Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Winnifred
We’re not even through the main gates, and I’m already regretting my decisions. I’m not talking about my outfit, more like . . . do I really want to go through with this fake relationship?
What if my parents find out about my boyfriend?
Oh, Win, you’re really losing it this time, aren’t you? The answer is probably. One moment, I want to ask for this to be extended ‘til Christmas, and the next, I want to run back to Colorado and forget I agreed to this nonsense.
Do I need to be at a vineyard? This is the Vineyard of Subtle Torture, where the lighting is golden, the wine is plentiful, and every corner looks like it was designed for couples to propose under fairy lights and lies.
I don’t want to be in this place at night because I’m sure it’ll be dreamy.
One hundred percent dreams and zero percent reality, which will crash and make me think everything I’m working for isn’t at all fake.
We’d go from fake arrangement to tragedy.
Not the Romeo and Juliet kind, where we can’t be together because our families hate each other.
More like . . . the fake relationship is over.
I’d be madly in love. He’ll give me a reality check and will have to look for another townhouse at an affordable price.
Probably somewhere around the Midwest—which is a no, no.
Nothing good happens there. It’s too cold and humid during the winter.
There’re tornadoes almost all-year-round, and they don’t have any mountains or oceans nearby. Definitely not appealing for Winnifred.
I’m so deep in thought I barely register that the woman checking us in is all dimples and whisper-voice and, “We hope you enjoy this romantic escape from the world.”
Soren, meanwhile, is visibly trying not to choke on the word romantic, like it’s something he was tricked into saying during a séance with a very aggressive after-life couples’ counselor.
He just stands there, silent and still, managing to radiate the exact amount of discomfort someone would have if they’d been gifted a velvet robe and told to “just relax.”
To everyone else, he looks silent and devastating for anyone else who doesn’t know him.
To me, he looks like a man whose soul is being personally assaulted by the idea of intimacy paired with complimentary grapes.
And maybe a charcuterie board shaped like a heart.
Not that I know him that well. Not in the I’ve-seen-his-tax-returns-and-know-how-he-takes-his-coffee way.
It’s more like I’ve learned his mood throughout the years. He has a lot of easy tells.
Soren Thorn isn’t a mystery. He’s a predictable system.
Most of his tells fall somewhere between professional curmudgeon and reluctant ogre—and yes, that is a valid descriptor when it comes to Soren Thorn.
Somewhere, deep inside, he probably has layers.
I’m just not emotionally reckless enough to go peeling them.
And yet, today, he has that broody-hot look going on.
The sleeves of his button-down rolled to the forearm like he’s starring in a marketing campaign for responsible heartbreak.
Sunglasses tucked into the front of his collar.
Jaw freshly shaved. Hair doing things that should require a warning label.
I hate how good he is at this.
Like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing to people.
Like this whole ‘I’m allergic to emotional availability, but I’ll help you, oh-so-beautiful demoiselle in distress’ isn’t a highly marketable brand.
As I said, it’s the ambiance. Not the man. There’s something about vineyards that makes people believe in romance. Maybe it’s the trellises, or the rolling hills, or the very curated “rustic” signage that says things like Love Is the Wine You Bring to the Table in cursive font.
It’s atmospheric manipulation. Weaponized wholesomeness. This is where I have to be careful, or I’ll start believing it too.
Focus on this place, it’s just overripe grapes, damp earth, and poor decisions—and somehow, we look like we belong here. That in itself is highly terrifying.
We blend into the scenery like a well-posed centerfold in a wine magazine. Drinker’s Digest. Which I guess is the point of this exercise.
“Okay,” I murmur, adjusting my scarf as if I’m trying to hide—not sure from whom. “Just a reminder: no direct face shots. We’re leaning into shadows, angles, and tasteful distance.”
Soren glances over, perfectly unimpressed. “Leaning into shadows? I don’t even know what that means.”
“I’m trying to avoid giving away who I’m dating, Soren.” I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised something doesn’t dislocate. “You need to catch up. Remember, you’re a Capulet. I’m a Montague. Star-crossed. Taboo. Very doomed but hot.”
He dares to smirk. “Pretty sure it’s the other way around.”
“That is so not the point.” I throw him a glare that should’ve come with subtitles. “My family cannot find out we’re dating.”
“They’re not here.”
“No,” I whisper, pulling him toward a narrow stone path framed by ivy and deeply regrettable life choices, “but they’re on the internet. My mother has Google Alerts set up for my name and the keywords ‘kissing in public.’ Let’s not test her internet-psychic powers.”
