My Favorite Holidate: A Standalone Holiday Romance

Wilder

Sometimes, when you play cards, you get lucky. When that happens, you need to bluff so you don’t show just how good your hand is.

I don’t grin too big at Fable. I don’t reach for her. And I definitely don’t make Fable wait for an answer from me. I simply flash her a good boyfriend smile and go all in. “You are, little elf.”

Her eyes flicker briefly with relief, then amusement, no doubt at the nickname, as she says, “And I can’t wait, sugar plum.”

I fight off a laugh. This woman wastes no time.

Bibi’s brow creases. “Sugar plum?”

I smile even wider, feeling a little fizzy. “That’s what Fable calls me. What can I say? The woman loves Christmas.”

Fable and I are sitting across from each other with plenty of space between us, but she leans my way with obvious affection. “And he calls me little elf since I help with the stockings. But also,” she says, like she’s sharing a secret just with Bibi, “I have the cutest elf costume.”

I can picture it now—a short skirt with faux fur trim. I can picture it all too well. “Yeah, it’s great,” I say, my voice a scrape.

“I should get you a sugar plum tie,” she adds, looking my way with doting affection before covering her mouth with her fingers as if silently screaming in excitement. “That would be the best,” she says when she lets go.

Bibi studies Fable with some skepticism. Possibly confusion. “But I thought you were dating that Brady character? The one who practically had ‘secret fraternity handshake’ written all over him.”

Fable winces, like ouch.

I hate seeing her hurt, even by the reminder. “He was the wrong man for her,” I say, and there’s nothing fake about that sentiment.

Fable gives me an adoring look. “I tried to distract myself with him. But only because it was always Wilder I crushed on.”

I nearly blink.

That word—crush.

It sounds too good on her pretty pink lips. Too tempting coming from her lovely mouth. It makes my pulse speed faster than it should.

“Really?” Bibi eyes Fable like she doesn’t quite believe her, but her voice seems to say she desperately wants to.

Fable shrugs a little hopelessly. “I’ve always been a sucker for a man with abstract ink. Something that makes you think and feel. Something that’s not hitting you over the head, but instead inviting you to…wonder.”

Fuck me. She didn’t simply notice the tattoos on my forearms—not that they’re hard to miss. They’re on my knuckles too. But she has a goddamn opinion on them, and it’s an opinion that sounds like poetry. The back of my neck goes warm.

Settle down, man. She’s just playing along.

I try to cool my desire.

Time to sell this holiday romance like I’m making a pitch in a takeover bid. “You know we’ve worked closely together for a long while. Especially lately on the company’s holiday gift. And I’ve always admired…” I pause, careful not to cross any lines—or any more lines. “Her mind. Her quick thinking. Her passion for football.”

That’s all true. Her obsession with the game I love is hot. There’s not an opposing defense in the league that she hasn’t studied, a starting lineup that she doesn’t know, or a player on which she doesn’t have an opinion. Come to think of it, I’d better revise that hot to a white-hot. Then I flash a smile and go for the close. “And her dishwasher-stacking skills.”

Her hand flies to her chest. “Oh, stop. You know that’s how you won me over, sugar plum.”

“And I thought I won you over when I took you out for your favorite mint ice cream,” I say, leaning into the flirty vibe to sell this fake romance to the judge and jury.

“Wait,” Bibi says, skeptical as she raises a polished wine-red fingernail. “How long have you two been together?”

Bibi’s not an executive at my corporation for nothing. For all her talk of dreams, visions, and past lives, she’s incredibly grounded. She can spot a flaw in a nanosecond.

“It happened quickly,” I say, also quickly. “The dishwasher stacking at Thanksgiving dinner was my undoing.” My self-deprecating laugh covers any hitches in my on-the-fly fib. “You know how much I like everything neat, clean, and organized. When I found out Fable was single, I texted her the next day to ask her out for last night.”

There. I’ve established the timeframe for this fake romance. Now, I’m locking it down in my mind. It’s easy to get tangled up in your story if you don’t keep track of the details, and I won’t let that happen to us.

“It was so good,” Fable says as she jumps in for the save. “The Mint-nificent flavor at The Best Ice Cream Shop in the City is top-notch.” I’m impressed. They say the best lies have a grain of truth, and that shop does indeed have a mouthwatering mint ice cream.

