Chapter 35 Jake
JAKE
The smell of roasted turkey and cinnamon fills Tish’s small cabin, but it’s not her cooking that’s creating this perfect Christmas scene.
The catered meal sits artfully arranged on her kitchen table, complete with all the traditional trimmings that would make anyone believe she spent hours in the kitchen preparing a romantic Christmas dinner for two. Just as we planned for our fake relationship.
I adjust my position in the wooden chair, trying to find a comfortable spot while three cameras capture every angle of our “intimate” meal.
The cabin feels impossibly small with the film crew crammed into every available corner, their equipment creating a maze of cables and lights that transforms Tish’s cozy cabin into a movie set.
“This turkey is incredible,” I say, cutting into the perfectly golden meat while maintaining eye contact with Tish across the small table. The words feel rehearsed, even though they’re not. Everything about this feels artificial, except for the way my pulse quickens every time she looks at me.
“I’m so glad you like it,” she responds with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
She’s playing her part perfectly, the devoted girlfriend who spent her Christmas morning cooking for her man.
But I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers grip her fork just a little too tightly.
The red and gold Christmas tablecloth beneath our plates catches the warm glow from the string lights she has draped around the kitchen window.
A small Christmas tree sits in the corner of the living room, visible through the doorway, its colorful lights twinkling like tiny stars.
Everything looks picture-perfect for the cameras, but all I can think about is last night.
Last night, when the three of us had Tish writhing beneath us in ways that still make my body respond just thinking about it.
The memory of her soft moans, the way she called out our names, the taste of her skin, it’s all I can focus on, even as she’s sitting right here trying to make small talk about the cranberry sauce.
“Jake?” Her voice cuts through my thoughts, and I realize she’s been talking while I’ve been staring at her lips, remembering how they felt against mine just hours ago.
“Sorry, what?” I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of desire that seems to follow me whenever she’s near.
“I asked if you wanted more wine.” She holds up the bottle of red wine we opened for the cameras, her eyebrows raised in amusement. “You seem a million miles away.”
“Just thinking about how beautiful you look today.” The words come out automatically, part of our performance, but they’re also completely true.
She’s wearing a deep green sweater that brings out the blue in her eyes, and her long dark hair falls in waves over her shoulders.
The small mole at the corner of her left eye draws my attention every time she blinks.
The cameraman behind her gives me a thumbs up, clearly pleased with my romantic delivery.
But the flush that spreads across Tish’s cheeks is real, and it makes something twist in my chest.
This is supposed to be fake.
A publicity stunt to clean up my image and give the team some positive press.
So why does every interaction with her feel like it means something more?
I’ve shared women before. Hell, I’ve been in situations that would make most people blush, and I’ve never thought twice about it.
Sex is sex, pleasure is pleasure, and I’ve never been one to get emotionally attached.
But last night…last night was different.
Maybe it’s because we’ve been playing house, pretending to be in love for the cameras.
Maybe all this fake intimacy is messing with my head, making me think I feel things I don’t actually feel.
Because Jake Sorenson doesn’t fall for anyone.
Not after Lillian.
Not ever again.
“Tell me about your family’s Christmas traditions,” Tish says, leaning forward slightly. The movement causes her sweater to dip just enough to give me a glimpse of the creamy skin beneath, and I have to force myself to look at her face instead.
“We didn’t really have many,” I admit, taking a sip of wine to buy myself time. “My parents were always working, even on holidays. Christmas was usually just another day, maybe with slightly better takeout.”
It’s not entirely true, but it’s easier than explaining how Christmas used to be my favorite holiday until Lillian destroyed it for me.
How I used to love the idea of creating traditions with someone special, of building a life filled with moments like this.
“That’s sad,” Tish says softly, and for a moment I forget about the cameras entirely. There’s genuine sympathy in her voice, the kind that makes me want to tell her everything. “What about now? Do you do anything special?”
“Usually just hang out with the team. We have a big dinner at Carl’s place.” I cut another piece of turkey, using the action to avoid her penetrating gaze. “What about you? What are your traditions?”
