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)
Then subtly, or maybe not that subtly, I raise my hand an inch or two toward him. An invitation. His gaze swings down to it immediately. The corner of his lips curves up. And in a heartbeat he takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine.
There’s a soft, barely audible sigh of relief that seems to float past his lips.
I don’t say anything. I just enjoy the feel-good moment as we make our way through the bustling crowds. The cobblestone sidewalks are dusted with a light layer of snow. Shop windows are decorated with wreaths and ribbons, and children laugh as they rush toward the snowball competition in the town square. They’ll go first, with adults competing after.
Wilder points out all the little shops in Evergreen Falls from the Sugar Plum Bakery, to the toy store with model trains chugging around tiny tracks in the window, from the Holly Lane antique shop, to a Christmas decor shop that looks like it belongs in a Bavarian Christmas village—Mistletoe Emporium is the name. He tells me the town has an international flare to it, with residents hailing from France, Thailand, Lebanon, and Canada among others. The mayor’s mother moved here from Japan and met her husband in this town after he moved here from Vancouver, Wilder tells me. “You’ll meet him soon. Dan Bumblefritz is the host of the competition,” he says.
“Can’t wait,” I say.
Wilder tells me more about the townspeople—the sheriff’s family all moved here from Mexico, after a stint in Texas, and the woman who runs the bakery is from Paris. Ooh la la, indeed. We stop outside A Likely Story, snapping pics of the store’s window display of Hazel’s The Twelve Hate Dates of The Holidays. At the end of the block, Wilder nods to an ice skate rental shop.
“That’s Mac’s favorite,” he says, as he’s said each time we’ve passed a new store, and I laugh.
“I’m getting the sense she likes everything Christmas,” I say.
“She’s passionate about it,” he admits.
I sigh, mostly contentedly. “I like it too.”
“Hmm.” He sounds doubtful.
“What’s that hmm for?”
“I hear some reticence,” he says.
He’s too observant and really there’s no need to hold back now—not after the things he’s shared and the way he let me into his world with his mother. “When I was younger, my parents fought a lot, but often around Christmas. Usually over whether Mom was going to take Dad back or not. He wasn’t faithful to her,” I say, painful memories rising up of the lies he told.
Wilder growls, like he wants to rip my father to pieces. “That’s terrible. There’s no excuse for that.”
“I know,” I say, my heart heavy. “He cheated over and over. I wish she’d left him sooner. But she usually took him back. Until she kicked him out for good when I was sixteen,” I say. “But the last few Christmases were always tense. Even when she took him back, there was this undercurrent that it wouldn’t last. Pretty sure Charlotte and I always felt like we were walking on eggshells.”
“Is it going to be awkward when he arrives? Seeing him here along with her?” Wilder asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve gotten used to him being who he is. I just…sometimes I hurt for my mother, and for the Christmases that weren’t as magical as they could have been for Charlotte and me.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” he says, with so much genuine concern that my heart squeezes.
He stops outside the Sugar Plum Bakery, searching my gaze, maybe checking to see if I’m okay. And I really am okay. Maybe even a little…amazed at this man and the words he just uttered. Or really, the way he said them. “You said honey.”
He tilts his head, his brow furrowing. “Isn’t that what we decided in the car? As part of our list?”
“Yes, but it felt so…”
I catch myself before I say real.
I stop talking. I need to stop reading too much into a pretend romance. That moment felt real because Wilder’s good at pretending. Because he’s good at everything. Because he’s Wilder. But also because he’s patently honest—the night we plotted this at dinner at Dahlia’s, he vowed we’d be the best fake daters ever.
That’s all any of this is and I’d be a fool, like my mother was, to believe in anything more. Even when he finishes for me, asking, “So real?”
Still, I swallow roughly.
He seems to do the same.
“It did feel real, but you’re good at this,” I say, chin up and cheery, so I don’t get caught.
I can’t.
He parts his lips, like he’s about to say something, but then he rolls them together. He squeezes my hand…warmly. “Or maybe,” he begins, running his thumb along the space between my thumb and forefinger, stroking it in the chilly air. “We’re good at it.”
His eyes lock with mine and something so vulnerable flashes in his irises that my chest aches all over again. My breath comes in a staggered gasp, and I look down at his thumb, grazing my skin in a mesmerizing half-arc over and over. Every sweep sends chills down my spine—the kind of chills that heat you up.