Page 37 of My Favorite Holidate

I smile like the Mona Lisa. “Don’t you worry about Santa’s butt, sugar plum.”

As he walks with me to the team store, a smile of dawning realization spreads, slow and steady, across his handsome face. “I see where this is going, Fable.”

“Of course you do.”

Placing the box of pink shirts on the counter, Wilder moves one hand to brush my shoulder, like a boyfriend saying goodbye. My shoulder likes his hand very much. So much that I don’t move. I just…savor the touch.

When he lets go, my shoulder misses him.

“I’ll see you at my office in fifteen minutes,” Wilder says. “With Santa’s butt.”

He leaves, and I reach into the box, grab the stuffed butt, and drop it into my canvas bag without looking.

Because I’m not thinking of Santa’s rear end. I’m checking out my fake boyfriend’s ass…the whole time he’s walking away.

13

THE FINEST

Wilder

Shay is on an early lunch break, so this door-decorating session at my office seems as good a place as any to tackle the topic I forgot at dinner. I was having too good a time getting to know her and I didn’t address a key issue that should have been covered in a fake girlfriend debrief.

I can’t put off the inevitable any longer.

As soon as Fable enters the admin area, I shut the outer door and get right to business. “Let’s chat.”

She sets down a bag of decorations outside my office, her eyes flickering with worry. “What’s wrong? You hate Santa’s butt that much?”

Ah hell. I shake my head. “No. I’m sure it’s fine. I’m sure everything you picked out for the door is.”

She’s quiet for a beat. “I was aiming a little higher than fine,” she says, clearly hurt. “But fair enough.”

Shit. I’ve insulted her by making her think I don’t care about decorating. Well, I don’t care, really. But she doesand that’s what matters. My heart squeezes. All my instincts tell me to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Reassure her. But I fight them off. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, trying to cover up the way she’s got me a little flustered with this desire to comfort her. “I’m no good at decorating,” I admit. “So I trust your taste.”

She smiles, a sign I’m forgiven. “Good. Because I planned something fabulous for the door. Just for you.”

That shouldn’t make my pulse spike, but it does. Especially thejust for you.“I’m sure I’ll love it,” I say, as businesslike as I can be with her.

After a pause, she says with a playful pout, “You’d better, mister.”

I roll up my cuffs, and her eyes stray briefly to my forearms. “Put me to use.”

“Green ribbon with gold piping. Let’s hang it around the doorframe. It’s in the bag.”

I riffle around for it, find it quickly, then I get to work. Since we have privacy here, I clear my throat. I’m all professional, like I’m having a conversation with a board member. “I neglected to cover this fake romance agenda item at dinner the other night,” I begin.

“Oh no. You forgot an agenda item,” she deadpans as she works on covering the front of the door in shiny red paper.

I don’t take the teasing bait. If I do, I’ll keep flirting endlessly with her, and we’ll never hammer out the expectations. Deals fall apart when parties don’t communicate their goals. “I thought it would be helpful if we address some of the ground rules, if you will, of this arrangement.”

“Yes, sir. Let’s address them, stat.”

I give her a pointed look but stifle a laugh. “The mocking.Dear god, the mocking,” I say as I align the ribbon around the frame.

“Oh, is that against the rules too? I’d better write these down then.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll send you a meeting recap later.”