Chapter 5
Wren
Giuseppe's lunch rush consists of exactly three people: us, and Mr. Jackson, who's been nursing the same minestrone soup for forty minutes while reading a newspaper from last Tuesday. The fact that this constitutes a "rush" tells you everything about Snowfall Creek's dining scene.
"This is cozy," Holden says, looking around the empty restaurant with its Italian décor—red checkered tablecloths, wine bottles melted with candle wax, and at least seventeen pictures of the Leaning Tower of Pisa from different angles.
"Giuseppe prefers 'intimate,'" I correct, fidgeting with my menu even though I have it memorized. "He says crowds dilute the dining experience."
"That's one way to spin bankruptcy," Holden observes.
"Says the man fake dating someone to save her failing business," I point out.
"Touché."
Giuseppe appears from the kitchen like he's been summoned by the promise of gossip. His eyes light up when he sees us sitting together, and I can practically see him composing the group text he's about to send to everyone in town.
"Wren! And the handsome stranger! Together! At my restaurant!" He clasps his hands dramatically. "This is beautiful! Like a movie! A romance movie! Not one of those sad ones where someone dies. Unless—nobody's dying, right?"
"Not today, Giuseppe," I assure him.
"Excellent! Death is bad for business. And romance!" He beams at us. "What can I get for the new couple? Everything on the menu today is made with extra love!"
"Everything?" Holden asks skeptically.
"Everything! Even the breadsticks. Especially the breadsticks." Giuseppe winks. "Very romantic, breadsticks."
"We'll just have the lunch special," I say quickly before this gets worse.
"Two lunch specials for the lovebirds! Made with amoré!" Giuseppe practically skips back to the kitchen.
"Does he add love to everything?" Holden asks.
"Last week it was confidence. The week before that, destiny. We don't question Giuseppe's special ingredients," I explain.
We sit in awkward silence for a moment, both hyperaware that we're supposed to be a couple in love, or at least a couple in like, or at minimum a couple who can maintain eye contact without looking physically pained.
"So," I start, then stop because I have no idea what comes next.
"So," he agrees unhelpfully.
"We should probably practice," I suggest.
"Practice what exactly?" he asks.
"Being a couple. Talking like people who actually know each other," I explain.
"Okay. What's your favorite color?" he asks dutifully.
"Seriously? That's your opening?"
"You said practice talking," he defends himself.
"Like a couple, not like we're filling out a dating app from 2003," I say.
"Fine. What's your deepest fear?" he tries again.
"That's worse!" I exclaim.
"You're very critical for someone who wanted to practice," he points out.
"And you're terrible at this for someone who agreed to it," I counter.
"Fair point." He leans back in his chair, studying me with those storm-cloud eyes. "Okay, real question. Why the toy shop?"
I wasn't expecting an actual question. "It was Helena's. My grandmother. She raised me after my parents died."
"How old were you?" he asks gently.
"Eight. Old enough to remember them but young enough that the memories feel more like stories I've been told," I explain, surprised by my own honesty.
"I'm sorry," he says simply.
"It was a long time ago. Twenty years. God, that makes me feel ancient," I laugh weakly.
"You're twenty-eight. That's not ancient," he says.
"Tell that to seven-year-old Tommy Martinez. He thinks I probably invented dirt."
"Kids have no concept of age. When I was seven, I thought anyone over twenty was basically deceased," he shares.
"And now?" I ask.
"Now I'm thirty-two and basically deceased," he deadpans.
"Thirty-two?" I'm genuinely surprised. "I thought you were older."
"Ah, thanks?"
"No, I mean, you have this whole 'weight of the world' thing going on. Like you've seen some stuff," I explain badly.
"I've seen some stuff," he agrees quietly.
"Want to talk about it?" I offer.
"Want to talk about why you burn hot chocolate?" he deflects.
"That's not the same thing," I protest.
"It might be. Emotional trauma manifesting as beverage abuse," he suggests.
"That's not a thing."
"It could be. We should apply for a research grant," he says, almost smiling.
Giuseppe returns with our food—two identical plates of something that might be lasagna or might be a cheese-based life form that's achieved sentience.
