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)
“We can do it all,” Wilder promises as he wraps a crafting kit, folding a corner of red reindeer printed paper. “And I think we can hang onto first place too.”
Since we won the snowball competition and the tree-decorating one, we’re still in the lead, despite our middling finish in caroling. “I think we can too.”
Though it’s irksome that Brady and Iris are clinging to third place thanks to their epic performance in the caroling competition. And Iris can probably make a damn good gingerbread house since she’s a chef. But I won’t let that bother me. I can’t.
“All we have to do is place well in this last event,” Wilder says as he reaches for another gift and methodically wraps a square of mistletoe paper around a set of paintbrushes. “That should keep him out of first place.” Then he shoots me a soft smile. “Even though I don’t want to win just to beat him. Ask me why I want to win.”
“Fine. I’ll bite. Why do you want to win?”
He scans the basement, then lowers his voice. “Because it turns you on when my team wins. I’ve noticed that after football games, your cheeks are pink and your chest is flushed.”
Anything is foreplay for this man.
“That’s true,” I say, then he steals a kiss that sends shivers all the way to my toes as if he’s proving his point.
But we have more work to do, and I focus on that. Only it seems the more we wrap, the more we have to wrap. The stack of presents is multiplying. Which is great because it’s all going to a good cause. Still, I don’t know how we’ll get through it all.
As evening nears, I shake out my wrists, which are sore from all the gift wrapping. Wilder stops and rubs them for a minute, and then we return to the pile on the table, tackling the soccer balls next.
“I guess wrapping takes a long time when you buy half a store,” I say with a wry smile.
“Good wrapping is always worth it,” he says with a naughty gleam in his eyes as he perfectly ties a green satin bow on a box.
“Now I really want to go,” I say.
The problem is by the time the clock strikes six, there are still easily one hundred presents left to wrap.
I glance around at the hard-working volunteers wrapping gifts for kids who might not otherwise have them. “If we’re going, we should go,” I say softly, but the words don’t match my tone. I don’t want to leave.
Wilder simply says, “Or we could stay.”
And I fall a little harder for him.
“I would really like that,” I say, grateful. I love that he’s giving up the contest for this.
“There’s just one thing I need to do.” He already sounds satisfied, but he takes his phone from his pocket and dials a number. “Brady-i-o,” he says, then pauses. I tilt my head, wondering why the hell he’s calling my ex. “Actually, no, I don’t want to hear your formal pitch tomorrow. Or the next day. Or any day. I don’t work with cheaters. And I definitely don’t work with people who hurt my girlfriend. I’d say good luck with your stockbroker business, but I wouldn’t mean it, so I won’t.”
My lips form a wide O as he hangs up with a powerful stab of his finger against the screen.
“That was hot.” I stretch across the table and throw my arms around him, whispering in his ear, “You are going to get fucked so good tonight.”
“No, Fable. You are.”
Chills rush down my spine. “True, true,” I say, then send a text to my sister so she won’t worry about our whereabouts.
We spend an hour or more wrapping gifts and missing the Christmas gingerbread contest, hardly even caring about the competition.
Sometimes other things are more important.
Eventually, we finish and say goodbye. We’ve worked long into the night, and we get to the town square right as the awards ceremony is about to begin. Everyone is assembled by the gazebo, clutching hot cocoa and chatting while the lights of the trees we decorated yesterday flash on and off.
Wilder and I stride across the snowy town square, where Brady is chatting with Mayor Bumblefritz. When Brady spots me, an evil grin spreads across his face, and something like payback sparks in his eyes.
I gulp, suddenly afraid. My pulse spikes with worry.
Brady darts a hand toward the mayor, snatches his candy cane megaphone, and bounds to the gazebo, pointing it our way as he brings it to his stupid mouth. “You’ve finally arrived! Will you pretend you’re happy to see me win, Wilder Blaine? Like you’ve been pretending everything else? Like, oh, say, your little romance with Fable that’s actually one hundred percent, certified fake. And guess what, big man?” He stops to let out a victorious cackle. “No one likes a liar at Christmastime.”