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 already know the story of our first date—the ice cream shop. Saturday at Dahlia’s would have been our second one, so we’re covered there if it comes up. We know the key details about each other. But we probably need a checklist for things like the shower. And any other events leading up to the wedding,” I say, then bite off the rest of the bullet. “The dos and don’ts.”
She stops her work, knitting her brow in question. “The dos and don’ts of how to fake date?”
I grit my teeth, then just say it. “Public displays of affection.”
“Aah,” she says, understanding dawning. But then, she sighs. A little heavily. “We should.”
But I rewind to her sigh. “What’s wrong?”
“It just reminds me—I feel sort of bad lying to my sister.”
I hadn’t thought of that before. But it makes sense. “Do you want to tell her the truth?”
She shakes her head adamantly as she tapes down another swath of wrapping paper, making sure to position a pre-cut hole in the middle of the paper about five feet high on the door. “No. She has too much going on, and I didn’t tell her what happened with Brady at Thanksgiving. I don’t want to stress her out.”
The Fable picture becomes clearer. She doesn’t like to be the center of attention. She likes to focus on others. She adores her sister. “But if you want to tell her, that’s perfectly fine,” I say, since that’s all I can really offer her. Though I suppose there’s one more thing I can do. “Or if you want to call it quits, I will understand that too.”
Her eyes flash with hell no. “I’m no quitter,” she says as she stops her work briefly to look me in the eyes. “Do you want to?”
I’m dead serious as I say, “No.”
The last thing I want is for this make-believe Christmas match to end.
“Does Leo know the truth?” she asks as she finishes fixing the wrapping paper in place.
I shake my head, but it doesn’t bother me that he’s not in on it. He doesn’t need to be, and I’m not wired to share those details with a friend. “He doesn’t, and I don’t need to tell him. The only one who knows is Mac.”
A smile forms on her face, slow and easy. “You told her.”
“I wanted her to know the truth. And I didn’t want to disappoint her,” I say. Then swallow. “When it ends.”
“Of course,” Fable says with a frown. “That’s thoughtful. I admire that.” She sighs, but it’s one of acceptance. “Let’s get to it then. Rules. Guidelines. Dos and Don’ts.”
I glance at my watch since I have a call in fifteen minutes. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. What’s acceptable to you? A kiss on the cheek in public? Holding hands?”
She takes a beat, seeming to give it some thought as she digs into the bag and retrieves a red ribbon. “We need to be believable but not like we’re constantly selling it. People get busted when they try too hard and sell something too much.”
She’s not wrong.
Memories of my father overcompensating flash in my mind. Moments when Mom would ask if he was okay and he’d say everything was fine, fine, fine, selling it almost like he was in a Broadway musical, one step away from using jazz hands and spirit fingers.
When you try too hard, you eventually get caught. And he did—caught losing everything. A dark cloud passes over me. That’s why I give him money. I worry what he’d do if he was in that situation again. What would he turn to? Would he hurt himself? Steal from someone? Disappear? I have no idea, and sometimes—no, most of the time—it’s easier and safer to help him out of a hole. Still, I’ve learned one lesson from watching him. Don’t oversell. “I agree. So we can’t be all over each other. Not to mention it would be inappropriate for a fake romance.”
“You’re right. It can’t be excessive,” she says as she nudges me aside to twine the red ribbon around the green ribbon I hung.
“I touched your shoulder earlier today. Was that okay?” I ask.
Her cheeks pinken. I’ve never known Fable to blush, but then we’ve never talked about affection before.
“Yes, that was okay,” she says, then swallows. Noticeably. My gaze stays there on her throat too long, and I force myself to stop thinking about how much I want to run a finger over the hollow of it.
“Holding hands?” But I picture doing that at the shower this coming weekend and it seems off. I shake my head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came. “That feels performative.”
She laughs. At me. Of course she laughs at me. That seems to be her favorite pastime.
I arch a brow, asking, “What’s so funny?”