Chapter 4
Holden
"That's the oil pan," Finn says helpfully, pointing at something that could be an oil pan or possibly a small alien colony. "You drain it by removing the plug."
"Which plug?" I ask, staring at the mechanical chaos above me.
"The one that looks like a plug," he replies with excessive patience.
"They all look like plugs. Or tumors. It's hard to tell."
Finn laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete floor. "You really know nothing about cars, do you?"
"I know they move when you press the accelerator," I defend myself.
"That's a start. A very small, very sad start, but still." He hands me a wrench that I'm definitely going to use wrong. "Try not to break anything expensive."
I'm about to defend my complete lack of mechanical knowledge when I hear footsteps approaching. Determined footsteps.
"Finn, is Holden—oh." Wren appears, slightly out of breath, her cheeks pink from either cold or embarrassment. Possibly both. She's wearing the reindeer sweater again. The reindeer now appears to be winking at me specifically.
"Hey, Wren." Finn wipes his hands on a rag that's making them dirtier. "Need something?"
"I need to talk to Holden. Privately," she announces.
Finn looks between us with the expression of someone who just found premium entertainment. "Privately? In a garage? That's either very romantic or very concerning."
"It's business," Wren says quickly.
"Business." Finn tastes the word like wine he's not sure about. "Right. The kind of business that makes you run across the square looking like you're being chased by one of the committees."
"Nobody's chasing me," she insists.
"Yet," I add unhelpfully, sliding out from under the car.
She glares at me, but it's the type of glare that suggests she's trying not to smile. "Can we talk or not?"
I'm probably covered in things that will never wash out. Wren's nose wrinkles slightly, and I become acutely aware that I smell like motor oil.
"I'll just be over here," Finn says, not moving at all. "Not listening. Definitely not recording this for posterity."
"Finn," Wren warns.
"Fine. I'll be in the office. Which has very thin walls. And excellent acoustics." He leaves, whistling what sounds like a wedding march. Subtle as a brick, that one.
Wren shifts nervously, clutching a folder like it contains state secrets. "So," she starts, then stops. Then starts again. "This is going to sound crazy."
"Most things in this town do," I point out.
"No, like, actually crazy. Like 'I should be committed' crazy."
"Now I'm intrigued."
She takes a deep breath that seems to go on forever. "I need a boyfriend."
I blink. "Okay?"
"A fake boyfriend," she clarifies.
"Less okay."
"For three weeks."
"That's a very specific timeframe."
"Until the Christmas gala. To convince the loan committee that I'm stable and responsible and not going to die alone surrounded by vintage toys," she explains in a rush.
"That's dark," I observe.
"That's Tuesday." She rushes on before I can respond. "Look, I know this is insane. I know you don't know me, and I don't know you, and you probably have better things to do than pretend to date someone who burns hot chocolate and talks to inanimate objects—"
"You talk to inanimate objects?" I interrupt.
"That's not the point!" she exclaims.
"It feels relevant for a potential fake boyfriend."
"The point is," she soldiers on, clutching her folder like a life preserver, "I need someone respectable. Employed. Male, because the loan committee is stuck in 1952. Someone who can convincingly pretend to care about me for three weeks."
"And you thought of me?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"You're new. No one knows your dating history. You have a job. You show up when you say you will. The bar is very low," she admits.
"Flattering."
"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to save my shop." Her voice cracks slightly on the last word, and something in my chest shifts uncomfortably.
"What's in it for me?" I ask, though I'm already mentally saying yes. This is perfect. A built-in excuse to integrate into the community. Access to inside information. A reason to be seen with the local business owner, whose shop is a prime acquisition target.
Her being beautiful has nothing to do with my decision. Obviously.
"Free coffee from The Daily Grind. I have a connection," she offers.
"You mean Iris works there," I say.
"That's my connection, yes. Also, meals. I can cook. Sort of. I can definitely heat things up. Usually without burning them. Occasionally without burning them," she continues, clearly underselling herself.
"Tempting."
"And a place to stay. There's a room above the shop. It's not much, but it's better than the inn," she adds.
This is even better than I had hoped. Living above the shop would give me a perfect surveillance opportunity. I could assess the building's structural integrity, estimate renovation costs, and document foot traffic patterns.