"For the lovers!" he announces loud enough for the entire town to hear through the walls. "Made with extra amoré! Extra passion!"
"Is passion an ingredient?" Holden asks me quietly.
"In Giuseppe's kitchen, everything's an ingredient," I whisper back.
"I give you privacy now," Giuseppe says, backing away while making eye contact. "For the romance. The beautiful romance."
"He's still looking at us," Holden observes once Giuseppe is theoretically in the kitchen.
"He's watching through the porthole window," I confirm. "Just ignore him."
"It's hard to ignore someone winking that much. He might be having a medical emergency," Holden says.
I laugh despite myself. "We should probably look more couple-y. He's going to report back to the many committees."
"Right." Holden reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Is this couple-y enough?"
"It's a start," I say, trying to ignore how warm his hand is.
"What about this?" He starts rubbing his thumb across my knuckles.
"That's... very couple-y," I manage, my brain short-circuiting slightly.
"Too much?" he asks.
"No! I mean, it's fine. Good. Very believable," I babble.
"You're terrible at this," he chuckles, but he's still holding my hand.
"I'm out of practice," I defend myself. "The last person I dated seriously thought cryptocurrency was actual coins you could crypt."
"What does that even mean?" he asks.
"I never found out. He also thought Morse Code was Morris's Code, and that Morris was probably a nice guy," I share.
"How long did you date this genius?" Holden asks.
"Six months," I admit shamefully.
"Six months?" He looks genuinely appalled.
"He was pretty," I defend weakly. "And he could reach high shelves."
"Those are terrible criteria for dating someone," he says.
"What are good criteria then?" I challenge.
He tilts his head, considering. "Someone who makes you laugh. Someone who shows up when they say they will. Someone who understands that some things matter more than money."
"That's surprisingly romantic for someone who thinks food is fuel," I say.
"Thought. Past tense. This lasagna might change my mind," he says, taking another bite. "It's either delicious or I'm having a stroke."
"That's Giuseppe's motto," I inform him.
Mr. Jackson chooses this moment to shuffle past our table. "You two make a lovely couple," he bellows.
We freeze.
"Thank you?" I squeak.
"Oh yes, very authentic. The way you're holding hands — like you're afraid they'll explode. The constant nervous laughter. The fact that you're sitting as if there's an invisible wall between you. True love," he continues, clearly enjoying himself.
"We're just—" I start.
"New," Holden cuts in smoothly. "We're new. Still figuring things out."
"Of course," Mr. Jackson winks. "New. Three weeks new, I'd guess. Until the Christmas gala?"
"How did you—" I begin.
"The contract you dropped outside the garage had very clear terms," he says cheerfully. "Section 3, subsection 2a was particularly interesting."
I want to die. Not dramatically, just enough to escape this conversation.
"Did you read our contract?" Holden asks calmly.
"It was on the ground. In the square. Public property," Mr. Jackson says, pulling it out of his jacket pocket. "Also, it was in a laminated sleeve. Who saves a fake dating contract in lamination?"
"I wanted it to last," I mumble as I snatch it out of his hands.
"Three weeks' worth of lasting?" Mr. Jackson grins.
"Are you blackmailing us?" Holden asks directly.
"Blackmail is such an ugly word. I prefer 'suggesting you help with my Christmas decorations,'" Mr. Jackson says.
"That's definitely blackmail," I point out.
"Prove it," he challenges, then totters off whistling.
"We're being blackmailed by an octogenarian," I say in disbelief.
"He's efficient. I respect that," Holden says.
"You respect our blackmailer?" I ask.
"I respect his initiative," he clarifies.
Giuseppe appears again. "Was everything romantic enough?"
"Very romantic," I assure him weakly.
"Wonderful! I tell everyone! The whole town will know about your romantic lunch!" He disappears again.
"The whole town already knows," I mutter.
"Iris works fast," Holden agrees.
My phone buzzes with a text from Delia.
Delia: Committee meeting. Twenty minutes. Bring the boyfriend.
"We've been summoned," I inform Holden, showing him the text.
