distant now. He’s the man sitting across from me on a December night as holiday lights twinkle on the heated patio. He’s the man who wants this fake romance as much as I do. Which seems wild, because this time two weeks ago I was dating someone else. Someone who turned out to be a lying, cheating jerk. Funny, how seeing someone’s true colors can help you get over them real fast.

I lift the wineglass, considering it as I meet Wilder’s gaze. “I probably could use a very stiff drink, but I’m pretty sure it’s a sin to order anything but red wine at an Italian bistro,” I say.

There. I’ve got my groove back. I’ve got my words back. I can do this.

“I wouldn’t want you to be guilty of that,” he says, then gives a chin nod, presumably to a server.

When she appears seconds later—seriously, did she teleport?—he says, “We’ll have the Italo Cescon Pinot Noir.” He adds the year, and I’m seriously impressed.

“As you wish,” the server says, then returns shortly with a bottle. After she makes a show of presenting it to him, she pours a glass for us both and he thanks her. When she leaves, he raises his glass to me. I expect him to say, “To getting to know my fake girlfriend” or “to destroying Brady.”

Something playful. Something that picks up on our reasons for being here.

But he says, “To being the best fake daters ever.”

Once again, the man has surprised me. But he’s also delivered an excellent reminder. This is fake.

I shove these nascent, fizzy feelings far away, then lift my glass.

“No one will know this isn’t real.” Then I take a beat and add, “Except us.”

His smile falters for a second, then he echoes, “Except us.”