Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Winnifred
I have approximately one hour to pack for a weekend-long fake relationship that could potentially ruin . . . what, exactly?
My dignity?
My already-questionable decision-making record?
Honestly, if this blows up, it’s his problem.
No—wait. If it blows up, my family will find out. And when my family finds out? It’s like setting off a chain reaction of passive-aggressive group texts, guilt-laced phone calls, and possibly a family Zoom intervention with my grandmother sighing into her knitting needles.
Failure isn’t just frowned upon in my world. It’s . . . hereditary shame. A legacy. I can’t afford it.
Not when this is supposed to be easy. All I have to do is smile pretty, pretend I’m the perfect girlfriend, charm a few wine-drunk strangers, and then vanish like a seasonal ghost—Christmas present-style.
I’ve only failed at this exact scenario with one group of people—my own family. Repeatedly. Spectacularly.
Luckily, his family hates my family. There’s a solid chance they won’t even realize I’m there until I’m not. And by the time they do? I’ll have already posted a mournful Instagram story with a cryptic breakup caption and some carefully curated sad lyrics. Something about wilted love and vineyards.
Closure. Rebirth. Vibes.
Or, at the very least, it’ll be a distraction until I figure out how to permanently avoid my relatives without officially changing my name and moving to Finland.
Should I back out now and come up with a better solution for Soren?
No. He’s taking me to a vineyard. That buys me time. Time to figure out how to either fake a new identity or craft a compelling narrative arc for my life that doesn’t involve awkward Christmas brunches.
Plus, this is my chance to get one of those moody windblown selfies where I stare into the distance like I’m contemplating life, not just trying to keep my hair out of my lip gloss.
I’m spiraling. And yet, I’m fine. Totally fine. Not even a little panicked. I’m the definition of composure.
Which is why, obviously, I’m currently flinging half my closet onto my bed like a woman possessed, trying to find the one outfit that screams: Yes, I’m his girlfriend. Yes, I’m flawless. No, I’m not emotionally unstable—I’m just really expressive.
I am a vision of grace.
“Wait. Back up.” Aiden’s voice bursts through my phone speaker. She’s been listening to my packing-induced meltdown for the past half-hour, and now I’ve finally said something worth interrupting her podcast for.
“Your hot next-door neighbor asked you to . . . what now?”
“Annoying, grumpy neighbor,” I correct because we are not giving him the satisfaction of ‘hot.’ That’s a line we don’t cross. “He asked me to be his girlfriend.”
“For real?” Her screech ricochets through my bedroom. “We agreed he was off-limits after I said I’d totally do him.”
“It’s fake, Aiden. And just for a weekend.
” I pause, holding up two outfits that don’t even belong in the same decade.
“He’s still off-limits. We don’t mess with neighbors—I can’t afford to search for a new place.
Also, minor detail—his family lives in Winterberry Cove. You know who else lives there?”
Mine.
Or close enough. They’re technically separated by acres of land and mutual loathing. But it’s all the same small town with the same nosy neighbors, church fundraisers, and obsessive annual pie-baking competitions that always end in passive-aggressive social media comments.
Honestly, what could possibly go wrong? Everything.
I unzip my third weekender bag, sigh, then dump the entire contents back onto the bed. Nothing feels right. Everything is wrong. I’m spiraling, and I know it, but that doesn’t mean I can stop.
“It’s like an emergency meet-the-royal-family situation. Or like a surprise audience with Beyoncé—but more like a guilt-tripped engagement party for his sister. So . . . boom. Operation Fake Girlfriend is on.”
Aiden exhales like she’s aged five years. “And you said yes.”
“Obviously.” I toss a dress across the room. “Didn’t you hear that I just got dumped by Lancelot the LARPer? I need a distraction, plus my romantic standards are basically feral now.”
“You’re not using him as a rebound, are you?” Her voice dips into That Tone: concerned older cousin, code red.
“No. I’m not rebounding. I’m strategically soft-launching a man who’s literally allergic to emotions to keep me distracted from my current situation.”
I glare at a white blouse that used to be perfect until I baptized it in salsa at a Fourth of July barbecue. If I could find a Tide pen and the right bra, maybe it could work. Maybe I could work.
But then—what if everything I packed is wrong?
What if this vineyard isn’t the charming-romantic kind with fairy lights and sun-dappled wine tastings but instead the rustic, no-electricity, bring-your-own-bug-spray-and-wear-flannel kind? What if it smells like hay and disappointment?
Worse—what if his family is all tailored neutrals and icy glares, and I show up dressed like a vision board titled “Romantic Escapes for Sensitive Poets”?
“Winniefreddy.” Aiden groans. “You’re traveling last minute. Are you even remotely ready?”
“I’ll be fine.” Total lie. “He said, ‘you have one hour to pack’ like we’re fleeing the country. Do you know how hard it is to plan a cohesive fake-couple aesthetic with zero location intel? There was no Pinterest board. No vibe briefing. I’m working blind here.”
