My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Fable

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.

There’s not a second to choreograph this moment. This is a one-take situation. His eyes pin mine as he whispers, just for me, “Practice makes perfect.”

My chest flutters. I answer him with a tilt of my chin, even as questions flicker through my head. Will he wrap an arm around my waist? Drop a peck on my lips? Cup a cheek? The answer comes a second later when he lifts his hands to hold my face in a firmer grasp than the one in his office, and I tremble at that first touch. Tender and caring. Possessive and in control.

Music floats by, and I faintly register “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” At the chorus, Wilder inches closer, and time slows. Anticipation wraps around me like a magic spell. Our audience fades into the distant background as Wilder’s breath coasts over my jaw. A sound escapes my lips—a hungry murmur that surprises me.

That delights him, judging from the way his lips curve up. That little sign smooths out the last of my worries. I close my eyes, and his lips brush over mine. That scent of cedar is intoxicating. 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, and my body takes over as he leads me through our first kiss for an audience. But it’s not three seconds like the one in his office. It’s longer—maybe ten, possibly fifteen. I don’t even know. It’s just soft and yet passionate all at once.

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.

I swallow. Try to center myself. Shake off the fog of lust.

The room comes back into focus. The song winds down to the end.

My sister claps. “Now that’s a mistletoe kiss,” she declares, then turns her face to Leo’s and cups his cheek, tugging him close. “Makes me want one from you.”

Awareness of the audience snaps me out of the haze. So does Brady’s dude-bro chant as he eggs on his cousin. “Do it, do it, do it now, cuz.”

I cringe. He’s officially ruining my post-kiss bliss. I want to live in this bubble a little longer, especially now that the focus is on the bride and groom, as it should be.

Wilder and I back away from the mistletoe, heading into the kitchen, our staged kiss a mere party footnote.

But for me, it’s the whole story. I’m still breathless when I stop at the kitchen counter and lean a hip against it. Fiddling with the sleeves of my sweater, returning to the mistletoe question.

“I didn’t pick you as the mistletoe type,’ I say softly.

“I’m not,” he replies, moving closer.

“So it was the decorator?” I ask. It feels vitally important, somehow, to know who hung the mistletoe. The office kiss was a practice one. But this was for an audience. Did he want it? “Mac said you hired a party planner.”

“I did, but the planner didn’t hang it up.” He sounds a little dazed too. Come to think of it, he hasn’t said much since we moved into the kitchen. His eyes even look a bit…hazy.

Wait.

Did he like the kiss as much as I did?

The thought lodges in my brain and won’t let go.

He turns his gaze toward the staircase leading to the movie room. “But I think perhaps my daughter may be,” he says. “A mistletoe person, that is.”

Does Mac have a little Christmas matchmaker in her? I let my mind wander to thoughts of Christmas with him and his daughter. To the crackle of the fireplace, the scent of pine, the familiar music that feels like home. To baking cookies in this kitchen—though not gingerbread, of course—then making more ornaments with her. Whimsical animals like foxes wearing scarves, polar bears with argyle sweaters, and reindeer in boots. We three could hang them on the tree together, and then when Mac goes to bed, Wilder and I could kiss under the mistletoe again.

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.

I blink off the cozy and sexy thoughts, but when I meet Wilder’s handsome, nearly inscrutable face, he doesn’t seem so inscrutable anymore.

The haze in his eyes? It does look like longing, a little. Or, really, a lot.

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.

I smooth a hand over my sweater, sliding into hostess mode and returning to the reality of this shower we’re hosting for my sister and Wilder’s best friend. “I should see if…if anyone needs anything.”

Wilder clears his throat, nodding a few times, almost like he’s clearing away the fog too. “Same here.”

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.

Besides, he let me know the score from the start.

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.

That mystery solved, I return to the party and box up the memory of his lips as I refill the pitcher of Christmas mojito mix.

Doesn’t take long for my friends to join me.

“Just friendly?” Josie asks with a smirk.

“I mean, that was such a just friendly kiss,” Maeve seconds while Everly grins.

I blush and say nothing, because they’re right.

“We should have a costume contest!”