“Last night?” Bibi asks. I see the cogs turning and know where she’s headed. How could I have been out if Mac was home?

“Mac was at photography class,” I explain.

“Oh.” Bibi seems a bit flummoxed. “I didn’t realize she was taking a class.”

Fable and I obviously didn’t go out, but my daughter is a gamer. She’ll roll with this plan when I tell her to go along.

It occurs to me that Mac and Fable would be a formidable team. They’re both sharp, smart, quick on their feet. I can picture them pulling off…well, anything.

“I had to seize the chance when I could,” I told Bibi. “And we were just having a secret coffee date here,” I add, gesturing to the two cups Shay brought in.

My aunt is not ready to give up her interrogation. “And you didn’t say anything in the car this morning because…?”

Bibi’s shrewd logic is making this much harder than I’d anticipated. Because it’s a good question. Why wouldn’t I have offered this dating info hours ago?

I’m scrabbling for a plausible answer when Fable smiles at me, hearts in her eyes. “Because a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” she says, sounding like she’s rushing to grab a rescue lint roller all over again.

I could kiss her for that save. Instead, I offer a smile—a romantic one. “That’s right,” I say, holding her gaze for a beat or two. Her eyes.

This whole time, Bibi’s been shifting her gaze from Fable to me and then back like a spectator at a tennis match. She narrows her eyes one more moment, then lets out a victorious, “Finally! I’ve been waiting for so long.”

Waiting? Please. More like moving chess pieces. But I give her this win. Then, she’s all business, snapping her gaze to the woman next to her. “Fable, are you good at Christmas tree decorating?”

“I know my way around a string of lights,” Fable says.

“You do like shiny things, my little elf,” I add.

“What can I say? The peacock effect is strong in me,” she tosses back.

“Good,” Bibi says, squeezing Fable’s arm. “Then I hope you beat that Brady character in the competition.”

“You and me both,” Fable says with a confidence that impresses me.

My aunt nods with decisive satisfaction. “And frankly, all the other competitors in town. The planning committee will vote on a winner, and we need to beat everyone who dares to enter.”

Fable looks to me with amusement. “I guess it runs in the family—this competitive streak?”

“Seems it does,” I say.

Bibi smiles at Fable, then shifts her focus to me. “Make sure you sort everything out with the cabins at your property there. And your mom can meet Fable when she joins us at Christmas. I’m so glad Elizabeth’ll be done with coursework in time to come back from London.”

I wince inside. Enlisting Mac will be easy enough. But enlisting my mother? I’m not sure how to play that, or how to fake it for her. She sees through everything. But I’ll leave that decision to another day. “Yes, that’ll be great,” I say.

Bibi stands to leave, but before she goes, she turns back to me, her brow pinched. “Have you told HR?”

That nearly leaves me at a standstill. But only for a few seconds. I look to Fable once more just to make sure she wants this—this fake romance. This story we’re peddling wouldn’t work as some forbidden office romance where we’d sneak around. Since I own the team, I ought to set a good example. Follow the rules and all. While we are working on the stockings together, I’m not her direct supervisor. She reports to Sandra Clements, the VP of marketing. The employee handbook allows relationships so long as there’s no direct report line. “I was going to do that today. I can let Sandra know as well. If that works for you, Fable?”

The ball is in her court, and she slams it back with a ferocious swing and a smile. “Definitely.”

“Good. Disclosure is important, especially when you own the company. And it’s a good thing Fable is not your direct report.” With that, Bibi sails toward the outer office. But she stops short in the doorway, spins back around, and taps her emerald cap. “Told you this was my idea hat. Why don’t the two of you team up in the office door-decorating contest too? Such a cute thing for a couple to do this season.”

“I’m in,” Fable pipes up. “Fair warning though. It’s going to be the best-decorated door here at Blaine Enterprises.”

Bibi beams. “Can’t wait to see it.” She snicks the door shut.

We stare at it a moment, then Fable turns back to me, dropping her voice to a whisper as if afraid to break a spell. “Are you really okay with this?”

“The door decorating?” I ask, then shrug. “I don’t usually decorate it myself, but it’s fine. I can manage.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Not that. Also, I’ll handle the decorating. If I leave it to you, everything will be black, navy, or steel.”

