Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Winnifred
Let it be known that I didn’t cry when I saw the suite.
Sure, my eyes just got a little . . . misty. It’s the wind, okay? Or the dry airplane air. It has nothing to do with the sheer audacity of Soren Thorn and whatever over-the-top, emotionally reckless, holiday-romance fever dream he just unleashed on this poor, unsuspecting hotel room.
The man had the nerve—the actual gall—to book the suite and somehow turn it into a Thanksgiving postcard before we arrived.
There’s a faux fireplace on the TV screen playing soft crackling sounds.
Battery-operated string lights twinkle around the headboard.
A plate of pumpkin-shaped cookies sits on the credenza, next to a vase filled with cinnamon sticks and eucalyptus sprigs that smell suspiciously like something called “Holiday Hearth” that makes my sinuses do jazz hands.
He even ordered the deluxe seasonal room service package: cider in mugs that say Gratitude Is Sexy, a cheese board shaped like a turkey, and what appears to be sweet potato fries in a mini cast iron skillet.
“This is outrageous,” I say, spinning slowly in the middle of the room, trying to process the scene. “How . . . I mean, we just got notification that all the roads are—did you make up the storm, Thorn?” I place my hands on my hips and glare at him suspiciously.
He laughs, pointing at the windows. “Yeah, I’m so powerful. I can now control the weather, Win.”
“Look at all this.”
He shrugs off his coat, tosses it over a chair. “I would love to say I did everything before picking you up, but my assistant is that efficient.”
“You—this—” I gesture to the twinkle lights. “Is this a seduction tactic? Are you trying to seduce me with the power of Thanksgiving, Thorn?”
He smirks. “Would it work if I said yes?”
God help me, it might. We’re at probably sixty-three percent on that falling in love with my fake boyfriend. This man keeps doing everything that shouldn’t be done in fake relationships. Have we discussed the airport kiss?
Nope. Should I bring it up? Because we have just one bed, and I’m not sure I’ll let the opportunity of climbing him like a tree go this time.
Also, he has to stop looking at me like—like . . . like I’m some kind of prize. Not when my body is still recovering from a travel day full of crying babies, a seatmate who overshared about her gluten-free colon cleanse, and the looming horror of being stranded due to a nor’easter.
This is what happens when you give up your first-class seat to a woman who obviously needed it more than me. Just a few seats behind, I told myself, how bad could it be? Umm, bad.
And yet—despite everything—I feel . . . calm here. Or at least, less like the neurotic mess who was clinging to her planner and emotionally projecting onto a ficus a few days ago.
Soren picks up the cider mugs and hands me one. “Welcome to Boston. Population: two emotionally unstable adults pretending to be in love.”
I take the mug, ignoring how our fingers brush. “You’re confusing ‘emotionally unstable’ with ‘charmingly festive.’ It’s a common mistake.”
He grins, then flops onto the couch, not caring that this whole festivity suite and the glitter bomb of kindness and holiday spirit hasn’t detonated an internal emotional bomb.
“Seriously, though,” I say, taking a seat at the other end of the couch, careful not to invade his space. “Why did you do all this?”
He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Well, my options were: a) ignore the fact that we’re trapped in a city due to inclement weather, b) let you spiral into a Thanksgiving meltdown alone, or c) lean fully into our fake relationship and make it weirdly magical.”
“And you chose c?”
He nods once. “Yes, the answer is always c.”
I stare at him. Mug pressed to my lips. When did this man become all swoony and little gestures? That’s making him so infuriating, ridiculous, and . . . he’s so, so wonderful.
This is dangerous. I don’t want the love-meter—okay, I’m still workshopping the name for whatever this is between us—to inch any higher than it already has. We were hovering around sixty percent, right? I knew it a few seconds ago, but now my brain’s blank.
The point is: this fake relationship with zero emotions is rapidly morphing into something . . . weirdly emotional. We’re drifting into dangerous territory here—approaching seventy-five percent in love—and if we cross that line, there might not be a way back.
I clear my throat. “I’m not sharing a bed with you, by the way.”
“You say that now,” he says, not even looking at me—just studying the cheese board with a suspicious level of interest. “But let’s not rule anything out until the end of the weekend—or whenever we have to go home. What if the throw pillows convince you otherwise?”
“Throw pillows are not an aphrodisiac.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “There’s a pillow on that bed right now that says Talk Turkey to Me. If that doesn’t make you feel things, you might be dead inside.”
I laugh. Not the polite holiday party version I’ve perfected this week—but the real deal. It startles both of us a little.
He looks at me then—really looks—like he’s trying to memorize something he’s afraid to forget. Like I’ve just shifted into focus for him in a way that matters. I have to glance away before I fall headfirst into whatever he’s thinking because why if I forget how to climb back out?
I stand and wander toward the window. The city is dusted with snow already, white flakes swirling under streetlamps like we’re in a snow globe someone shook too hard.
There’s something undeniably cozy about being stuck here.
Away from the judgmental eyes of our families.
Away from the pressure to perform. It’s just us in this suite, suspended in time.
“You, okay?” he asks softly.
I nod. “Weirdly, yes.”
His voice lowers. “You’re not disappointed?”
“No.” I turn, facing him now. “Honestly, I think this is the best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a while.”
He raises an eyebrow. “This is pre-Thanksgiving dinner. And you haven’t even tried the sweet potato fries yet.”
“I don’t need fries when you’ve got a fireplace app and Talk Turkey to Me pillows.”
He grins, that maddening, slow-burn kind that makes my spine hum. “So you do feel things.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
But my smile gives me up, traitorous as ever. He sees right through it, through me, and he takes a step closer—just one, but it’s enough to erase every inch of space between us. My breath snags somewhere in my throat like it’s caught on his name.
“Win,” he says, voice husky and low, like he’s about to say something he can’t take back.
My heart stumbles. Trips. Full-on faceplants.
We should discuss the kisses, but we keep choosing not to. That’s not very smart, but at what point is too late to say, By the way, your lips on my mouth . . . what’s that about, Soren?
I mean, there’ve been too many. Too often.
They seem not to be intentional and lingering.
Also, they’re full of things we’ve both been pretending not to feel.
Every one of them feels like a conversation we keep having with our mouths because neither of us knows how to say it out loud yet.
He reaches up, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my cheek, linger for half a second too long.
And then—there’s a knock on the door.