Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“Rowan?”
Was that too sweet? Too ungrumpy? Well, she’ll have to get used to the new public me.
“Just wanted to wish you luck,” I say, then I drop a kiss to her cheek.
She flinches for a second, but it’s fleeting. Then her breath catches. “Oh,” she whispers, clearly caught off guard—but liking it.
I linger for a beat. Or two. Or three. Savoring the cherry scent of her, the crisp air, and, most of all—the freedom. The fucking fake-dating freedom.
I should have thought of this sooner. But I’m so glad I have now. This is great. The chance to enjoy as much of her as I can while we’re playing this faking-it game.
When we break apart, I say, “You’re going to do great today.”
“Thanks. Good luck to you too.”
I’m about to walk away when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Miles miming holding hands—by clasping his own hands together like an idiot.
I scratch my cheek with my middle finger, then turn back to Isla, reach for her hand, and give it a squeeze. “Rooting for you,” I say. And I’m about to say snow angel, but that feels too private. So I improvise. “Sunshine.”
Because that’s her. That’s my fake girlfriend.
“You too…grinch,” she says, getting into the act.
I walk back to our spot, and the guys are giving quiet fist pumps.
Fine. They might be right with their advice. But I’m still going to kill them when the gala is over. That’s a promise.
34
EYE CANDY
ISLA
“Push harder,” I shout. “And faster.”
“Harder, faster. Got it. Should I go deeper too?” Eloise asks as she positions her forest green sled at the top of the hill.
I smirk. “Deeper is always a good idea.”
“Had a feeling, Miss Christmas. Also, don’t give our secrets to the enemy,” she says, wiggling her brows in the direction of Rowan’s team.
“I won’t,” I say, a little nervous, hoping that was the right response. But also—I’m still a little buzzed from that kiss he gave me. It was chaste, barely there, and yet I loved that he kissed me in public.
JD never did.
I didn’t realize how much I’d like not being a secret. Maybe I was made for fake-dating. That’s a brand-new thought, and there’s a lot to unpack in it. Best to save it for another time.
Eloise gives me a thumbs-up with her black mittens—the ones with white snowflakes on them—then flops down on the plastic disc, takes a steadying breath, and adopts a pure I’ve got this game face. When the mayor finally blows the whistle, Eloise is off and flying down the hill.
Aurora waits at the bottom in a green knit cap, blonde hair peeking out, bouncing on booted toes like a boxer, ready beside a bucket of candy canes.
Eloise soars down the sledding path, steering with focus and intensity, pointing her toes like she’s competing in the luge at the Olympics.
At the bottom, she pops up, and I’m already snagging a pink disc then launching myself down the hill to catch the tail end of the sledding-plus-fishing contest. They practiced yesterday for this relay event—each racer gets one sled run, then immediately joins their team at the candy cane fishing station to hook as many as they can with their candy cane poles.
The sledding is judged not only on speed but also on accuracy. You need to stick to your lane—if that doesn’t feel like a metaphor for life, I don’t know what does.
I reach the bottom, breathless, my heart beating fast. Popping up, I cheer them on as they hook candy canes together and dip them into the bucket, then fishes out others. It’s a numbers game, but Eloise and Aurora bring focus and determination.
Trouble is, they’re up against some folks who use their hands and eyes for a living.
Wesley’s on one of the teams, and he’s fast and steady a few stations down. But someone else is killing it too—Phillipa. She’s a waitress at the Candy Cane Diner. Makes sense. I’ve seen her balance five plates on her arms.
And Sabrina, her teammate, is excellent at it too. Pride blooms in my chest. She’s a former competitive figure skater with great hand-eye coordination and pristine focus. I love seeing my friends succeed.
Leighton’s here as well, taking pictures of the competition for the team’s socials, since she freelances for the Sea Dogs as a photographer.
During a lull in the action, she makes her way to me, her eyes straying to the place I stood at the start of the competition—right where Rowan kissed me.
“Okay, but when, exactly, were you going to tell us about that?” she asks, sliding up beside me, her gaze flicking toward Rowan.
Think fast. “About what?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound breezy, even though I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. What the hell do I tell my friends? That it’s fake, or kind of real? That it’s not entirely pretend, but it is entirely temporary?