“Not true,” I protest.

But she arches a brow, looking me up and down like she’s busting me. I guess my suit is blue and the tie is gray. “Fine, you’re right.”

She nods like I told you so, and then her smile burns off, replaced by concern. “But what I meant was—are you okay with the whole thing? You’re not mad at me for saying I’m your date?”

For a moment, she sounds so vulnerable, a dramatic contrast to her fire and chaos, and I don’t make her wait for an answer. “No,” I hasten to say. I don’t want her to think for a second that I’m not absolutely okay with this. “I was actually about to ask if you wanted to be my plus one. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about when I said I needed a moment.”

Her eyes pop. “Really?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to put you on the spot by suggesting it without checking with you.”

Her hand flies to her chest. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No. You read my mind, Fable. Don’t you get it?”

“I wanted to make sure,” she says.

“I’m very sure.” I put that conviction in my voice and see her shoulders relax a fraction. “And I’d very much like your ex to see how a man should treat a woman.”

Fable snorts. “Bonus points if you make him cry.”

The thought that he’d done that to her—caused her to shed tears when she shouldn’t have ever had to—sends fire rushing through my veins.

“I’ve never missed a bonus round before,” I tease, only half-joking.

“Let’s show him, then, sugar plum.” I wince at the nickname, and she laughs. “Hey, it was either that or Santa. And as a nickname, Santa was giving me a little ick.”

I chuckle but then turn serious again. I meant what I said—I’m ready for this charade, but Fable is my employee, and I need to give her an out. Not a subtle one, either, but a big red fire exit with flashing arrows and a neon sign flashing THIS WAY OUT. “But if you don’t want to, we can simply move on. There’s no pressure, and it won’t affect your job⁠—”

“Oh stop! I’m not the HR department. More like the head of matchmaking deflection.”

“And when we beat Brady in the Christmas games, you’ll have reached the department of revenge.” I saw how her eyes lit up at Bibi’s go-get-em words. Not only is this fake romance an opportunity to show her and her ex how a woman should be treated, it’s a chance to beat that jackass in the games.

“Looks like I just ordered myself a Christmas boyfriend,” she says, shimmying a little at the prospect of revenge. “I’ll take twenty-five days of this gift, thank you very much.”

I wish I could unwrap the gift of her. Undo a silky ribbon, let it fall to the floor, then…

I steer away from the almost filthy thoughts and do a mental one-eighty, reverting to my default gear—work. “I’d like to see the holiday shirt you made, after all.”

Following my focus shift, Fable shows me a pretty design with a cut-out neck and “Renegades” emblazoned in a retro font, filled in with silver and red bling. It’s festive and stylish. At least, I think that’s what Mac would tell me.

“What do you think? My projections say it’s on trend,” Fable says.

“I approve,” I say.

The next style she shows me has a more masculine cut and neck, with no glitter. I approve that one too.

Carefully, she folds the shirts, then under her breath, she says, “Thanks…wild child.”

But no. That won’t do. That’s Bibi’s term. “Don’t call me that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I meant—I like sugar plum better from you.”

“You do?”

“Does that surprise you?” I ask, wishing I didn’t enjoy getting to know these little details of her so much.

“A little.”

I need to shut up. I need to stop enjoying this. This thing between us is all a ruse—a ruse meant to help both of us. That’s it.

I focus on the plan for the stockings. We’ll fill the stockings with the shirts, a box of holiday chocolates from Elodie’s, a gift card, and the employees’ Christmas bonuses.

When we’re done, Fable’s gaze strays to the windows overlooking the field, empty now since it’s an off day. “Did you see Hendrix’s fourth-quarter diving catch yesterday?”

The team played Phoenix in the early afternoon. Mac and I watched from the owner’s suite before she went to her photography class. “I swear he was parallel to the ground and still caught it,” I say, proud of my players and their skills.

“What a game,” she says with a happy sigh. “I watched it at home. Took my mind off things.”

A pang lodges in my chest, chased by anger. Brady’s why she needed a distraction. I really can’t stand that asshole for hurting Fable. “I’m glad you had something to distract you.” But then I replay what she just said. Hold the hell on. “Why didn’t you come to the game? You usually do.” She’s told me she likes to watch from the stands with her sister or her friends so she can cheer the loudest.

