Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Winnifred
Nothing says divine intervention, like a knock at the door right before I throw logic out the window and kiss him like my entire body already thinks he’s mine.
Which is ridiculous. A full lie dressed up in sexual tension and without a fake dating contract.
We should draw one and have clauses before it’s too late.
Since we don’t, I remind myself that we’re just two people who’re pretending to date.
Acting. Yes, I agree that our performances wouldn’t get us an award.
Not even a Razzie for worst acting. It’s probably because we’re performing something that only exists in the cracks between glances and almosts.
We have thirty days left to play house. Thirty days to smile for the camera, keep the lies believable, and absolutely not fall into bed together—or in love.
What are we even doing for the next month? Will he stick around? Or disappear to another continent just to avoid whatever happens this weekend—if anything happens.
Winnifred Wolfcraft, don’t let anything happen. You hear me? I know what happens when you blur the line between pretending and reality. You end up holding the pieces alone while the other person walks away like it was just a game.
A second knock interrupts my spiral.
“Room service,” someone calls out.
I glance at the table—already stacked with enough food to cater a small wedding.
Soren clears his throat like he’s trying to act normal. Like his mouth wasn’t hovering inches from mine sixty seconds ago. “They might’ve forgotten something,” he says. “The wine?”
He walks to the door like a man who isn’t seconds from kissing someone he’s not supposed to want.
The hotel attendant standing outside is all pressed lines and pleasant efficiency.
He holds a silver tray with chocolate truffles and a folded card that probably says thanks for your soul—payment due upon checkout.
“Good evening,” the guy says. “Complimentary holiday turndown service. Chocolates for the pillows and your autumn spice cheesecake has arrived as requested.”
Yum, cheesecake. Yes. That’s exactly what I need right now. Whoever Soren’s assistant is, she deserves a raise. Or a holiday bonus. Or a spa weekend and full editorial control of my future wedding album.
If this were real, this would be a dream Thanksgiving—minus the travel delays and snow trying to end us.
Listen, I know Aiden meant well when she invited me to meet her friends. Some cozy little town. Craft cider, board games, cranberry sangria—it sounded like something out of a seasonal ad campaign. She wanted me to have a nice holiday away from my family but still with my pretend boyfriend.
But isn’t this nicer? Just the two of us. No matching sweaters, no strangers with too many questions, no fake smiles to cover how lonely I feel when the camera’s off.
Granted, we’ll still need fake couple photos, or Mom’s going to blacklist me from the Howler again. And yes, I’ll probably have to pay the photographer for the shoot he’s not doing because someone decided to kiss me against an elevator wall instead of coordinating a photo op.
Worth it? To be determined.
Will I need to fake a ski lodge moment in Colorado? Probably.
Will I absolutely need to find a photographer before Mom assumes I’ve Photoshopped myself into someone else’s relationship again? Without a doubt.
But right now? I’m staring at a man who just turned down the metaphorical lights, turned up the heat, and brought me cheesecake with a side of maybe-you’re-more-than-pretend.
And I don’t know whether to thank him or kiss him for real. Okay, I’ll wait until we’re alone, but then I can’t say what’s going to happen.
“Thanks,” Soren says, signing what I assume is the bill and taking the tray with the effortless confidence of a man who absolutely knows what he’s doing.
The attendant nods, gives me a warm smile, and slips out without commenting on the overwhelming romantic tension fogging up the suite. I’m grateful. The last thing I need is a witness to my rapid descent into feelings I have no business catching.
Soren sets the tray on the table and turns to me with a sheepish smile. “Thought you’d want something sweet.”
“You already got me cider and cheese and—” I gesture vaguely at the entire suite. “All this.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like transforming a hotel room into a cozy autumnal safe haven is normal behavior for a fake boyfriend. “I like seeing you smile.”
I open my mouth. Close it again. My emotional bandwidth is currently maxed out. No more romantic gestures. I can’t fall for him tonight. I have things to do. Like protect my heart and not betray my family—look how things ended for Romeo and Juliet. Or myself. Or . . . myself again.
Soren pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures with an exaggerated flourish. “Milady.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you trying to court me like it’s Regency-era Boston?”
He grins. “Would it work if I said yes?”
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Wolfcraft. That’s the first time you’ve admitted I’m cute.”
“No, it’s not,” I mutter, sitting anyway.
