Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Winnifred
I wake up with mascara smeared across my pillowcase and shame somewhere in my bloodstream. Or maybe not shame. That would imply I regret what happened—and I don’t.
Not really.
It’s more like a confusing cocktail of embarrassment, existential whiplash, and emotional heartburn. This isn’t a hangover from tequila shots or questionable decisions in Vegas. It’s the aftermath of fake dating a man you’re now thirty-three percent sure you might be in love with—accidentally.
Because you accidentally kissed him in front of his entire family, half the town, and possibly a drone capturing footage for an engagement recap video. And accidentally suggested you might be pregnant. Which you are not. Let me repeat that for the people in the back: I. Am. Not. Pregnant.
It’s impossible. The last time I had sex was .
. . honestly, I can’t even remember. Chad and I never got to that point in our relationship.
I was waiting for something real. That moment where it just clicks—where you don’t think, you just feel.
Where your body takes over because your soul’s already agreed on something deeper.
And maybe Soren—and everyone else—are right.
Maybe I am a delusional dreamer who wants things to be romantic, borderline storybook.
But why is that such a terrible thing? Why is it na?ve to want your own version of a fairy tale?
It’s not like I’m asking for a castle and a tiara.
I just want to be happy. I want someone who understands me, who loves me without needing to be told how, and who knows what I need—even when I don’t.
“Is that too much to ask, universe?” I wait for a couple of beats for anyone to respond, and there’s nothing. “Manifest this and not whatever it was that happened this weekend.”
That was probably karma just being a bitch toward me. What did I do to her?
Now I have to deal with the Thorn Family Group Chat that’s spiraling into a baby name bracket tournament like they’re hosting a gender-neutral-infant-Hunger -Games.
And it would be almost funny if it were just his family.
But have you heard of small towns?
They’re charming if you’re passing through—if you’re a tourist buying local maple syrup and cooing over picturesque bakeries. But when you’re from there? It’s less sweet and more surveillance-state. I’m convinced these people have a telepathic group chat. There’s no other explanation.
One moment, my mom learns I’m in town. Next, she has photographic evidence of the kiss, a video of the dip, two screenshots of the Thorn Group Chat, and a forwarded voice memo titled: Is this your daughter??
And now, we’ve reached peak scandal. Not metaphorically. Literally.
Two members of sworn enemy families are dating—and happy. Happy.
Are we happy? I don’t think so. In fact, because of all the drama and my mother’s texts, I begged Soren to take me back to Colorado like we were fleeing the scene of a crime. I’m not dealing with either one of our families. Not in my condition.
Let’s be clear: I am not pregnant. I am suffering from acute family-induced anxiety and probably stress hives. It’s different. And way more contagious.
Now I’m back in my apartment. One can think I’m safe and finally grounded. I can only confirm that I’m emotionally unstable.
It feels like someone took my Google Calendar, lit it on fire, poured espresso over what was left of my dignity, and whispered, “Good luck explaining, Chad.”
Right. Chad.
We can’t forget about Chad. Once my boyfriend, now the imaginary man I invented to keep my family off my back about being single and unavailable. He had a LinkedIn, a vague job in “branding,” and conveniently didn’t like to have his pictures online.
“Chad was real,” I say out loud, even when no one is here to listen to me.
He was indeed real. The asshole broke up with me before I got the chance . . . ‘we’re not meant for each other.’ No kidding.
And now, not only do I have to admit that I fabricated a boyfriend—but I also have to explain why I upgraded from fake Chad (he was real) to real Soren Thorn (who is fake). Also, his family is known as a Wolfcraft-adjacent enemy of the state.
So yeah. Things are going well.
Really fucking well.
I swing my legs out of bed and immediately regret it.
Everything hurts—not in a physical way, but in the too-much-feeling-in-too-many-places way.
My limbs are filled with static and unfinished business.
My brain is tap-dancing through ten different disasters: Winterberry gossip mill, Soren’s stupidly perfect mouth, brunch invites with hidden agendas, a baby brunch menu that includes decaf tea and prenatal muffins, and Grandma Rita’s Lavender Blanket Countdown.
And then . . . there’s my mother.
Because, of course, there is.
