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)
But that’s not in the cards. Love is for other people. It’s for people who don’t have trust issues a mile long. And I could never trust a fake romance. For a romance to truly work, it needs a solid foundation—not one built on a game of trickery. This is a fun, intoxicating, wildly addictive game, but a game, nonetheless. Hell, I couldn’t even make a romance work with the mother of my child. And she’s a kind, warm, thoughtful person. Clearly, I’m not cut out for big love. Best to remind my daughter of the score. “It’s a fake romance, Mac. That’s all,” I say, letting her down gently.
“Okay.” For a second, she looks sad, but she seems to dismiss the emotion quickly as she hands me the book. “Let’s read.”
I read to her for a long time. Finally, she yawns. Her eyes flutter closed as she murmurs, “So the party was more than good.”
She sounds as satisfied as Penguin rubbing against my leg. I ruffle her hair and say yes, but she’s already asleep.
I head for my home office and do some work, stealing glances at my phone. The third time I do it, it hits me why—I’m hoping Fable texts.
But I don’t even know what I want her to say. I can’t stop thinking about the kiss?
Well, yeah.
I sigh in frustration—with myself. Then I stare out the window over the city, festive lights twinkling in red and white on the houses in Cow Hollow, the Presidio, and the Marina, up to the ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge. A pang digs into my chest. Too bad it’s not snowing. It hardly ever snows here. But if it did, I’d bring Fable to my office and we’d gaze at the view, the flakes falling, making the whole world hush. Then, I’d tug her against me and kiss her until her fingers roped through my hair and she begged for more.
And on that note…I shake off the fantasy.
Annoyed that I let my mind wander that far, I dive back into this report. A few minutes later, my phone buzzes. Maybe it’s her.
Take it slow, man. Don’t be all over it.
But I don’t listen. I grab the device, hope jumping inside me until I click on my texts.
Dad: That recital video is the best! Did you show it to your mom?
My shoulders sink. Yes, of course I sent it to Mom. I sent it to him, too, just to be a good son. But I’m not irritated with him this time. I’m irritated with myself for wishing the text was from Fable.
Wilder: I did. She enjoyed it. Glad you did too.
Dad: So much! At least I did one thing right—raised you.
But did he? He was hardly around. He was always off at the tables, gambling, trying to win the big one. He was wandering into casinos, casing out private poker parties, hunting for a score. Mom was the parent who was around every morning, every evening. She was there for my sister and me. And the three of us were left to pick up the pieces he left behind. Broken, dirty pieces.
Wilder: Thanks. Appreciate that.
I send the text even though I don’t entirely mean it. But my mom raised me to be polite, so there’s that. Then, I pick up the phone and call my sister, chatting with her about her kids, her holiday plans, and what we can do for Mom for Christmas when she arrives in Evergreen Falls. “It’ll be a fight to the death to see whose team she plays on,” I say.
“Because she’s your secret weapon. She’s as cutthroat as you are,” Caroline says.
“Ouch.”
“The truth hurts,” she teases, but it’s not a joke. I am cutthroat. Am I that way with romance too?
I dismiss that thought because it’s good to have standards.
“I’ll survive your arrows,” I say dryly.
“Of course you will. Nothing gets to you.”
What the hell? Is it pile-on-Wilder night? “Do you think I’m a robot?”
She laughs. “I think you’re a badass,” she says, then shifts topics. “And how’s your girlfriend?”
“She’s great,” I say, maybe too easily.
“Good. Because if she’s not, she’ll have me to answer to. Also, I seriously can’t believe you started dating someone right when I was going to introduce you to my friend Claudia. She runs a horse therapy farm, and she loves football.” So much for not introducing me. She’s teeing me up for the next match when this one ends.
And it will. But I don’t want to think about that yet.
“Believe it,” I say, and at least it’s true enough through Christmas.
“And now, I am ready to be fabulous,” Bibi calls from the kitchen the next morning, having replenished her coffee in her travel mug.
“You’re always fabulous, Bibi,” Mac says as she holds the door open. The three of us leave my home, taking off for Bibi’s limo.