Page 25 of My Favorite Holidate

“But right now, I’m at your service. I’m all for picking just the right outfits.” Her knowing grin is a nod to the outfit she didn’t plan to wear the night she met Wesley—an oversized T-shirt and pink fuzzy slippers.

“Thank you for putting your dating trauma to my good use,” I say.

“It is for a worthwhile cause.” She sets the bags on the floor and backs up, getting right to business, roaming her eyes up and down my outfit. As a designer, I have an eye for clothes, patterns, and pairings. But as a woman going on a fake date with a billionaire, I need some backup from a friend.

“The sweater is cute,” she says, pointing at the cranberry-red V-neck sweater that slopes just so off one shoulder. “The little white cami under it is great. The hair is gorgeous.” She nods to the soft waves on my shoulders—the result of an afternoon of toil with the flat iron. “But…” Josie continues, drawing out the word and the inspection.

My heart sinks. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the skirt.” She points to my knee-length black skirt, which I’ve paired with simple black heels. “I would go with something else.”

I smooth the fabric unnecessarily. “The man wears custom suits to work. I need something nice.” Especially after the paper towel incident, I want to look classy for Wilder. He’s a classy man who sent me a delicious gift the other night, complete with a red satin bow that had my mind wandering to other uses for bows.

“What he wears to work is not the point,” Josie says.

Oh. I get it. “You’re saying he might not wear a suit tonight,” I say quickly, then bite my lip. “Right, right.” I picture him at Thanksgiving in his crisp dress shirt and slacks. “He’ll probably wear?—”

Josie curls her hand around my forearm. “This isn’t about him. It’s about you. Wear what you’re comfortable in.”

That sounds too easy. “Are you sure?”

“Trust me. Iknow,” she says kindly. “On our first date, Wes didn’t care about the baggy T-shirt and slippers or that I looked like I’d just gotten out of the shower.”

That was a fair point, especially how things had worked out for them.

“I hate that you’re sort of right,” I grumble.

She cups her ear. “Did you say you love that I’m right?”

“You’re a little right.” That’s all I’ll admit. I get what she’s saying, but our situations are different. “But Ihaveto look like I’m trying. That’s the point—this is for show.”

She smiles softly. “I’d think, especially when you’re fake-dating, you wouldn’t want to try on too many different personalities. It’s best if you be you.”

I part my lips to highlight the flaw in her logic, but dammit, I can’t.

“Okay, you’rereallyright,” I admit as my stomach swoops with nerves. “What the hell am I getting myself into, Josie? I date bikers and stockbrokers. I date bartenders and project managers for an app that takes a picture of your cat when it uses your computer to tell you that you weren’t hacked. I don’t fake date or real datebillionaires.” I slow my roll, breathe, then add, “Especially billionaires who send me Mint-nificent ice cream.”

Her big eyes pop. “So Maeve was right?”

“No,” I say, scoffing. “He’s just generous.”

She clears her throat. “He looked at you like he thinks you’re gorgeous last fall at The Resort and now he’s sent you your favorite ice cream?”

“He did.” I briefly savor the tasty memory and the card too.Happy holidays to my favorite elf. Then I’m back to the current convo. “Anyway, my point is?—”

Josie waggles a finger, cutting me off. “Nope. Tell me more about the ice cream he sent.”

“It was sweet. It was creamy. It melted in my mouth.”

Her eyebrows shoot higher. “And he sent your favorite flavor, you say?”

Oh no. Oh, hell no. I can see where she’s going, but I won’t follow. “It’s not a sign, Josie,” I say, trying to head her off before she gets to Romance Lane. “It was just ice cream, nothing else. Besides, everyone likes mint. Mint is not a sign.”

She smirks. “Oh, it’s for sure not a sign if it needs a triple denial.”

I give her a serious look. “I mentioned my favorite ice cream shop when we were in his office, creating a whole backstory of how we supposedly started dating. That’s all.” But I did like the card. It’s stashed in my bedside table.

“And then he sent it to you for real.” She is a dog refusing to let go of a bone.

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