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)
She takes a bite too, and when she’s done, she asks, “And why do you like it? The song?”
“Because I like snow. It’s soft, it’s quiet, it’s peaceful. Snow makes everything beautiful. You can have the busiest day, a million things going on, but when the snow falls, it calms the whole world down.”
Snow is also thoroughly romantic, so I keep that to myself. But then again, maybe I shouldn’t. This is a make-believe romance for the next few weeks. It can’t hurt to lean into that. “And it’s romantic,” I add. “When you look out the window and you see the flakes falling and everything goes hush, it makes you want to spend the day, and the night, with…that special someone.”
“It hardly snows in San Francisco.” She sounds wistful, but I can solve that.
“It usually snows at my cabins in Evergreen Falls,” I offer as the tune ends and “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” begins.
“They’re hardly cabins,” she says, teasing me once again on that front.
“The snow doesn’t care about that.”
She’s quiet for a beat, clearly thinking. “Are we sharing one? You mentioned the other day that I’d have my own room, but I know your cabins”—she stops to sketch air quotes—“usually have living rooms and a couple bedrooms.”
Reasonable question. “We’ll have to for appearance’s sake. I’ll make sure we’re in a two-bedroom one. You’ll have your own space. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I won’t be.”
“I’ll make sure you get the bedroom with the best view of the mountains. And the snow,” I say.
She looks away from me for a few seconds, toward the windows that give a view to the inside of the bistro, maybe even to the reflection in the glass of the lights. She turns back to me. “I hope it snows then.”
“Do you like snow? Or are you a summer girl?”
“I like all seasons.” Faintly, almost imperceptibly, she lifts her face, like she’s drawing an inhale, then says, “But I find I’m liking winter.”
For a breath-held moment, neither of us says another word. In those seconds, the ions between us seem to spark. Dangerous thoughts. I snuff them. “And you? Your favorite Christmas song?”
She pauses for a second, perhaps reorienting to the shift. “I like so many. ‘The Christmas Song,’ ‘Winter Wonderland,’ this one…” she says, as Judy Garland sings in a tune that’s full of longing, and honestly, a little sad. “But not this version. Nothing against Judy.”
“Which version?” I ask, intrigued. I’m not that up to speed on Christmas covers, but she’ll probably say Sinatra. That’s a reasonable guess at least.
“Have you heard the cover by Tinashe?”
I shake my head. I haven’t even heard of the artist, but I don’t admit that. “No.”
“She’s a pop singer. Kind of R&B,” Fable adds, seeing right through me, but not pointing it out, which I appreciate. “She did a cover that sounds a little like—”
She cuts herself off, like she’s gone too far. But I have to know. “Like what?” I ask, more desperate than I want to let on.
There’s a beat. An internal debate behind those warm eyes. Then a decision as she says softly, “Like a seduction.”
And I’m no longer warm. I’m roasting. “I’ll have to listen to it then.”
“Wilder,” she says a few seconds later, “does this end after Christmas?”
It’s like someone’s opened the front door during a snowstorm—a blast of cold swirls around me. But of course it ends after Christmas. It’s designed to end. That’s the nature of a fake romance. And fake romances can’t hurt you, so I shake off this chill as I say, “That seems ideal. Do you agree?”
With a sad smile, or maybe even a frown, she nods. “Yes. After the wedding, I suppose.”
I hate this discussion, but I didn’t get to where I am today by backing down from difficult conversations. “Late December or even right after the new year would be most believable, and everyone will be busy then anyway, so hopefully they won’t even notice.”
“Exactly! We can figure out the specifics later though?” She asks that question as if planning a breakup is the last thing she wants to do.
Same here. “That sounds like a good plan. Especially since we have doors to decorate and snowballs to throw before then.”
“We do,” she says, then smooths her hands across her lap and exhales. “Now, enough of that. Let’s talk about something fun.”
“Like what?”
“What were you reading when I arrived?”
Ah, this is a much better conversation topic. “A detective novel,” I admit.
“Something juicy and pulpy?” she asks, like she’s eating that up.
“Yes.” I pause. “I don’t usually admit that’s what I read for pleasure.”
She gives me a conspiratorial smile. “I’ll keep your secrets.”
She knows more than most people already. All the more reason to keep the secret of this crush that’s growing stronger by the hour. A crush that’ll be snuffed out after the holidays.