He sits across from me, dims the lights just enough to make things dangerous, then lights one of the hotel candles. It smells like cinnamon, sugar cookies, and the very specific brand of seduction found exclusively in seasonal, bougie furniture catalogs.
The food—because, of course, I’m noticing now—is plated beautifully. Sliced turkey with cranberry glaze, mashed potatoes piped into elegant spirals, and those damn sweet potato fries in a tiny skillet I suddenly want to marry. Everything feels like it’s trying to seduce me into domestic bliss.
But it’s not the food. Or the suite. Or the atmosphere.
It’s him.
It’s Soren—watching me across the table like I’m the main course. It’s him buttering a roll and sliding it onto my plate without being asked. It’s him pouring more cider into my mug and acting like this isn’t his first time playing house.
It’s his eyes when he catches me staring. They’re warm, attentive, and there’s that annoying little crinkle at the edge that makes me forget how to breathe.
“Do you like it?” he asks, voice low and almost shy.
I nod. “Too much.”
“Too much?” He feigns offense, all mock drama and raised brows.
“It’s dangerous,” I say honestly. “You’re dangerous.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table like he has no idea what he’s doing to me. “Only to people who underestimate how charming I am.”
“I’m not underestimating anything. That’s the problem.”
He doesn’t respond right away, just watches me—eyes warm, unreadable, a little too focused. I should say something. Maybe crack a joke or change the subject. Instead, I reach for my wine.
The candlelight flickers between us—soft, golden, a little too perfect for two people who are supposed to be faking it. The air smells like cinnamon and sugar cookies and something slower, sweeter, more dangerous.
How did we get halfway through dinner without me noticing?
One minute, I was unpacking emotional baggage in my head and wondering if cheesecake counts as a coping mechanism. Now I’m sitting across from him pretending . . . I’m hungry. But honestly, I’m not anymore, at least not for food.
Then he grins—lopsided and utterly unfair. “I like you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Halfway through dinner. Just tired enough to be honest. And smiley. And a little rumpled from the flight.” He gestures at my hair, which—fine—is absolutely a mess. “I’d call it borderline criminally cute if I weren’t afraid of you stabbing me with a cheese knife.”
I throw a sweet potato fry at him.
He catches it. Eats it.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to throw food?” He shakes his head. “This is exactly why the Thorns think they’re better than the Wolfcrafts.”
I shrug a shoulder. “Hey, I was raised by wolves.”
We both laugh at my silly joke and continue eating.
We talk about nothing and share the cheesecake like two people who forgot to draw lines in the sand. There’s no pretending right now. Just warmth and a sense of safety I didn’t realize I’d been craving since he left for London.
I really miss this, us hanging out bantering without an agenda. Even when we never shared a meal before. Maybe we should do it often—forever.
And that’s when I realize it. The quiet realization that sucker punches me in the middle of dessert.
I’m not at sixty-three percent anymore. I’m not even in the seventies.
Red zone alert. I’m falling. Hard.
I don’t think there’s any coming back.
Soren doesn’t say anything right away, but his gaze. The way he looks at me—like I’m not dessert, I’m the whole damn meal.
His focus drops to my mouth. It’s so subtly, slowly, almost seductively. It’s as if he’s waiting for permission or a sign or maybe just the nerve to do what we both want, but maybe it shouldn’t be happening.
“You’ve got—” he says, his voice rough, thumb lifting gently to brush a bit of cheesecake from the corner of my lip. It’s innocent. Barely a touch. But my whole body goes still. Everything feels too loud inside me.
His thumb lingers. Just for a second too long.
“Thanks,” I whisper, though I’m not entirely sure what for.
Neither of us moves. The silence between us turns hot. Electric. Dangerous.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, “and I’m going to stop pretending this is a game.”
I should laugh. Say something flippant. Diffuse the tension with sarcasm and plausible deniability, maybe even add some emotional imbalance.
But I don’t.
I just watch him because if I’m honest with myself, I want him to stop acting, too.
He reaches for my hand slowly, fingers grazing mine before he curls them around my wrist and stands, pulling me with him.
There’s no words between us until we’re in the room at the edge of the bed.
“Tell me to stop.”
“This is a bad idea,” I breathe.
“Terrible,” he agrees, already leaning in.
I close my eyes just before his mouth finds mine.
And when it does—everything else falls away.