Nothing screams rock bottom louder than the dread of facing the woman who once removed me from the family Christmas card lineup for wearing black nail polish—on my toes. “It sent the wrong message,” she said. “We are not a goth family, Freddy.”
And now? Now she knows.
They all do.
Because of Helena. Helena Fucking Thorn.
Is she even a Thorn? Jury’s out. Family tree needs pruning. DNA test pending.
Honestly, I don’t know who she is at all.
But I do know this: I hope her phone autocorrects ‘yes’ to ‘yeast’ for the rest of her natural life.
I hope every RSVP she ever sends is greeted with a gluten-free panic.
I hope every time she Instacarts, it delivers her mortal enemies: bruised bananas and five bags of potatoes instead of five potatoes.
Speaking of disasters, my phone’s buzzing like it’s trying to warn me this is how my villain origin story starts.
Mom’s name keeps blinking on the screen like a countdown to personal doom.
I can’t put her off much longer. She’ll just pivot to video call and catch me raw—no skincare, no plan, no hope.
I drag myself to the bathroom like I’m marching toward my own public execution. Flip the light on.
Sink. Serum. Moisturizer. War paint.
“This is fine,” I mumble at my reflection as I pat toner into cheeks that are still flushed with last night’s poor decisions. “You’re a grown woman with a functioning credit score and an online vision board. You can fix this.”
I swipe on my favorite hydrating mask like it’s armor.
“You’ve handled worse. Remember that accidental email to one of your catering clients with the attachment titled Vibrator Warranty?
You survived that. They’re still hiring you, often.
Just recently, you delivered, like, so many cookies they might not have an order for Christmas. ”
A dab of eye cream. “Manifest, Win. Visualize. Breathe. Vision board the fuck out of this.”
I layer moisturizer with the same intensity as someone frosting a cake for judgmental bake-sale moms. “Fix your life in three steps: hydrate, lie convincingly, and figure out how to disarm your mother without crying or spontaneously combusting.”
She will want answers. She will have questions. She has screenshots.
And I . . . I need lip balm and maybe divine intervention.
But mostly lip balm.
Once I’m ready, I head to the kitchen with my phone, bracing myself. Because if anyone can dismantle my life faster than me . . . it’s my mother.
Mom: What do you mean brunch is canceled? If you go with that woman, you’re dead to me, Fred.
Dad: Sweetie, answer your mom’s texts. She’s not dealing with this well. I hope this is one of your lies, like when you pretended you wanted to be a baker. You can’t marry a Thorn.
Mom: Where are you?
I haven’t replied. Not because I’m ignoring her—okay, yes, fine, I am ignoring her—but because there is no proper emoji response for “I had a boyfriend, then replaced him with a fake boyfriend, who I might actually like, and now there’s a baby blanket involved.”
I shuffle around the kitchen, looking for breakfast. My plants look concerned. The basil is judging me. The succulents, smug. They know I’m fucked. I pour myself coffee like it’ll fix my reputation.
It doesn’t.
I carry it back to the couch and curl up like a guilt-stricken croissant. My phone is on the table, glowing with potential doom.
I could lie again. Reinvent Chad. Say we broke up, which we did. Say he joined the Peace Corps. Say he’s fictional but emotionally supportive. Say he’s a wellness coach who decided to move to another country. Since I was heartbroken, I used Soren as my rebound.
Or—I could tell the truth.
Ha. Cute. That’s hilarious. Let me just peel off my clothes and parade around in vulnerability while I’m at it.
Still, I grab my phone and dial.
It rings twice.
Then—
“Winnifred Wendolynn Wolfcraft,” my mother answers, calm in that deadly way she weaponizes vowels. “I was worried.”
“No, you weren’t.”
She sighs. “No. I was furious. But I’m also worried.”
I press the heel of my palm into my forehead. “Mom—”
“You were in Winterberry Cove. You were seen. With him. Soren Thorn. At an engagement party.”
“Is this going to be one of those conversations where I talk, and you accuse me of ruining your trust and your cousin’s wedding photo aesthetic?”
“You could’ve just told me, Win.”
“Told you what exactly?”
“You were going to a vineyard with your boyfriend.”
“Yes, vineyard, boyfriend,” I say, trying to figure out how to follow it and then realize that I was so busy enjoying Soren’s company that I never uploaded the freaking pictures.