“I doubt that’s a thing.”
I stop and narrow my gaze. “You don’t know her. She once called me before my own breakup because she sensed it. Through Instagram. Don’t tempt fate.”
“We’re going to be in Winterberry Cove tomorrow, Winnifred. They might find out we’re together.”
I knew that could be a thing but disregarded it. Until now, when his words hit with the precision of a late-night thought spiral.
Cold.
Immediate.
Inconveniently true.
In conclusion, I’m fucked.
I blink at him. My heart stumbles over itself. The air suddenly feels tighter around the edges, and I can’t quite catch a full breath.
“What am I supposed to do with that information?” My voice squeaks at the end. I try to play it off like I’m cold. It doesn’t work.
“Breathe,” he says, too calm for someone delivering life-altering news.
“I can’t be dating you while simultaneously searching for the perfect fiancé before Christmas.”
The words feel too big for my chest, like they’ve been rattling around in there and finally forced their way out. My inhale stumbles. My pulse drums against my ribs like it’s trying to stage a protest.
“In fact, they think I’m with Chad.”
He flinches. “The LARPer?”
“I think we’re going to go with the term ‘immersive role-play enthusiast.’”
He scoffs. “For the aesthetic?”
“You’re learning fast, Soren.”
He tilts his head, deadpan. “He’s history, Winnifred. He left you for a medieval wench. It’s over. You need to let that go.”
I stop walking. Stare at him.
“Did you just make a joke?”
He shrugs like he didn’t just blow a hole in the space-time continuum. I should document this. Soren Thorn made a joke—without prompting.
“Still,” I say, dragging us back to reality, “I can’t go from one guy to another in less than seventy-two hours. It’s weird. I look unstable. And not the fun kind of unstable where you go viral for singing breakup songs in your ex’s driveway. The sad kind.”
Soren scrubs a hand over his face. The gesture is part frustration, part why did I get involved in this nonsense, and part where the fuck is the emergency wine? “We need a better plan.”
“We need a fake breakup,” I breathe. “Or a fake engagement. Or—fuck. I don’t know. A vacation with no cell service, no families, and definitely matching pajama sets.”
“I’m not wearing matching pajamas.”
“You say that now,” I say, pointing a finger at him like it’s a binding legal agreement. “But give it one night, two glasses of wine, and a themed gift basket, and you’ll be wearing ‘His & Hers’ flannel faster than you can say ‘awkward family photo.’”
He exhales, and it’s almost a laugh. Almost.
I toss up my hands. “Let’s not spiral. Not yet.
Let’s just get the best possible pictures.
I’ll save my inevitable freak-out for tonight, maybe around the second hour of the engagement party when someone brings up when we plan to have our first baby.
For now, daylight, wine, and—” I glance at him. “Your . . . jokes.”
Soren lets me drag him forward without resistance. The man moves like someone who’s wandered onto the set of a photo shoot he didn’t sign up for—but can’t deny he’s unnervingly perfect for. The lighting favors him. The breeze cooperates. The fucking grapes probably blush when he walks by.
And still—he stays next to me. Letting me spin, letting me scheme, letting me fall apart in that subtle, practiced way I do when I’m pretending to hold it all together.
We find a bench under a curtain of vines, where the sunlight slips through just enough to say we’re blissfully in love while pretending we don’t owe anyone context.
“Here,” I say, pulling my phone out. “Sit like you’re so in love with me but also vaguely detached.”
“That’s . . . specific and probably impossible to create.”
“Welcome to my coping mechanism.”
He sits, one ankle crossed over the other, arm stretched across the bench like an invitation or a dare. I settle beside him, tilt my head just enough to find the good light, and lift the phone.
“Wait,” I say. “I need my wind braid.”
I tug a loose strand forward like I’m in a windswept perfume ad. He doesn’t even bother to hide the eye roll.
The photo is perfect, blurry enough, sunlit just right, and best of all: no faces. But something about the line of his arm behind me feels too natural. Like he’s not posing. Like, he forgot this is fake.
I look at the screen for a beat too long.
“So,” I say, half to distract myself. “What’s the plan when someone from your side spots us?”
“No one will find us here,” he says calmly. “We’ll handle the rest during Daisy’s engagement party.”
“That’s worse.”
He doesn’t even blink. “I know.”
Great. A fake boyfriend, a public lie, and an engagement party with his family. All we’re missing now is a slow dance and a nervous breakdown.
What’s the worst that can happen? Besides literally everything.