Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
That night, as I’m sliding under the covers in just shorts and trying not to replay that dinner over and over, my phone buzzes. I swipe it open to a message from Fable. She’s sent me…a song. The cover for “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I listen and she’s right.
Wilder: It does sound like a seduction.
I need to stop. Truly, I do. I should leave this alone. But then she replies, and it’s impossible to put my phone down.
Fable: I’m listening to it now too.
Wilder: In your fuzzy socks?
Fable: Of course. They have snowmen on them. Would snowflakes on socks get you to wear socks in bed?
Wilder: Only if this song were playing.
Fable: So I guess you can break your routine.
Wilder: Every now and then it’s been known to happen.
Fable: Even though you love it?
Wilder: Even then.
Fable: So, would it be breaking your routine to go to a co-ed wedding shower? With me?
It’s just a text. There’s no tone of voice. But in my mind, I can hear her warm voice pitch up in hope that I’ll say yes. Like this is a date. Before I reply, she writes again.
Fable: My sister just texted me. She has a client who owns a cute café, and she can get a private room there next Sunday for it. Should we go together? To practice our routine?
Wilder: I’d love to.
Then I set my phone down so I’m not tempted to keep up the volley since it feels too good. Everything does with her. I squeeze my eyes shut.
It’s not a date, man. It’s practice for the town’s winter games and the wedding.
Still, I listen to the song again as I search online for fuzzy socks. With gingerbread men on them. With candy canes. With mistletoe. Then I send her several pairs to arrive tomorrow morning. With another note. Happy holidays to my Leo elf.
There. Just another layer of Fable detail. After all, I’m not simply showing Brady how a woman should be treated. I’m showing her, and she deserves to know how it feels when a man pays attention.
Besides, the more we practice at being a couple, the better we’ll do when the games begin.
That’s what I tell myself as I open my old paperback and try to get lost in the story. But something nags at me and I’m not sure what. Did I forget something? It feels like it, but I’m drawing a blank. I return to the book, but then, as the hero can’t keep his eyes off his heroine as she leaves, it’s obvious.
I was having such a good time, I forgot to cover one very key issue on our date. I put a note on my calendar to handle it at the office first thing.
That’s when I see what’s on the agenda for late Monday morning—Shay’s scheduled time for me to decorate the door. I’m sure he did this per Bibi’s orders, since she wants me participating in all things holiday at the office. I drag a hand through my hair. I like to do things I’m good at. The last thing I want to do is decorate a door.
But then again, it’s an excuse to spend more time with Fable.
Maybe I can learn to like decorating.
12
SANTA’S BUTT
Fable
Women can’t survive shower planning solo. It’s a special kind of task that requires not one, not two, but three girlfriends for support. The next night I call on Josie, Maeve, and Everly, assembling them in our favorite bookstore. An Open Book on Fillmore Street officially wins all the Christmas competitions in the world because its window display is made of—wait for it—a stack of books, forming a tree, and covered in lights.
The tree topper is none other than my friend Hazel Valentine’s newest romance novel. I’m so proud of her, even though I really wanted her to name it Christmas is Coming. She said retailers might find that a tad too racy, so she opted for The Twelve Hate Dates of the Holidays, which works since it’s an enemies-to-lovers romance, obviously.
I push open the door, and the bell jingles. The store is warm and cozy, with an electric fireplace crackling and stockings hung from the mantel, each stuffed with books. I walk past the displays to the café, where I find my three friends poring over a coffee table book about Paris.
“I want to go there. And get lost in a library,” Josie says, with a happy sigh as she points to a full-page image of a cobblestone street in front of, naturally, a bibliothèque.
“You know Wesley will take you. And when the hockey season’s over, maybe I can convince Max to take me there too,” Everly seconds. She started seeing the goalie for one of the city’s hockey teams, and he worships the ground she walks on.
“I just want to go there and paint,” Maeve says, wistful in her own way.