Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Winnifred
Three days.
It’s been three days since I’ve heard from Soren Thorn.
Not that I’m counting.
Not that I’m sitting here, surrounded by empty baking trays and half-melted snowflake-shaped butter molds, obsessively checking my phone like a woman whose love life is sponsored by emotional torture.
I’ve been busy.
Productive, even.
I just finished a massive catering order for a harvest-themed fundraiser and should be basking in the post-pumpkin-glazed glory of success.
But instead, I’m spiraling. Into what, you ask?
Thanksgiving. Obviously.
Aiden and I agreed that it was best if I was proactive. Plan before others plan for you. If I want my family to believe I’m with Soren until after the holidays, I have to make sure we’re seen together but not too close to them.
She contacted her bestie, Galeana, and got us an invite to her family’s Thanksgiving. It’s going to be like Friendsgiving, but with her friends instead of mine. We’ll take pictures, get to know that small town, and buy plenty of maple syrup to gift during Christmas.
There’s a lot to do for that holiday, of course.
I need to make sure we sell it right this time I’m not sharing one bed because after that kiss .
. . well, maybe we shouldn’t even share a wall.
Maybe Soren not being here was the best for both of us because we could be making bad decisions.
Very, very bad decisions. Like kissing more because why not just leave it at two?
Or . . . yeah, I’m going to stop right there before I digress—again.
My kitchen smells like cinnamon-suffused despair, and my living room looks like a seasonal vision board exploded. These are emotional boards. Mood archetypes. Spiritual food mapping.
I’ve got five different centerpieces half-assembled on my dining table, a half-burnt gratitude candle flickering like it’s giving up on me, and a note in my planner that says “cranberry compote or total collapse?” because apparently, those are the only two futures I’m capable of manifesting.
There’s something wrong with me. Normal people relax after catering orders. I fall headfirst into the next project. This time is holiday micro-management.
And to make matters worse, the silence from Soren is starting to echo louder than my inner monologue.
He probably knows. Yes, he knows that I tricked him into keeping this nonsense going for longer. Listen, it was all his fault. He ran away. I was left with a mother offering me my dream—The Wolfcraft Howler. Not just anywhere in the letter, I’m going to what Mom likes to call The Centerfold.
I’ve been working toward this my entire life.
My entire life.
It seemed like spending Christmas with her would make it happen—as long as I bring Soren. Am I aware that she’s using us to backstab her nemesis? Oh, yeah, definitely. She’s doing this solely to piss off Mrs. Thorn. Do I care?
If Soren hadn’t run away to London and abandoned me to deal with the aftermath, I think it’s fair he pays with emotional blood.
I water my plants. My succulents look smug again. Even the basil is judgmental.
And then there’s the ficus. The new one. Gorgeous, thriving, suspiciously expensive-looking. Yes, Soren sent me a ficus. There was no note or explanation. Just a passive-aggressive delivery guy who made me show him my ID and had me sign too many papers just for a plant.
“Yes, you’re gorgeous. I just don’t think I needed to give that much information to receive you,” I explain, and I don’t want her to resent me just because I misspoke.
Her father and I aren’t on good terms at the moment. Yes, you guessed it. Apparently, we co-own a ficus now. Joint custody via trauma bonding.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter to the ceramic turkey centerpiece I’m forcing into a makeshift tablescape that screams emotionally unraveling but festive. “Some of us need control to survive.”
I pick up my phone for the fifteenth time in an hour. No new messages.
Until—wait.
A green bubble slides in just as I’m about to set my phone down.
Soren: You alive?
I squint at the screen. Alive? Questionable.
Me: No. I’ve become a cranberry ghost. I haunt fall-themed vision boards and passive-aggressively rearrange centerpieces.
Three dots appear.
Pause.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Soren: So . . . you’re still spiraling?
Winnifred: Profoundly.
Soren: Want to talk?
Winnifred: Yes. But I’m mad at you.
Soren: That’s fair.
Soon enough, the phone rings.
His name lights up. I stare at it for one long second, my thumb hovering over decline. Then I sigh, flop onto the couch with a dramatic groan, and swipe accept.
