Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Soren
“Your sister is engaged?” she asks, blinking at me like that’s the most shocking revelation of the last five minutes. “Daisy is engaged.”
That’s what she got from all of it. Not the fake girlfriend part. Not the last-minute travel. Not the Catholic guilt trip woven into my mother’s voice like a blessing-curse hybrid.
Just that Daisy is engaged.
“What’s the big deal?”
She rolls her eyes as if I’m so exasperating and obviously can’t catch up with her nonsense. “The big deal is that I know before my mother.” She actually claps excitedly. “I got Winterberry Cove gossip before her.”
I blink. “Why does that matter?”
She waves a hand in the air like that’s explanation enough. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a whole thing. That’s premium information. That’s, like, small-town trivia tier.”
“Try me.”
“Nope,” she says, already halfway tuned out. “I’m not wasting time on this. We have a situation.”
She downs the rest of her wine, sets the glass down with purpose, and pivots on her heel toward the sliding door. “We need to find you a girlfriend who has a free weekend and can fly to—wait, where are you going again? Are they doing this in Winterberry Cove?”
I open my mouth, but she doesn’t wait for the answer. She’s already back inside her place.
I hear drawers opening. Footsteps. A door slam. What sounds like the ripping of paper and plastic boxes smashing against each other. When she returns, she has her arms full.
“Permission to cross to your side since you have a table to work with.” She kind of asks but doesn’t wait for my response before crossing the fence.
She’s got scissors, glue sticks, markers, a couple of magazines, highlighters . . . or are they more markers? There’s a fabric swatch pinned to a corkboard and a suspicious amount of glitter bottles.
“What . . . is that?”
“A starter kit,” she announces. “For the emergency fake-girlfriend vision board.”
I stare at her deadpan. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now. You brought this issue into my life, and I will not be half-assing it.”
She sets everything down with a flourish and pulls out a Sharpie like she’s about to rewrite my life.
“Step one: define your romantic brand.”
“Oh, God.”
I smack my palm against my forehead with the grace of a man who clearly made a series of poor life choices. What did I do to myself?
“Forget—”
“Step two,” she cuts in, bulldozing right over my plea like a woman possessed, “determine how your tragic romantic origin story begins. Meet-cute? Office slow burn? Reunited lovers with tortured eye contact and unresolved trauma?”
“Winnifred—”
She raises a hand, silencing me with the conviction of a courtroom attorney mid-closing argument. “Nope. I’m in it now. This train is moving. You, Soren Thorn, are getting a vision-board-worthy fake love story, and I’m the unhinged but well-meaning conductor.”
And just like that, I realize I’ve lost control of my life.
Probably forever.
I should be worried. I should be panicking.
Instead?
I look at her. Really look. Not at the glitter explosion happening on my table or the twenty-two color-coded markers she’s somehow unearthed but at her. This isn’t just her usual brand of chaos. She’s not spiraling because I asked for help.
Nope.
She’s redirecting.
Winnifred Wolfcraft, a world-class fixer of other people’s nonsense, is pouring every ounce of her energy into my emergency because it’s easier than facing the dumpster fire flickering behind her breakup and the consequences of all her lies.
So, in a moment of weakness—or compassion—or maybe a complete break from reality, I say something that I’ll absolutely regret for the rest of my life.
“I know a vineyard where you can live your perfect-boyfriend fantasy.”
She stops mid-magazine-flip.
Literally freezes.
One hand suspended in the air like she’s placing a star on top of a Christmas tree in a romantic movie finale.
Then, her head turns slowly. There’s a slow blink. Then another before she speaks, “Excuse me?”
“You need a vineyard,” I say, already regretting everything that’s led me to this point—including my birth. “I know one.”
Her eyes narrow like she’s decoding me in real-time. Like, I’m a late-season plot twist, and she’s not sure if she’s watching a rom-com or a thriller.
“What are you saying, Thorn?”
I gesture toward the vision board she’s aggressively assembling on my property. “The party’s tomorrow. I don’t have time for . . .” I wave vaguely at the chaos. “Whatever this is. Your mood-board scrapbook summit.”
She follows my gaze. The board is already half-covered in sticky notes, potential couple hashtags, and what might be a disturbingly detailed seating chart based on zodiac signs and perceived romantic aura.
“I can’t just stop. This is important,” she says, all defensive posture and puffed-up determination.
“To you.”
“To the aesthetic,” she corrects, straightening her spine like she’s a general going into battle.