Living near her is just convenient for the arrangement. That's all.
"Three weeks?" I confirm.
"Three weeks. We pretend to date. Go to town events together. Hold hands in public. Look stable and boring and committee-approved," she summarizes.
"I don't do boring well," I warn her.
"You literally have only one expression," she counters.
"It's a very dynamic expression."
"It's the face of someone who just remembered they left the oven on. In 1987."
"That's specific." I note. “You’re a very specific gal.”
"I'm very observant." She fidgets with the folder. "So? Will you do it?"
I should negotiate. Ask for more details. Create boundaries and establish rules. Instead, I hear myself say, "Yes."
She blinks rapidly. "Really? Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"You don't want to think about it? Ask questions? Check references?" she asks, clearly stunned.
"Do you have references for fake dating?"
"I have a Yelp review from the encyclopedia salesman," she offers weakly.
"Was it positive?"
"He said I was 'enthusiastic about learning.' I think it might have been sarcasm," she admits.
"Probably."
She opens the folder she's been death-gripping. "I made a contract."
"You made a contract for fake dating?" I ask, trying not to laugh.
"I run a failing business. Contracts are all I have left." She hands me what appears to be a very official-looking document. "Terms and conditions."
I scan it, fighting back laughter. She's outlined everything.
Public displays of affection, hand-holding required, kissing optional but encouraged at strategic moments, event attendance is mandatory, backstory coordination, we met at the tree lighting, bonded over my apparent hatred of joy, and even an exit strategy, mutual breakup citing different life goals.
"This is thorough," I comment.
"I may have Googled 'fake relationship contracts.' There's a surprising amount of information available," she confesses.
"Including the clause about 'no falling in love'?" I read aloud. "Section 3, subsection 2a: Both parties agree to maintain emotional boundaries and not develop genuine feelings."
"That's important," she insists.
"Is it legally binding?"
"I don't think feelings are admissible in court," she says thoughtfully.
"Judge Judy might disagree."
"Judge Judy isn't presiding over Snowfall Creek," she points out.
"Our loss." I tease.
She pulls out a pen with determination. "So, do we have a deal?"
I look at her—desperate, determined, ridiculously hopeful—and know I should say no. This is complicated. Messy. Exactly the type of entanglement Sterling warned me against.
But it's also a perfect cover. And she needs help. And I'm apparently the person who can't resist a woman in a Christmas sweater wielding a contract. I should note that for future transactions.
"Deal." I take the pen and sign 'Holden Clark' with a flourish that would make my actual signature jealous.
She signs her name with much less flourish and much more relief. "Thank you. Really. This is... you're saving my life."
"Your business," I correct.
"Same thing in Snowfall Creek," she says quietly.
"We should probably establish our story," I say, trying to be professional about this very unprofessional arrangement. "Make sure we're consistent."
"Right. Yes. I thought about that." She pulls out another paper. Of course, she has another paper. "I made a timeline."
"A timeline of our fake relationship?" I ask incredulously.
"With milestone moments and everything. First meeting at the tree lighting—that's real. First date at Giuseppe's—we should probably actually go there. First kiss—" she trails off.
"You scheduled our first kiss?" I ask.
"Tentatively. With weather-dependent alternatives," she explains, completely serious.
"What if it's raining?"
"Romantic," she says immediately.
"What if it's snowing?"
"Also romantic."
"What if there's a plague of locusts?" I challenge.
"Less romantic but very memorable." She's fighting a smile now. "We'd definitely trend on social media."
"'Local Couple Makes Out During Biblical Disaster,'" I suggest.
"'She Said It Was Still Better Than Her Last Relationship,'" she counters.
"Harsh."
"But accurate," she sighs.
Finn chooses this moment to reappear, carrying what might be coffee or might be motor oil in a mug. "So, did you two kids figure out your business?" He smirks at the look on Wren’s face. “I told you the walls in my office are thin.”
"We have an arrangement," Wren says primly.
"An arrangement." Finn grins wickedly. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"A mutually beneficial arrangement," I clarify.
"Even better. When does this arrangement start?" he asks.
Wren and I look at each other. We didn't actually discuss that.
"Now?" she suggests tentatively.
