Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 44479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
York chuckles. “Oh, please. I’m just doing my part to protect your honor. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re single on Christmas Eve, now would we?”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t hide my smile. “Right, because the world is just dying to know if Noelle Pearl is still available.”
“Hey, with a name like that, you should be on the cover of Holiday Hotties Monthly or something,” he teases, giving my hand a playful squeeze. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to date a girl who’s a walking Christmas card?”
I laugh, feeling warmth spread through me. “I’ll take that as a compliment, even if it does sound a little cheesy.”
“Cheesy’s my specialty,” he replies with a mock-serious expression. “So, what’s next on our agenda, Miss Christmas Card? Shall we visit Santa and tell him how much you want to keep this fake dating gig going?”
“Absolutely! I’ll ask him for a lifetime supply of awkward moments with you,” I shoot back, nudging him playfully.
He feigns shock, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me! I thought we were having a magical time together.”
“We are! It’s just… the idea of being stuck with you forever is a bit much,” I quip, feeling giddy.
He grins, his laughter echoing in the crowded mall. “Well, I guess we’ll have to take it one holiday at a time.”
As we navigate through the bustling sea of holiday shoppers, the festive atmosphere feels electric, and I can’t help but relish the fact that this fake relationship with York feels strangely real. The awkwardness from last night? I’m brushing it aside like a stray snowflake. Instead, I’m acting as if the thought of actually dating York Steele is the furthest thing from my mind.
But a nagging question dances in my thoughts: Do you think he’s buying it?
York suddenly stops in front of a quaint toy shop, his expression shifting from playful to pensive. He frowns, and I notice the way his jaw tightens, a hint of vulnerability flickering in his usually confident demeanor.
“Everything okay?” I ask, concern creeping into my voice as he drops my hand.
“My mother used to bring me to this store every year,” he replies, his gaze fixed on the window display filled with colorful toys and twinkling lights.
“Oh,” is all I manage, the word hanging heavily between us. I don’t press further; I can feel the weight of the moment. In all the years I’ve known York, I’ve never heard him talk about his mother. I’ve met a few of his family members—his cousin just the other night—but his mother has always been a blank space in his life story.
A soft smile spreads across his face, and I watch as a flood of memories washes over him. “She’d give me fifty dollars and let me buy whatever I wanted,” he continues, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “I remember feeling like a millionaire as I browsed the store, eyes wide with all the possibilities.”
I can picture the little boy he once was, filled with wonder and joy, and it tugs at my heartstrings. “That sounds amazing,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “You must have been the coolest kid on the block.”
He laughs softly, the warmth of his smile creeping back in. “Yeah, until my sister came along and stole the spotlight. She was the real star of the family.”
The playful banter is back, but I can sense that this moment is more than just a memory for him. It’s a glimpse into his past, a window into the man behind the confident facade. I want to ask more about his family, about his mother, but instead, I just stand beside him, letting the moment linger.
As we continue to walk, I steal glances at him, trying to decipher what’s going on in that handsome head of his. Maybe this fake dating gig is more complicated than I thought. And for a split second, I wonder if I’m ready to uncover all the layers that make up York Steele.
“Ice cream?” I nearly scream, my voice rising in disbelief. “It’s like twenty degrees outside, and you want to eat ice cream?” Seriously, are there even ice cream shops open at this time of year? The very idea seems absurd.
York beams at me, his smile wide enough to light up the entire street, like it’s the best idea he’s ever had in his life. “It’ll be fun! We can walk with our cones down the street, and the paparazzi will think we’re crazy.”
“Um,” I stall, trying to muster a valid counterargument. “You are crazy. It’s too cold!” I shiver just thinking about it, the icy air biting at my cheeks, but York seems undeterred.
He doesn’t listen to my whines of protest. Instead, he grabs my hand, his grip warm and reassuring against the chill of the air, and starts leading me down the cobblestone path toward the nearest ice cream shop.