“If we’re doing this, we’re not half-assing it.
There will be a believable origin story, emotional subtext, and at least one romantic photo convincing enough to make your ex wonder if she’s made a terrible mistake—if there was an ex-girlfriend, of course. ”
I stare at her.
She stares back—unyielding, possibly manic, definitely terrifying.
And I realize she’s right. I don’t have a way to stop her.
But maybe I can redirect her.
“Let’s keep it simple,” I say, holding up a hand like I’m taming a wild animal with glitter in its teeth. “Just go pack a bag and be my girlfriend for the weekend.”
She gawks. Mouth open. Eyes wide. I should take a picture, record her, or at least note in my calendar that this is the first time since she moved in next door. Winnifred Wolfcraft is completely, utterly speechless.
It’s . . . unsettling at best.
I’m not sure if I should feel victorious or start drafting my will.
I press on, rushing the words before she regains full cognitive function.
“We’ll leave tonight. I’ll book a hotel in Boston, and in the morning, we’ll drive to Rhode Island, hit the vineyard, sip wine like two completely stable people in love, and then .
. .” I inhale like a man walking willingly into a storm. “Deal with my family.”
Her eyes narrow again. “You say that like it’s a casual errand. Like we’re just picking up a carton of milk with a side of emotional trauma.”
“It’s not that deep,” I lie so casually I almost believe myself. “Just a weekend. Low effort. Smile, nod, fake a few inside jokes. Done.”
“I can’t just be your girlfriend,” she says, already pacing like she’s planning an entire cinematic universe.
“Why not?”
“It’s not that simple,” she mutters, gesturing wildly now. “We need history. A meet-cute. Who made the first move? Do we have a shared playlist? Inside jokes? Do we hold hands in public, or are we more of a lingering-glance, stolen-touch couple?”
I blink. “Are you seriously building us a relationship canon?”
“Yes,” she replies without pause. “We need continuity. Emotional scaffolding. A believable foundation rooted in chemistry, history, and mutual respect.”
“This isn’t a period drama.”
“No,” she snaps, grabbing a notepad from her bag like she’s about to go full Shonda Rhimes on my life, “it’s worse.
It’s your family. And they live way too close to my family.
We can’t just be fake dating for funsies.
This is dangerous territory. Emotional landmines—we’re sworn enemies, Thorn. Potential small-town fallout.”
“They’re not the Montagues and Capulets,” I mumble.
She waves me off. “Nah. They were adults. Our families are more like tragic teenagers with no impulse control and unlimited metaphorical pitchfork access. And if we mess this up, we won’t get a season two.”
She’s spiraling again. Drawing lines and boxes like she’s planning a heist.
I sigh. “Freddy.” I press the bridge of my nose. “We don’t need season two. It’s a one-time deal.”
She freezes. Then slowly looks up at me, clearly unimpressed. Whatever I just said? Not a hit. Obviously, I’m underperforming. Sure, she complains about her family’s obsession with competition—but let’s be honest, she’s cut from the same gilded cloth.
“I’m not asking for a Shakespearean-level romance with flashbacks and a tear-jerking finale.” I fold my arms, trying to look as serious as possible. This has become a negotiation. “I’m asking for seventy-two hours of fake affection and light snark.”
She frowns. “Light snark? Do you even know me?”
Unfortunately, I do. ‘Light’ will be impossible, and if I want to make this work, I have to give a little. “Okay, medium snark—but that’s all, Fred.”
She thinks for a beat, then points her pink pen at me like she’s about to rewrite my entire existence.
“Fine. But I’m writing the backstory. And I get creative control over our fake meet-cute.”
I should say no. I should draw a line somewhere—preferably one that doesn’t end with glitter and emotional vulnerability. But this is Winnifred. Logic doesn’t apply. Boundaries are just casual suggestions she decorates with washi tape and animal stickers.
I should count this as a victory. I got her to say yes, didn’t I?
Fuck, what am I doing?
Still, I hear myself say it anyway. “Deal.”
“And a vineyard photo,” she adds with zero shame. “Something that can pass as a soft launch.”
“This might be the worst decision I’ve made since buying that Pressure Cooker Air Fryer duo I’ve never even used.”
She grins—wide, wicked, completely delighted. “Oh, Thorn. Not only am I your best decision, I’m going to teach you how to use your neglected kitchen appliances when we get back.”
And somehow, I already know—deep in my bones and probably my soul—that I’m going to regret this before the weekend is over.
Maybe even before we get on the plane.