"Now works," I agree.
"Great, because your first test is coming," Finn says, looking toward the door. "Speak of the devil."
Sure enough, Iris appears in the doorway carrying a tray of coffee cups and wearing an expression that suggests she smells gossip.
"Coffee delivery! Oh, Wren! I didn't know you were here. With Holden. Together. How interesting," Iris says with excessive innocence.
Wren freezes like a deer in headlights. I can actually see her forgetting everything we just discussed.
I reach over and take her hand, lacing our fingers together like it's the most natural thing in the world. Her hand is smaller than expected, warm despite the cold outside.
"She came to invite me to lunch," I say smoothly. "Couldn't wait until later."
"Couldn't wait," Wren echoes, finding her voice. "Because I'm... eager."
"Eager," Iris repeats, her eyes lighting up like Christmas came early. "For lunch."
"Very eager," Wren confirms, squeezing my hand hard enough to cut off circulation. "For food. Eating. Together. Like people do."
I wince internally. We need to work on this.
"We're dating," I announce, deciding to rip the band-aid off.
Iris drops her coffee tray.
The crash is spectacular. Coffee everywhere. Cups rolling. Finn jumping back with a very ungraceful squeal.
"DATING?" Iris practically screams. "Since when?"
"Recently," I say calmly.
"Very recently," Wren adds nervously.
"So recently it just happened," I confirm.
"Like just now recently?" Iris asks suspiciously.
"No, before now," Wren says quickly, "but after then."
"When's then?" Iris demands.
"Earlier than now but later than before," Wren explains unhelpfully.
Even I'm confused, and I'm part of this conversation.
"We met at the tree lighting," I cut in, returning to the established narrative. "Things developed from there."
"Developed," Iris tastes the word. "How much development are we talking about ?"
"We're taking things slow," I say firmly.
"But not too slow," Wren adds, then looks horrified at herself.
"The perfect speed," I conclude, squeezing her hand reassuringly.
"Well," Iris says, already pulling out her phone, "this is the best news I've heard all week. Wait until June hears about this. And Mrs. Connor. And Delia. Oh, Delia is going to have OPINIONS."
She rushes out, presumably to alert the media, stepping carefully over the spilled coffee like it's a crime scene she's preserving for documentation.
"That went well," I say dryly.
"That was a disaster," Wren corrects, pulling her hand free.
"A memorable disaster," I point out.
"The worst kind," she groans.
"Hey," Finn interrupts, looking at the coffee-covered floor, "which one of you is cleaning this up?"
We look at each other.
"The boyfriend?" Wren suggests sweetly.
"The one who dropped the tray?" I counter.
"Rock, paper, scissors?" she offers.
"You're already couple-arguing," Finn observes with delight. "This fake dating thing is going great."
"It's not fake," Wren says quickly, remembering we have an audience.
"Right. Not fake. Very real," I agree.
"The realest," she adds unnecessarily.
"Okay, you two need practice," Finn says, shaking his head. "Like, a lot of practice."
I look at Wren, who's trying to look confident but mostly looks like she might throw up. Three weeks of this. Three weeks of pretending with someone who makes contracts for fake dating and schedules first kisses with weather contingencies.
"We should go to lunch," I suggest. "Practice being a couple in public."
"Right now?" she asks, alarmed.
"No time like the present," I say.
"But the coffee—" she gestures at the mess.
"Finn's got it," I say confidently.
"I absolutely do not—" Finn starts.
"Thanks, buddy." I grab Wren's hand again, pulling her toward the door. "We owe you one."
"You owe me several!" Finn calls after us.
We step out into the December cold, still holding hands because people might be watching. The town square stretches before us, full of potential witnesses to our very new, very fake relationship.
"We're terrible at this," Wren says quietly.
"We'll get better," I assure her.
"What if we don't?" she asks.
"Then we'll be terrible together," I say. "At least we'll be consistent."
She laughs, a surprised sound that makes something warm unfold in my chest. "Together," she agrees.
I look down at our joined hands, at the woman beside me who smells like cinnamon and chaos, at the town that's about to watch our every move for the next three weeks.
I'm definitely going to fall in love with her.
The contract specifically forbids it. Section 3, subsection 2a.
Damn it.