“That did happen. We were in Mass, at a vineyard. Then learned that his sister had an engagement party, and you can’t just skip those events, Mom. I had to go—not because we planned it.”
There’s a pause. “His name isn’t Chad.”
“I . . . I call him Chad sometimes,” I lie, and I’m not sure if I should write that one down or just keep going before I stutter. “He looks exactly as I describe him, Mom.”
“I just don’t understand why you’d date a Thorn.”
“In Colorado, there’s no Thorns and Wolfcrafts, Mother. There’s just people,” I say, as if that makes all the sense in the world—it doesn’t.
“But you’re with a Thorn? After everything?”
It’s not a question. It’s a disapproval so thick you could frost a cake with it.
I take a breath, and as I’m about to say something, she adds, “And you’re pregnant. Do you understand the damage you’re doing to this family? You’re making us . . . we can’t stand them.”
I stare at the floor. All that comes back is the memory of Soren’s hand on my waist, the slow burn of a kiss that felt too real to undo. I’m not even sure where he’s at. He should be here trying to problem solve our current issue—our families are in a feud, and they think we’re together.
You know what would make this a lot less stressing? A kiss.
What am I thinking? No, I don’t need a kiss from him, but actually I do.
I’m fucked.
“There’s no pregnancy, Mom.” I groan because I can’t with this delusion. “I made a joke about naming our firstborn after you, and his cousin Helena—I don’t even know where she came from—just spread gossip.”
“That Helena is something. She married the family from . . . I can’t remember whose side. Ever since she moved to Winterberry, the gossip is unreliable.”
I gawk at my phone because, really, Helena made the gossip unreliable. This is one of the reasons I would never move back home. Good luck to everyone who does indeed live there. Helena seems to be the downfall of a dynasty of good gossip.
“Well,” she says, softer now. “I suppose if you’re going to burn your life to the ground, at you’re least do it with someone handsome.”
I blink. “What?”
“I saw the photos. And the kiss. That was some kiss—I’d say even better than those you watch in movies and gossip sites.”
“Yeah, we kissed,” I confirm, touching my lips.
“Fred. Freddy . . . I don’t know if I can handle you being a Thorn.” She sounds resigned. “I’ll work through this, but promise me something.”
She sounds so serene . . . no, suspiciously compliant. I have to tread carefully before she traps me. “Yeah?”
“You’ll spend Christmas with us. I’ll actually put you at the top of The Wolfcraft Howler.”
Did she just mention The Wolfcraft Howler?
I . . . I’m almost speechless because that’s what I’ve been working toward the entire year, right? Being there, not just there, winning it—winning Christmas.
I would finally win it, win everything.
“You send it before Christmas, and you don’t have pictures of us.”
“Details, Freddy,” my mother says like she’s the casting director of my fake relationship, and we’re behind on production. “Just have your lovely boyfriend hire a professional photographer. Get me good shots. Shots that say ‘Fred is in love and he’s rich.’”
Lovely boyfriend? Rich? I’m suspicious about her motives, but this is my chance to win. Decisions, decisions.
“His family is rich,” I clarify, immediately regretting it.
She tsks into the phone, already over the nuance. “He has that business in Colorado,” she declares like she’s reading off an imaginary top Millionaires Magazine list. “I heard it’s worth a lot. Even has a plane. I did my research, sweetie. I bet he lives in a mansion.”
A mansion?
I blink, caught between correcting her and wondering if maybe I’m the one who’s wrong.
Should I tell her the truth? That Soren lives next door and probably pays less rent than I do?
That his idea of extravagance is upgrading his cold brew to nitro on the days he remembers to head to the coffee shop instead of making breakfast?
But now she’s talking jets and real estate portfolios, and my brain—bless it—is starting to spiral. Wait, does he own a business? A plane? I flew in a private jet.
Is this man faking something?
He has a surprise Colorado-based empire I somehow missed between living next to him, fake-dating him, and fake-pregnancy ruining his sister’s engagement?
I scrub a hand down my face, more confused than horny for once, which is saying something. Because now I don’t know if I’m the one pretending to date Soren Thorn . . . or if he’s pretending to be someone I don’t even fully know.
And worse—I’m starting to think I care either way.
God help me. What the fuck is he hiding?
And worse, why am I falling in love?