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)
His smile is wry as he looks toward the glass overlooking the field with a confident nod. “It’s better in person than on TV, isn’t it?”
That’s all he says. Then he turns to leave. But I stop him, grabbing his arm, then dropping another kiss on his cheek.
“That wasn’t for practice. That was for real. Thank you.”
There’s a pause as something unreadable passes in his eyes. “You’re welcome,” he says, and I watch him go.
But then, maybe it wasn’t unreadable. Maybe it was actually that he enjoyed watching me…have fun.
15
HIS OTHER TUXEDO
Fable
On Sunday morning, my eyes are bigger than moons when the car pulls up outside a three-story, slate-gray home on a cul-de-sac in Cow Hollow. I didn’t even know there were cul-de-sacs in the city anywhere. But then, I’ve never had a reason to cruise down a street populated by nine-figure homes before.
I haven’t been able to stop gawking at this whole block as the black town car Wilder sent for me rolled through his neighborhood at the top of the city. It’s not like I’m dying to live in one of these mansions. But I am human and these homes are just so…gawk-worthy.
I step out of the car, feeling a little like a princess as the driver, in his livery cap, holds the door for me. “Thank you.”
“But of course,” he says, then sweeps out his arm toward the gated entryway. “Mr. Blaine is expecting you so the gate should be unlocked.”
Gates. Drivers. Palaces. This is all so much. The wrought-iron door groans open easily then clangs shut behind me. The front lawn boasts low hedges, neatly trimmed and decorated with white icicle lights for the season. I stride along a stone path, up the front steps, and to the doorway. On a looming black door hangs a huge wreath, the pine scent from it tickling my nose.
I lift a hand to knock when the door swings open.
It’s not Wilder. It’s his daughter, with her hair perfectly combed back into a French braid. “Oh, hi. My dad told me you were coming. I was hoping we could finish that jigsaw puzzle we started the other night.” It’s said with that trademark Blaine confidence as she waves me in.
It’s seriously adorable that Wilder enlisted his daughter to help us with our fake dating plan. And it’s seriously fun to play along with her. “Right. When I came by on Tuesday after work?”
“Like our new routine,” she adds, and she is the spitting image—well, personality wise—of her father.
Smooth. Cool. Quick on her feet.
“Yes. Our new routine,” I echo.
I’m about to step into the home when I remember something Wilder said at our dinner last weekend as he rattled off his personal details. I toe off my flats, leaving them in the entryway. Mac takes my coat.
“He sent me to get you. He had to finish a phone call with my grandma,” she says, and I was admittedly expecting her to say his CFO or the New York office, but it’s delightful Wilder’s talking to his mom in London right now. “I can show you around a little bit.”
“I would love that,” I say.
Mac ushers me into the house. “My dad and I did most of the Christmas decorating. Because…Confession: I love Christmas decorating.”
“Double confession: me too. And you did an amazing job.”
“Well, I didn’t do everything. He hired a party planner to add some extra touches for today because I can’t do it all. Even at my age. But I did those a couple weeks ago.” She points to the garlands lining a floating staircase on the opposite side of the home and the tasteful sprigs of evergreens arranged around red and white candles on side tables.
“You’ve got mad skills,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says with a proud lift of her chin as she escorts me into the sunken living room. I tell her I enjoyed her Christmas recital, and she sighs. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
“You don’t like performing?”
“It’s fine,” she says with an easy shrug. “But it’s not my thing.”
In the corner of the room stands a tall fir tree, neatly decorated with silver and red bows. But it’s the ornaments that catch my attention. “Your ornaments don’t match.” I can’t hide my delight. I’d figured Wilder’s tree would be decorated with understated silver, gold, and red orbs, like a tree in a fancy department store window.
Nope.
On the branches hang paper cutout snowflakes, pink yarn stars, and homemade snowmen glued to popsicle sticks. “I made those,” Mac says. “They could be better. But want to see the rest?”
“I’d love to,” I say. “I love homemade ornaments.”
“Me too.” She guides me down the step, onto a plush carpet that feels like walking on a fluffy cloud, then past a glass coffee table, and finally to the tree. She shows me a red cardboard picture frame with a photo of her and Wilder sledding on a toboggan. “That’s from Evergreen Falls a couple years ago. There’s this one hill there where you can go super-fast.”