“You’re spiraling.”
I shoot the phone a look that could melt stone, even though she can’t see me. “What gave it away?”
There’s a pause. Then she adds, “Do you want help?”
“No. I want him to give me a full rundown of his wardrobe so we don’t show up looking like clashing fonts on a wedding invitation.”
“You want to coordinate?”
“Yes, because if we’re taking photos, I refuse to look like the before in a desperate makeover, fake girlfriend edition. I want the full illusion: cutesy couple laughing over wine, bickering over board games, possibly feeding each other dessert-like we’re auditioning for a rom-com montage.”
Aiden goes quiet. The kind of quiet that carries judgment.
“You’re really going all in on this.”
“It’s not for him.” I dig into my jewelry box with the grace of a raccoon. “It’s for the aesthetic.”
“Sure,” she says, with the verbal equivalent of a wink. “Keep telling yourself that, but you do realize this isn’t going to end well, right?”
“Have faith, Aid.” I hold up a Jane-Austen-meets-New-England-high-tea dress that once made me feel like the main character—until I realized I was the only one dressed like a Jane Austen fan at a poetry reading in a coffee shop. “I’ll send pictures.”
“Obviously.”
I hang up and survey the destruction. My bed now looks like a stylish landslide—if the landslide had strong opinions about fabrics and emotionally unavailable men. Still not right. I need visual context. I need a vibe check.
So I do what any totally calm, rational woman would do: I march next door like I’m conducting a surprise home inspection and ring Soren’s doorbell with the energy of someone who just realized their fake boyfriend might be a fashion risk.
He opens the door with the same expression he reserves for barking dogs and noise complaints.
“You know we leave in less than an hour, right?” He checks his watch.
“Actually—twenty minutes. And unless that pile of clothes under your arm is your entire strategy, you’re running about five stages behind. ”
I blink at him, arms full of rejected options, hair wild, mismatched shoes—don’t judge, I was in a hurry. “This is my strategy.”
I swoop inside before he can stop me. “This is urgent. I don’t have time for your nonsense, Soren.”
“You brought your entire closet, and I’m the one with the nonsense?”
“No,” I scoff. “I brought the possibility of a storybook weekend. But to execute it, I need to see what I’m working with.”
His townhouse is technically the same layout as mine, but it could not be more different. Mine is sunset-meets-hues-colors-during-a-rainbow-explosion with string lights and throw pillows that spark joy and at least two mugs that say something ironic about caffeine and anxiety.
His? It’s like walking into a “Masculine Minimalism” catalog—very clean, very serious, very emotionally unavailable.
Hardwood floors. Charcoal everything. A couch that’s definitely never witnessed a cry-session or a good binge-watch spiral.
I should change that, but this is a problem for another day.
“How is your place so clean?” I ask, peering into his dust-free soul.
“I live alone.”
“I also live alone,” I say, fluffing a joyless pillow that feels like it judges me. “But I believe in surrounding myself with comfort. And emotional support textiles.”
He sighs. “Why are you here again?” His eyes flick to the pile of clothes draped over my arms. “You don’t have luggage?”
“This is about outfit coordination.”
He lets his head fall back against the doorframe like I just told him I’m planning a vow renewal. “You’re joking.”
“This is important,” I say, plopping my armload onto the couch and pulling out my phone. “Do you own anything in these tones?”
He squints. “What . . . tones?”
“These.” I turn the screen to him. “Warm neutrals. Think: relaxed, romantic, slightly better than everyone else, but not in a way that’ll get us disinvited.”
Soren looks at me like he’s rewatching a movie about every life decision that led to this exact moment. His brows draw together, his jaw tics and one corner of his mouth twitches like he’s torn between groaning and laughing.
“You can never do anything halfway, can you?”
I beam. “Of course not. This isn’t fake dating. It’s curated delusion. We need to make sure you don’t ruin the vibe. We’re going for ‘so in love they finish each other’s sentences and coordinate—without trying.’”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re trying to fucking hard, Fred.”
“Stop calling me Fred,” I snap. “I don’t like it, and your family will notice.”
“I’m already packed, Win.” The way he says it is a little irritated, but I like the Win a lot better than any Fred or Freddy he’s said.
“Don’t worry, this won’t disturb your packing. It’ll just enrich it.”
He drags a hand over his face. “Fine. You can look in my closet. But I’m not wearing linen.”
“Obviously, it’s fall.” I roll my eyes, already striding toward the hallway. “Let’s build our brand.”
His bedroom is just like the rest of the house—minimalist, tidy, and entirely lacking in natural fibers. No cozy throws. No personality. Just sleek lines and emotional repression.
I smirk to myself as I open his closet door.
He has no idea what he’s signed up for.
We’re packing together. Because nothing screams, “these two are madly in love,” like coordinating outfits under extreme time pressure and mutual emotional denial.