Page 79 of My Favorite Holidate

“They are.”

“That’s why we need to pull this off. If we make a mistake, and Brady finds out that our romance isn’t real, he will be a dog with a bone. He will never let it go. I can’t have that happen during this special time for your sister. And you. Is that clear?”

Boardroom Boss is absolutely in the car, and I am into it. I love that he wants this to go off without a hitch not simply for himself, but for me and for my sister. His passion is addictive.

“Yes. So how does the list work?”

As we cruise along the highway past Corte Madera, he goes into detail. “At the team party, we made a tactical error by being too over the top with our…affection.”

Ironic, considering we crossed all kinds of affectionate lines already. But there’s a difference between stolen touches behind closed doors and public displays of affection. “Now that the competition is beginning and we’re all in close quarters, we need to come across as real and authentic. We need to sell it less andbeit more. First, Isuggest we dial back the nicknames, to ‘honey’ perhaps instead of ‘little elf’ all the time. To ‘sweetheart’ or ‘sweetie’ instead of ‘sugar plum.’”

That makes sense. I can see his point. “Simpler names. More believable ones,” I say, then get started right away with a purposeful, “sweetie.”

“Thank you, honey.” He flicks the turn signal and hops into the next lane before he adds, “Along those lines, here’s how I see the game working. There will be plenty of activities in the common area for the cabins. So obviously, when we’re with others and anytime there is some sort of over-the-top gesture from you or from me, we get to call the other one on it.”

“It’s like a game within a game? I am definitely here for that. So what do you have in mind? If I squeeze your ass too hard do I have to make you Christmas cookies?”

A laugh falls from his lips. “As a matter of fact that sounds like a perfect consequence. I might be rooting for us to fail then.”

“Nah. You’d never root for that. Even if you like cookies and cheek squeezes.”

He laughs. “True. Very true. Here’s another. If you tell a ridiculous story about me that feels unbelievable, I get two hours to relax in front of the fireplace.”

He deserves time to relax. I almost want to tell a silly story to give him that moment. But I wouldn’t sabotage us. “Fair. And if you call me by a nickname that is certifiably sickeningly cutesy, I get a massage. I do love massages,” I say, wiggling in the seat and saying deeply, in pre-appreciation for a massage, “I don’t get nearly enough spa days. I wouldn’t mind more of them.”

“I should find a spot to send you to if that happens. In Evergreen Falls?” He takes his eyes off the road for asecond, looking at me like maybe he’d rather not send me to a spa—that he’d rather touch me himself.

My breath catches unexpectedly from his gaze. “Unless you’re offering,” I say before I even have a chance to think about the temptation of those words. “You are good with your hands.”

He growls, low and rumbly, deep in his throat. Perhaps that was too risqué, especially since we agreed what happened on his desk was a momentary lapse of reason. A one-time practice.

His voice lowers to a smokier tone. “And I like using them…on you.”

My skin tingles. I might like this naughty or nice list too much. “Now I kind of want you to call me a nickname that’s sickeningly cute,” I say, a little tease in my tone, like a sexy invitation.

He’s quiet. Focusing dead straight on the road. His hands grip the wheel tighter as if he’s fighting off the urge to sayme too.

Or maybe I’m imagining that’s the battle he’s waging.

For a few miles we’re silent, perhaps both processing the list. What it means to be naughty and nice together. What it means to be over the top in a fake relationship and what it means to be real.

Perhaps, most of all, what it means to break the rules we’ve set for ourselves—a momentary lapse of reason.

Which raises a question. “What if we’re just good at it? What if we’re believable and authentic? Can I still make you a hot cocoa?” I ask.

He steals a glance my way as we pass the rolling green hills of Novato. “I would love that,” he says, so earnestly it makes my heart go soft.

I give in to another impulse, this one to set a hand onhis arm. “You probably haven’t had one since last Christmas.”

“That’s true.”

“Then maybe that should be an addendum to our naughty and nice list. If we’re believable—truly believable—we’ll have hot cocoa together some night just like you wanted.”

“That sounds nice too,” he says, like he’s fighting to keep the vulnerability out of his voice—fighting but failing. I hate that he feels he can’t be vulnerable with me.

If we weren’t driving, I might scoot closer, rest my head on his shoulder. Instead, I lift my hand and gently run it across the hair just above his ear. “Does that feel real?”

He shudders. Subtly, but still, it’s there. “Yes,” he admits.

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