Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Winnifred
I wake to silence.
It’s not the peaceful sort that lingers after a good dream. Not the one that comes after sleeping in a cabin, and you wake up to nature. Nope. This silence is too heavy around the edges, like a room waiting for someone to explain what’s missing. It stretches around me—awake, expectant. Watching.
The bed is warm beside me but empty. Sheets creased in a way that says he didn’t leave hours ago, just . . . recently. And for a disoriented moment, I don’t know why that detail punches me squarely in the chest.
Who am I waiting for? Is this still a dream?
Then it hits me.
Right, it’s Soren. The fake boyfriend, who apparently is currently MIA from our accidental almost honeymoon.
It’s not a honeymoon. Of course, it’s not.
There was no champagne toast over whispered vows or passport stamps with hearts drawn in the margins.
Just a glitchy reservation, a suite too big for one, not big enough to avoid sleeping with each other.
There was also a very enthusiastic concierge who thought we have a love-hate relationship and might be watching from afar to ensure that Soren makes it out of here alive.
The Grand Terrace Suite still tries too hard, even with the lights dimmed and the city humming softly outside.
The remains of the so-called romantic experience sit on the room service tray—empty glasses, a half-crumpled napkin, and a lone strawberry stem-like evidence from a crime scene.
The towel swan is perched at the edge of the bed, slightly askew now, like it gave up halfway through judging us.
I sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes, hair falling across my face in wild waves that can’t decide what direction they want to be in.
I push it back, trying to pull myself into morning shape.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and reach for the extra blanket folded at the foot, wrapping it around me like I’m prepping for some kind of negotiation with the universe.
Which I definitely should, because let’s be honest . . . his manifestations might be what’s making all this wonky.
The suite is quiet, too pristine. Room service trays from last night remain untouched save for one missing strawberry and a half-drunk flute of champagne, like artifacts from a date we never really had.
I walk softly through the suite, past the overpriced minibar and the decadent armchair that probably gets ignored by every guest who’s ever stayed in this room.
The kind of chair that looks better in photos than in real life—too stiff, too symmetrical, too committed to aesthetics to be of any practical use.
Then, I see him.
Soren’s standing on the balcony, back to me, framed by the low city glow bleeding through the glass—soft, silver light that smudges the skyline into something dreamlike.
Barefoot, hair mussed, T-shirt wrinkled from sleep.
He’s still, but not in a peaceful way. Still in the way that makes you wonder what’s going on in the silence between heartbeats.
Like he’s holding himself in place. Like if he moves, something will unravel.
He hasn’t noticed me yet.
So, I let myself look.
Not in the obvious way. Not in the way that leaves a trace.
Just long enough to take inventory of a moment I didn’t expect to want to keep.
There’s something about the hush out here. The city is still breathing beneath us, lights flickering in apartments we’ll never know, while we hover in this borrowed space like we’re between scenes—between versions of ourselves.
I slide the glass door open just enough to slip through.
“You know there’s a bed inside, right?” I whisper.
He glances over, barely startled, like he already knew I’d follow him out here. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Too many swans?”
He huffs out a soft laugh, low and breath-warmed, curling into the night but not quite taking off. “Something like that.”
“Is this because I snore?” I step outside, instantly regretting my bare feet.
The balcony tiles are cold, biting through the soles like they’ve been storing Boston’s October air just for this moment.
Not the fun, pumpkin-spice version of fall either—this is the breeze that smells like concrete and windburn, that cuts through whatever bravado you had when you left the blanket behind.
He notices.
Doesn’t say anything at first. Just shifts slightly, and without looking, holds out one side of the throw blanket he’s been wrapped in like a peace offering.
Or a truce.
Or something I shouldn’t think too hard about.
Wordlessly, he lifts the edge of the blanket draped over his lap.
I hesitate.
Then sit down beside him and tuck the blanket over my legs, curling into the oversized hotel bathrobe like a marshmallow in an existential crisis.
“Couldn’t sleep either,” I say after a moment.
He nods but doesn’t press.
This is a new dynamic between us. There’s no sarcasm.
“Were you always this broody,” I ask eventually, “or is it something you cultivated, like sourdough starter?”
He smiles, faint and crooked. “I don’t even like sourdough.”
“I bet you do. Secretly. I bet you’ve got some bougie bread preferences and an emotional gluten-origin story you won’t tell anyone.”
He doesn’t answer, just glances at me sideways.
“What?” I ask when the silence stretches again.
“Nothing.”
“You’re giving me a look.”
He shrugs. “Just thinking how weird this all is.”
“That we’re fake-dating and sharing a suite that smells like strawberries and ambient intimacy?”
He chuckles. “That you haven’t thrown something at me yet.”
I tilt my head. It’s not like I’ve thrown anything at him in all the years we’ve lived next to each other. Not at all. We actually . . . well, we just argue all the time. It’s all in good . . . no, not all the time is good. He likes to be right, but sometimes, he’s definitely not right at all.
“Oh, I’m pacing myself.” I shrug, mostly to buy myself a second. I don’t feel like arguing—not now. It’s too early, or maybe too late. Not enough sleep, not enough caffeine, and whatever magical ingredient makes pretending to feel easy? It’s totally missing.
Yep, I’m pretty sure something’s missing. Or maybe it’s just the looming pressure of being we for his sister’s engagement party.
The moment softens again. It stretches between us like taffy—warm, elastic, a little too easy to get stuck in if you’re not careful.
He looks back at the skyline, expression unreadable. “My family’s not easy. They’re not going to make this fun.”
I pull the blanket tighter around myself so I can hide inside the weave. “Mine wouldn’t either.”
“That bad?”
“Oh, honey.” I sigh, dragging it out just enough to be dramatic but not totally exaggerated. “After last Christmas’s fiasco, I made vision boards for what I’d wear to my fake funeral if I ever went home unengaged.”
His mouth twitches. He wants to laugh. But he doesn’t. Because he can tell—I’m not joking. Not entirely.
“Really? I have to know,” he says, voice quiet enough that it blends with the sound of the wind moving between buildings. “You don’t have to tell me everything.”
“But?”
“But I’d listen if you did.”
That gets me.
I glance down, fingers tightening on the edge of the blanket. “As you know, I’m the youngest. Which in my family means ‘set up to fail.’”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t shift or fill the space. Just waits.
“Last Christmas, it was a nonstop loop of ‘you’re thirty and haven’t met the man of your dreams,’ followed by ‘you should get a real job,’ because anything and everything that I do isn’t serious enough for them.”
“Do you like what you do?” he asks, soft but curious. Not in a ‘prove it to me’ kind of way. More like ‘please tell me you have something that’s yours.’
I nod. “Yeah. And when I don’t, I change careers. Life doesn’t have to be just the one thing for the rest of your life.”
There’s a pause.
A shift in the air that feels like an inhale waiting to happen.
“So you need a boyfriend for Christmas?” he asks, that slow grin teasing the edge of his voice.
“Or I need to learn how to fake my death for a season.” I sigh. “If not, what’s the alternative? Marriage or exile?”
A moment later, he bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. “Go back to bed, Wolfcraft. You’re freezing.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
“Always.”
He watches as I walk back inside, and when I glance over my shoulder, he’s still staring at the skyline.
Still broody.
And somehow, he looks very beautiful, and he’s mine for the weekend. Not that I would keep him, but what if . . . what if we can fake it until Christmas?