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)
“The use of the word performative in the context of fake dating.”
This woman will never not knock me down a peg. I stifle a smile as she stretches to reach the top of the door. I step in and help her, my shoulder brushing against hers as I say, “It’s good to be prepared.”
“Yes, it is, Mister Agenda,” she says, still chuckling.
“Fable,” I warn her, but it’s playful too.
“Wilder,” she says, taunting me right back. “I say holding hands is fine if we’re sitting next to each other on a couch, for instance. But I don’t think we should walk around holding hands. Like, tra-la-la. Aren’t we cute, holding hands, look at us.”
“Exactly,” I say, grateful she gets my point even as she pokes fun at me. “What about other shows of affection?” I picture her in my home, in the kitchen, entertaining guests, and it feels natural that I’d set a hand on her back. Enticing too. Obviously. I stop my work for a few seconds. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? Still, I ask evenly, “A hand on your back?”
“Have at it,” she says as she twists the ribbons together on the other side.
“A playful shoulder bump?”
“Yes, but not too many. Too many touches would be”—she stops, takes her time, lets a smile spread—“performative.”
I give her a stern stare. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Probably not,” she says, shooting me a gotcha look right back.
“Fine. I probably deserve that,” I say, then ask her what else I can do for the door decorating. She tells me to grab the door wreath hook from the bag. As I root around in the bag, I find a silver metal knocker with an elf perched on it. I hold it up. “Are you sending me a message, Fable?”
“Yes. That I’m watching over your office next to this Santa’s butt wreath that I made,” she says, then grabs the elf hook and positions it on the nail on the door—the one that’s accessible through the cut-out hole. Then, she grabs the wreath from the bag and hangs it on the hook. It’s made with burlap and colorful ribbons. She adjusts it so Santa’s ass, stuck in a chimney, is sticking out of my door.
But I’m still stuck on the last thing she said. “You made this? For the contest?”
She gives me a soft smile. “Yes. Well, it’s really for you,” she says, a flash of nervousness in her eyes, but hope too. “I wanted your office to look the best. And you’ve been so generous with your gifts. The least I could do was make you something from scratch.”
I stare at the wreath, even more astonished. “This is incredible.”
“You think so?” she asks, beaming.
“I do.” I roam my eyes up and down the door, then turn my gaze to my designer. The woman who enjoys making homemade items. The woman who went all out for me. The woman I can’t stop thinking about. Decorating might not be my thing, but I could decorate all day with her. “It’s not fine,” I say, correcting my earlier statement. “It’s the finest.”
“Thank you.” Her smile is its own reward. It’s wide and joyful, and I want to swipe my thumb along her bottom lip, kiss the corner of her mouth, taste her.
Which brings me to a vital topic in the dos and don’ts. I’ve been tiptoeing around the main attraction. Avoiding it. But I can’t any longer. Since this topic is best addressed behind closed doors, I motion to my office. “Let’s finish in here,” I say.
“Perfect. Because I brought lights for your desk.”
I stare at her, a little amazed. She goes above and beyond in her creativity. “You did?”
“Yes. But will it cramp your style if some corporate bigwig comes into a meeting and sees the flashing lights on your desk? I don’t want to ruin the big bad wolf vibe you’ve got going on.”
I lift a brow. “Is that how you see me?”
Her lips curve up the slightest bit. “I don’t know, Wilder. Do big bad wolves send mint ice cream?”
Two can play at her game. “Perhaps they send them to Little Red Riding Hood,” I say as we head into my office.
“Well then, Little Red Riding Hood approves.”
“So does the wolf,” I say, and I am so fucked. Five minutes after telling myself to follow some rules for self-protection, I already know that I won’t stop sending her gifts. I won’t stop texting. This has been the most fun I’ve had in a while and I’m…addicted—and I’m allowed to be. Nothing can come of this ruse, of course. How could anything come of a romance that started as a lie? But I’ll enjoy it while I can.
I shut the door behind us.
She beelines for my desk, fishing around in her bag of tricks for lights, presumably. In no time, she gets to work on stringing them around my desk. Yes, this is the moment. She’s occupied with a task, so I say as coolly as I can, “And what about a kiss?”