Her face lights up as she talks about Christmas morning with Becky, about how they make pancakes shaped like snowmen and open presents while still in their pajamas.
She describes the way her daughter’s eyes get wide when she sees what Santa brought, and I find myself hanging on every word.
This is what I used to want. This warmth, this sense of family, this feeling of belonging somewhere.
But wanting those things is what got me hurt before, and I can’t afford to make that mistake again.
“We should probably move to the living room,” Tish suggests after we’ve finished eating. “The presents are under the tree.”
The crew follows us into the small living room, rearranging their equipment around the Christmas tree.
The space feels even more cramped now, with barely enough room for all of us to fit. Tish settles onto the couch, and I sit beside her, close enough that our thighs touch.
She hands me a wrapped box, and I’m surprised by the weight of it. “You didn’t have to get me anything real,” I murmur, low enough that the cameras won’t pick it up.
“I wanted to,” she whispers back, and something in her tone makes my chest tighten.
I unwrap the gift carefully, aware that this moment is being recorded for posterity. Inside is a leather-bound journal with my initials embossed on the cover.
It’s simple but elegant, the kind of thing I would never buy for myself but immediately love.
“For your thoughts,” she explains. “You mentioned once that you used to write when you were younger.”
I did mention that, during one of our fake dates. I’m surprised she remembered, surprised she cared enough to act on it. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it more than I should.
I hand her my gift, a small velvet box that makes her eyes widen. Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a small pendant shaped like a hockey puck.
It’s not expensive, but I spent way too much time picking it out.
“It’s perfect,” she breathes, lifting it from the box. “Will you put it on me?”
I move behind her on the couch, my fingers brushing against the soft skin of her neck as I fasten the clasp.
She smells like vanilla and something uniquely her, and I have to resist the urge to press my lips to the spot where her neck meets her shoulder.
The cameras capture every moment, every touch, every look that passes between us.
We’re giving them exactly what they want, a romantic Christmas scene between two people in love.
But somewhere along the way the line between performance and reality has become blurred.
We spend the next hour talking about family traditions, favorite Christmas movies, and childhood memories.
The conversation flows surprisingly easily. I find myself laughing at her stories, sharing memories I haven’t thought about in years.
But underneath it all, last night hovers between us like an unspoken secret.
Every time she shifts on the couch, every time her hand brushes mine, I’m reminded of how she felt in my arms, how she responded to my touch, how she looked at me in those moments when all pretenses fell away.
Finally, as the afternoon light begins to fade outside the frost-covered windows, Tish stands up and addresses the crew.
“That’s enough for today,” she says firmly, her voice carrying an authority I haven’t heard before. “The rest of Christmas is for me to spend with my daughter.”
There are some grumbles from the director, but Tish doesn’t budge.
She walks to the door and holds it open, making it clear that their time is up.
One by one, they pack up their equipment and file out into the snowy evening.
And then it’s just us.
The silence that follows their departure is deafening.
Without the cameras rolling, without the need to perform, we’re just two people sitting in a Christmas-decorated living room, surrounded by the remnants of our fake romantic dinner.
I’ve never been uncomfortable around women. I’ve built my entire adult life around being charming, confident, always knowing exactly what to say.
But right now, sitting here with Tish in the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, I feel like a teenager on his first date.
She’s curled up on the opposite end of the couch now, her legs tucked beneath her, staring at the twinkling lights on the tree.
The silence stretches between us, filled with everything we’re not saying.
I should leave. I should make some excuse about having plans with the team. But I can’t seem to make myself move.
“Tish,” I finally say, my voice rougher than I intended. “About last night…”
She turns to look at me, and I see something flicker across her face. Anxiety, maybe, or regret. My stomach drops.
“Are you okay with what happened?” The words come out in a rush, and I realize I’m holding my breath waiting for her answer.
For a moment, she just stares at me, her dark blue eyes wide and unreadable. Then, to my absolute horror, her face crumples and she breaks down crying.