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)
I don’t know how it happens or when, but my foot pops up like in every iconic kissing photo, like in every movie smooch.
Now I’m having my own kissing moment, and my body takes over as he leads me through our first kiss for an audience. But it’s not three seconds like the one in his office. It’s longer—maybe ten, possibly fifteen. I don’t even know. It’s just soft and yet passionate all at once.
My chest tingles. My belly swoops. There’s not even tongue, yet I’m dizzy everywhere. It’s the best fifteen seconds I’ve spent in ages, and I want it to become five minutes. Five hours.
When he breaks the kiss, I miss his lips terribly.
My breath hitches, and I nearly whimper.
Wilder’s eyes lock with mine. Heat flickers across those clever green irises. Something else too. Fondness? Affection? No, I’m not sure it’s either of those. It’s something I can’t quite name. Desire mixed with longing, maybe.
I swallow. Try to center myself. Shake off the fog of lust.
The room comes back into focus. The song winds down to the end.
My sister claps. “Now that’s a mistletoe kiss,” she declares, then turns her face to Leo’s and cups his cheek, tugging him close. “Makes me want one from you.”
Awareness of the audience snaps me out of the haze. So does Brady’s dude-bro chant as he eggs on his cousin. “Do it, do it, do it now, cuz.”
I cringe. He’s officially ruining my post-kiss bliss. I want to live in this bubble a little longer, especially now that the focus is on the bride and groom, as it should be.
Wilder and I back away from the mistletoe, heading into the kitchen, our staged kiss a mere party footnote.
But for me, it’s the whole story. I’m still breathless when I stop at the kitchen counter and lean a hip against it. Fiddling with the sleeves of my sweater, returning to the mistletoe question.
“I didn’t pick you as the mistletoe type," I say softly.
“I’m not,” he replies, moving closer.
“So it was the decorator?” I ask. It feels vitally important, somehow, to know who hung the mistletoe. The office kiss was a practice one. But this was for an audience. Did he want it? “Mac said you hired a party planner.”
“I did, but the planner didn’t hang it up.” He sounds a little dazed too. Come to think of it, he hasn’t said much since we moved into the kitchen. His eyes even look a bit…hazy.
Wait.
Did he like the kiss as much as I did?
The thought lodges in my brain and won’t let go.
He turns his gaze toward the staircase leading to the movie room. “But I think perhaps my daughter may be,” he says. “A mistletoe person, that is.”
Does Mac have a little Christmas matchmaker in her? I let my mind wander to thoughts of Christmas with him and his daughter. To the crackle of the fireplace, the scent of pine, the familiar music that feels like home. To baking cookies in this kitchen—though not gingerbread, of course—then making more ornaments with her. Whimsical animals like foxes wearing scarves, polar bears with argyle sweaters, and reindeer in boots. We three could hang them on the tree together, and then when Mac goes to bed, Wilder and I could kiss under the mistletoe again.
What is happening in my head? I’m fantasizing about ornament design with his daughter? About after-dark kisses with him?
This is foolish and dangerous.
I blink off the cozy and sexy thoughts, but when I meet Wilder’s handsome, nearly inscrutable face, he doesn’t seem so inscrutable anymore.
The haze in his eyes? It does look like longing, a little. Or, really, a lot.
But surely that’s just the side effect of an unexpected sultry kiss. It’s a byproduct of fake dating. Someone could even list it on a pill bottle—side effects of fake dating may vary and include, but are not limited to, swoons, stomach flips, and naughty thoughts. You may want to talk to your pharmacist about what to expect and watch out for. If symptoms persist, see your love doctor.
I smooth a hand over my sweater, sliding into hostess mode and returning to the reality of this shower we’re hosting for my sister and Wilder’s best friend. “I should see if…if anyone needs anything.”
Wilder clears his throat, nodding a few times, almost like he’s clearing away the fog too. “Same here.”
My chest twinges with hope, with a dangerous ache. But I can’t spend this party wondering if he liked his daughter’s Christmas decorating touch. Or if he liked our kiss in the same way I did.
Besides, he let me know the score from the start.
My boss wants us to be the best fake daters there are to get his aunt off his back and to show my ex what he’s lost. Wilder’s a competitive man so of course he’d give me the best fake kiss in the history of Christmas. Even if I liked it, even if it felt real.