She shrugs. “Everyone was busy,” she says with a smile. A forced smile.

I burn inside again. I’m not sure I believe her excuse. I suspect she didn’t go because of that fuckwit. “Then you should come to the next home game.”

I’m about to offer her coveted fifty-yard line seats when she says, “I’m sure I will. I have tickets.” She shifts gears immediately. “And we have a lot to do before then with all this holiday gift planning. I love giving out gifts. Do I get to help you hand them out before the break like a good little elf?”

I go with her change-up. “Will you wear that cute little elf costume?” I ask before I can think the better of it.

Her lips curve in a grin. “Of course I will.”

I stare at her for a long moment. Damn, she’s beautiful. But I’ve thought that about her before, and I won’t let errant distractions stir me from my plans. In fact, I really ought to return to the fake dating plans rather than worrying about where she’ll watch the next game from. “We should work out some details. If we need to be seen together publicly before the wedding.”

“Good point. We probably will.”

“I’ll give it some thought. And then, at the cabins, you can stay in another room and⁠—”

A buzz from my desk interrupts me as Shay speaks through the intercom. “Your father is on line three.”

“We can talk details later.” Fable waves me off, and I don’t know if I should hug her or shake her hand. As if she senses my unease, she lets herself out quickly, and I don’t have to choose.

Shame though. Especially since I’d have preferred the former.

Chin up, I head to my desk, take a fortifying breath, then steel myself. “Hello.”

“Hi, son,” my father says, and I hate that he calls me that. For so long, I’ve felt like the adult in the relationship, parenting him. It sounds so wrong to be called his kid. “Great game this past weekend,” he adds. “I told you Hendrix was the best receiver money could buy.”

I clench my jaw. He never told me that. I made that call. I spotted the receiver’s talent and made sure my GM got him. “The whole team is the best in the league,” I say, and I have the rings to show for it.

But I don’t say that part. Or much else. Instead, I listen as Dad chats about life in Vegas, how his friend Victor is doing as he nears retirement, then clucks his tongue. It’s his tell—he’s about to ask for something. “So listen, son. Can I borrow ten grand from you? I went underwater on a game last week.”

A poker game he shouldn’t have played in. A poker game that means he’s back to earning his one-day chip again, if he’s even going to meetings. He’s earned many years’ worth of one-day chips. It’s pointless to even want him to change and more pointless to think he might.

I can’t trust him. Never have been able to, really.

I shouldn’t do this. Truly, I shouldn’t. But I do it anyway. It’s just easier this way. “I’ll wire it to the usual account.”

“I owe you one,” he says, and he probably believes he’ll pay me back.

When I finish the transaction, I make a large donation to the art museum, one well over its holiday fundraising goals. Still needing distance from him, I reach out to Mom to check in on her studies and studio work.

And I mean that. For a while, she didn’t like to show her paintings to anyone. It took her long enough to admit that was what she wanted—to go to school. When she won a place in her first-choice program, I happily wrote the check and bought her a flat in London where she studies. But she’ll be here for the holidays soon…

Which reminds me. I’d better text my Christmas girlfriend.

I chuckle. This woman is going to test all my resolve. And the thing is, I’m pretty sure I’m here for it. So I click over to my calendar to see what Mac and I have planned for the week. A photography class. A mini-golf game. I write back.

I hover my thumb over the send button, but whoa, that’s some typo. I correct the errant word to ‘six’ and head to the window, looking at the field, picturing it filled with fans for the next game as they cheer on one of the most successful teams in the league.

But all the while, my mind keeps slipping in a different direction.

I’ve got to stop thinking about sex on Saturday.

The next night, I read another chapter in The Inheritance Games to Mac, review her Christmas list, discuss her wild ideas about secret doors, and then tuck her in. After that, I head to the kitchen to make sure we cleaned up completely after dinner. Then, I’m reviewing a report from my CFO when an idea strikes me. A quick check of the time tells me it’s not too late.

I have Fable’s home address, so I hop over to another browser window and send her a small holiday gift slated to arrive tomorrow evening, ordering a red bow to go with it.

Well, it’s not only the season—it’s also just the right way to treat your fake girlfriend, and she did drop an enormous hint.