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)
That’s Maeve for you. A little wild. But also wrong. I denied it then, I’ve denied it every time she’s brought it up since, and I’m denying it now. Still, I know they’ll be the perfect audience. I text them and since they’re all around, we hop on a video call the second I walk into my apartment.
And tell them I do—every single detail of my holiday romance, true and fake.
Maeve chuckles. “I told you so, I told you so, I told you so.”
“He does not have a crush on me,” I say.
“Mark my words, friend,” Maeve says, emphatic. “I saw it in his eyes.”
“Maeve, you think everyone has a crush on everyone,” I say.
Josie laughs, her head tipping back. “Can confirm. She does.”
“I can’t help it if my crush radar is finely calibrated and picks up the tiniest details.”
“Or maybe you want everything to be a crush,” Everly suggests to Maeve. “You are a bit of a hopeless romantic.”
Maeve’s aghast, her jaw down near her black shirt. “A bit? Only a bit?”
“Fine. You’re a lot.”
Josie laughs. “We’re all a lot.” But then she adds in a stage whisper, “But I hope Maeve’s right.”
“Shut up. She’s not.” She has to be because I can’t go there.
I stuff the idea of his crush in a far corner of the closet. I won’t entertain the notion at all.
When I end the call, I find there’s been a delivery to my building, and it’s so thoughtful, it makes my chest flip.
See? That’s real. I don’t feel like such a liar as I dig into the ice cream Wilder sent. The very real ice cream.
On Saturday evening, the banging on my door is so loud it’s like her calling card.
“Coming, Josie,” I call, hurrying over to look through the peephole. Waves of chestnut hair are piled on top of her head in an effortless bun I know isn’t effortless at all. Black-and-white cat-eye glasses frame her heart-shaped face, and her fair skin is flawless—well, my girl rocks the skin-care routine.
I swing open the door. “You have the most recognizable knock in the universe. It sounds like an elephant stampede.”
“Nice to see you too,” she says, then steps inside, lugging a couple of red-and-white-striped canvas shopping bags stuffed with gifts—books from An Open Book, toys for her little nephews, and records, it looks like.
“Hello, Mrs. Shopping Claus. Let me guess. The albums are for Wesley.”
She smiles, her eyes twinkling. “Yes. Wesley’s on his way home from a road trip, so I’d better wrap them tonight. I have a feeling he’s the type to look for his presents in advance.”
That’s her hockey-playing boyfriend, who she’s been with for almost a year—but only after a twisty, turny romance. They were roomies first, and Josie’s brother is the captain of Wesley’s hockey team. Talk about forbidden.
“But right now, I’m at your service. I’m all for picking just the right outfits.” Her knowing grin is a nod to the outfit she didn’t plan to wear the night she met Wesley—an oversized T-shirt and pink fuzzy slippers.
“Thank you for putting your dating trauma to my good use,” I say.
“It is for a worthwhile cause.” She sets the bags on the floor and backs up, getting right to business, roaming her eyes up and down my outfit. As a designer, I have an eye for clothes, patterns, and pairings. But as a woman going on a fake date with a billionaire, I need some backup from a friend.
“The sweater is cute,” she says, pointing at the cranberry-red V-neck sweater that slopes just so off one shoulder. “The little white cami under it is great. The hair is gorgeous.” She nods to the soft waves on my shoulders—the result of an afternoon of toil with the flat iron. “But…” Josie continues, drawing out the word and the inspection.
My heart sinks. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s the skirt.” She points to my knee-length black skirt, which I’ve paired with simple black heels. “I would go with something else.”
I smooth the fabric unnecessarily. “The man wears custom suits to work. I need something nice.” Especially after the paper towel incident, I want to look classy for Wilder. He’s a classy man who sent me a delicious gift the other night, complete with a red satin bow that had my mind wandering to other uses for bows.
“What he wears to work is not the point,” Josie says.
Oh. I get it. “You’re saying he might not wear a suit tonight,” I say quickly, then bite my lip. “Right, right.” I picture him at Thanksgiving in his crisp dress shirt and slacks. “He’ll probably wear—”
Josie curls her hand around my forearm. “This isn’t about him. It’s about you. Wear what you’re comfortable in.”
That sounds too easy. “Are you sure?”
“Trust me. I know,” she says kindly. “On our first date, Wes didn’t care about the baggy T-shirt and slippers or that I looked like I’d just gotten out of the shower.”