"Already?" he asks.
"Delia doesn't waste time. She probably has a whole interrogation planned. There might even be a PowerPoint," I warn.
"About us?" he asks.
"About you. She definitely already has one about me. I've seen it. It's thirty-seven slides of disappointment with animations," I explain.
"Animations?" he raises an eyebrow.
"Slide transitions. Sound effects. The works. She's very thorough," I confirm.
"Should I be worried?" he asks.
"Terrified," I say cheerfully. "She made the last guy cry."
"The encyclopedia salesman?"
"No, he ran before the committee got to him. This was the guy before. Sold insurance. Good with numbers, bad with human emotions. Delia destroyed him with pie charts," I explain.
"Pie charts about what?" Holden asks, looking genuinely concerned now.
"His unsuitability. She had data. Spreadsheets. A color-coded matrix of his flaws," I say.
"She researched his flaws?" he asks.
"She researches everything. She probably knows your blood type by now," I warn.
"That's impressive and a bit terrifying," he admits.
"Welcome to Snowfall Creek," I say, standing up. "Ready to face the committee?"
"Do I have a choice?" he asks.
"You could run. The encyclopedia salesman established a precedent," I offer.
"And leave you to face them alone?" He stands, offering me his hand. "What kind of fake boyfriend would I be?"
"A smart one?" I suggest, but I take his hand, anyway.
We head toward the door, but Giuseppe blocks our path. "Wait! You must kiss! For luck!"
"What?" we both say.
"All couples kiss after a romantic lunch! It's tradition!" Giuseppe insists.
"Since when?" I ask.
"Since right now! I make new tradition!" He's bouncing with excitement.
Mr. Jackson has returned and joins in. "Kiss! Kiss!"
"This is peer pressure," I point out.
"This is Snowfall Creek," Holden says, then looks at me with something unreadable in his eyes. "We should probably just get it over with."
"Very romantic," I mutter, but my heart's already racing.
"I'm not good at romance," he admits quietly.
"You're doing okay so far," I tell him as I squeeze his hand.
Instead of answering, he cups my face gently and leans in. The kiss is soft, brief, and completely ruins my ability to form coherent thoughts. My knees go weak, which is such a cliché, but apparently clichés exist for a reason.
"Beautiful!" Giuseppe cries.
"That looked very real," Mr. Jackson observes suspiciously.
"We're very good at kissing," I say stupidly, still dizzy.
"The best," Holden agrees, looking slightly dazed himself.
We escape before anyone can demand an encore, stepping out into the December cold that does nothing to cool my burning face.
"That was—" I start.
"We should go to the committee meeting," he interrupts, but his hand tightens around mine.
"Right. The committee," I agree, trying to focus on walking in a straight line.
We walk in silence for a moment before he speaks again.
"For the record," he says quietly, "that didn't feel fake."
"It's supposed to feel real. That's the point," I remind him, though my voice comes out shakier than intended.
"Right. The point," he agrees.
"Holden?" I ask.
"Yeah?"
"The committee is in the other direction," I point out.
"I know," he says, but doesn't change course.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"I have no idea," he admits. "My brain stopped working about two minutes ago."
"When Giuseppe demanded we kiss?" I guess.
"When I actually did it," he corrects.
We stop walking, standing in the middle of the sidewalk like idiots while snow starts to fall around us.
"We can't fall for each other," I remind him. "Section 3, subsection 2a."
"I know," he says.
"It's in the contract," I insist.
"The laminated contract," he adds with a small smile.
"Exactly. Very official," I say.
"Very binding," he agrees.
"So, we're clear on that," I state firmly.
"Crystal clear," he confirms.
We stand there for another moment, still holding hands, snow landing in our hair, both clearly lying to ourselves.
"Committee meeting," I finally say.
"Committee meeting," he agrees.
We turn around and head in the right direction this time. Twenty minutes to convince the committee we're real. Three weeks to save my shop. And a laminated contract that’s feeling less like protection and more like a prediction of exactly how this is going to go wrong.
Section 3, subsection 2a is basically a promise I'm about to break with myself.