This brilliance is brought to us by Brady a little later as we finish a round of What Would the Groom Say. He’s seated next to the bride and groom, on the couch across from Wilder and me.

I shake my head at Brady. “I don’t think so.”

He pouts. “C’mon. What’s a Christmas movie costume party without a little contest?”

“A Christmas movie costume party,” I say dryly, trying to hide my annoyance. He didn’t plan this shower. I did. But I don’t want to let on he’s a pebble in my shoe because then he’ll really think he hurt me. His you moved on quickly comment aside, he seems to believe the mere sight of him with Iris would destroy me. I can’t let him think that, but anger would definitely tip him off. I take a quiet, calming breath, then say as sweetly as I can, “Also, it’s not a costume party. It’s a wedding shower.”

He snort-huffs. “Yeah, but we all went to the effort to dress up. Per the host and hostess rules,” he says, pointing to Wilder then to me, like he’s uncovered the culprits. Wilder’s body is tight. He’s the picture of coiled restraint as Brady keeps talking. “And everything’s more fun when there’s a competition, right? Isn’t that why we’re having the Christmas competition before your wedding next week?” Brady whips his gaze to Leo, seeming to seek approval from the cooler, older cousin.

Leo shoots him a placating—I think—smile. “Well, sure. Somewhat. Charlotte and I do love games,” he says, and there’s a bit of save me in his voice. He’s the peacemaker in the bunch, that’s clear.

“And we love Christmas, so it made sense to make it an event,” Charlotte adds, and the subtext in her words is crystal clear—that doesn’t mean we want this casual wedding shower to be a costume contest, you jackass.

Though, I might have just added the you jackass in my head.

But Brady’s not good with subtext. He rubs his palms together. “Let’s do it then! A little impromptu who wore it best?” Puffing out his chest, he bleats out like the emcee of a boxing match, “Will it be the studly Alan Rickman in this corner, or every single man who dressed like John McClane in all the other corners?”

Jesus. He’s already declaring himself the winner of the Christmas movie costume contest. He’s also a sexist pig. “Or a woman could win,” Everly says, reading my mind.

“Yes, exactly,” I say, not so sweetly.

“So, you’re in, Fabes? I knew it. I knew you’d get right back into the swing of fun and games,” Brady says, and I want to smack him.

Because he’s saying the same thing he said before—you moved on quickly, even though he also thinks I’m crying in my salted caramel ice cream over all I’ve theoretically lost.

It’s like he’s trying to goad me into admitting I’m stuck on him.

I grit my teeth, hunting for an appropriate comeback to say in front of friends and family, when Wilder cuts in. His voice isn’t the loudest in the room. He doesn’t need to speak with volume, since he speaks with authority as he says, “No. There won’t be a costume contest today because sometimes it’s fun to just show up in costume. It doesn’t have to be a sport.” He pauses, and the only sound is Frank Sinatra crooning that he’ll be home for Christmas. Then, once his words have sunk in, he adds, “Why don’t we open gifts?”

It’s said decisively. A man who’s moving the agenda along without needing to pet any ruffled feathers.

“If you say so,” Brady says under his breath.

Wilder turns to him, his eyes hard. “Yes. I do.”

Cold, clear, crisp.

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

Brady shrugs, then adjusts his cheater’s glasses. “All right, boss man. Your house, your rules. But know this—the gloves will be off at Christmastime.” He smiles at Leo. “Am I right or am I right?”

Leo laughs, possibly still placating him. “Sure. I know you’ll play to win, Brady. You were always competitive.”

Brady turns his attention to Wilder. “And that’s a good thing. I’m going to win the competition and that’ll prove to you that I’m the right man to manage your money.”

“Is that so?” Wilder asks, sounding amused.

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 lift my chin, fueled by Christmas revenge. “We’ll be ready, and we’ll win,” I blurt out.

Wilder reads me like that. He loops an arm around my shoulder, squeezing me. “We will. And just to make it a little more fun, whoever wins, whether it’s someone from town, or from the wedding party—I’ll donate ten thousand dollars to the winner’s charity of choice.”

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.

Brady wolf whistles. “Damn, the boss man does not fuck around.”

I clasp my fingers through Wilder’s, like an adoring girlfriend. “No, he does not.”

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