“Thorn,” I answer, voice already at max exasperation.
“Wolfcraft.” His voice is low, smug, and entirely undeserved. “Still mad?”
“Yes.”
“Still spiraling?”
“Spiraling artistically,” I correct. “If I’m going down, it’ll be with color-coded place cards and emotional vulnerability folded into every napkin ring.”
He chuckles. Bastard. “What did I miss?”
“I’m thinking that maybe—”
“Nope. You already got your ficus, a front-row seat to my family’s group chat meltdown, and they’re mad because I’m spending Christmas with you. I’m not doing anything else for you.”
“Look at you, setting boundaries,” I deadpan. “Therapy’s working.”
There’s a beat of quiet. Familiar. Infuriating. If he’s not going to talk, I will because there are things to plan.
“I’m afraid we need to discuss Halloween,” I say, voice tight with purpose.
“What about Halloween?”
“Matching costumes, obviously.”
“No.”
“But—”
“That’s a hard limit.”
“It’s required,” I argue, because I’ve clearly lost grip on sanity, and this hill is the one I’ve chosen to die on. “A couple in love wears coordinated costumes. That’s very important.”
“We’re not a couple in love. Change the dynamic.”
“You kissed me like we were,” I remind him. “They think we’re crazy for each other—probably wedding bells by next year.”
Silence. Just enough of it to make me regret every ounce of confidence.
“I’m going to be in London,” he says finally.
“Is that another excuse to avoid me, your fake relationship responsibilities, and miniature candy bars?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“Oh, please,” I groan. “The fifth doesn’t apply when there’s a ficus involved. You crossed into real relationship territory the minute that delivery driver showed up on my porch with a potted metaphor and a smile.”
Another pause.
Then, a sigh that sounds entirely too much like surrender.
“Fine. But I draw the line at couples’ costumes involving tights.”
I grin. “No promises.”
“Do I even want to know what an emotional crisis looks like in your townhouse?”
“Picture a cornucopia. Now imagine it’s weaponized.”
“That’s oddly specific and somehow exactly what I expected.”
A pause stretches out. I can hear the faint clink of glass—he’s somewhere civilized, probably in a sleek hotel with dim lighting and overpriced bottled water.
“Why did you leave like that?” I ask, softer now.
He’s quiet for a beat.
“Because staying meant facing you. And I didn’t know if I could do that without . . . saying something I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear.”
“Like what?”
“I’m definitely not ready to talk about it.”
“I don’t know what to do with that,” I admit. “We’re still pretending. We have to keep pretending.”
“Right. Until Christmas. For the Howler.” His voice tilts toward irony, but the undercurrent is gentle.
“Until the photo for the Howler,” I correct. “Then we quietly unravel the relationship and say we grew apart due to professional differences and conflicting Thanksgiving aesthetics. You could skip Christmas.”
Another pause. I hear him shift, the sound of fabric, maybe the soft creak of a chair.
“No,” he says. “If I skip Christmas, your mother will be insufferable. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
And that? That right there? That makes my throat tighten, my chest tip into something dangerous. Something soft. Something terrifying.
Because he says it like he means it. Like, he gives a damn about me.
That thirty-three percent maybe-I’m-in-love-with-him feeling? It just grew to forty-two. At this rate, I’ll be fully ruined by Thanksgiving.
“Fine,” I manage, clearing my throat. “But once the Wolfcraft Christmas Spectacular is over, we go back to being sworn frenemies.”
“Sworn frenemies who share custody of a ficus.”
“It should’ve been a dog.”
“Win,” he says, and there’s that exasperated affection again. “You’re not ready for a pet, babe. You’re barely ready for a centerpiece that doesn’t judge you.”
I smile, even though my eyes sting a little. “I’d name the dog Pretzel.”
“I know you would.” He chuckles, then sighs. “As much as I’d love to stay on this call and help you emotionally project onto future canine companions, I’ve got to go.”
I almost say something—something light, something sarcastic. I almost tease him for caring too much. But I don’t. Because I like pretending he does. I like pretending it’s not just a ficus and a lie we built for our families.
I like pretending that maybe, one day, there’ll be a dog. And matching pajamas. And us.