Page 35 of My Favorite Holidate

“Does Santa wear a suit?” I ask in faux indignation. “But of course I did.”

We get to work planning all the things. When we’re done, Maeve bats her hazel eyes at me. “So, how is it dating Wilder Blaine?”

I give her a look, then hiss out in a low voice, “It’s fake, Maeve. And you know it.”

She gives an over-the-top nod. “Right. Of course.”

“Maeve,” I warn her.

“But really, I mean it. How is it fake dating the man?”

I flash back to dinner last night, and how I felt when I walked into Dahlia’s and saw Wilder at the table waiting, his emerald eyes locked on me as I walked to the table. The way my chest flipped. How I felt a little fizzy.

“Perfectly fake,” I say, and I hate lying to my friends.

They’re my people. I trust them with my life. They’d bury bodies for me. But this is merely attraction for him, and nothing—not a damn thing—will come of it.

But there’s a problem. A big problem. And it’s not the stuffed Santa butt that’s sticking out of the box I’m lugging down the corridor of the Renegades stadium late on Monday morning.

It’s the wedding shower this coming weekend.

“The café fell through and every place I called is booked!”

Charlotte is freaking out as we talk on the phone while I make my way to the flagship team store, lugging a canvas bag of decorating supplies and a box full of pink shirts I designed before the start of the season—shirts we can barely keep in stock, but I just got a new shipment, so I’m hustling my way to unload them before I go to this meeting with Wilder.

I hoist the box higher and focus on Charlotte. “Why are you doing this?” My sister’s not the one who should be taking all this on. As the maid of honor, I should beorganizing the venue. “I’ll make some calls. I’ll try Happy Cow, Morning Glow, Green Pantry…” Any of these brunch places would be perfect for a shower.

“I tried them already! Booked! All of those. With Christmas brunches. Hanukkah lunches. Holiday coffees,” she says, and I’m pretty sure the players on the practice field can hear her desperation. “And I would do it at our place but?—”

“But you’re having the guest bathroom redone,” I finish. It’s been vexing her for some time. The prior owners of Charlotte and Leo’s new townhouse had inexplicably covered the bathroom in wallpaper featuring illustrations of couples on sex swings. Charlotte’s replacing it with a tasteful, yet cheeky, flamingo print.

“But they can just use our bathroom, I suppose,” she says, talking herself down. She’s nothing if not rational, even when she’s careening toward an official bride freak-out. “It’s fine,” she says. “No big deal. There’s no reason guests can’t use the en suite.”

I frown as I near a hallway that leads to the practice field. “First of all, weird. No one wants to walk through your bedroom to use your bathroom, and you don’t want that either. Two, you’re not going to host your own wedding shower.” I catch a familiar figure coming toward me down the hall, dressed for practice, helmet in hand. It’s a short week, and Carter, my friend Rachel’s husband, is heading to the field for a light practice. I wave at him with my free hand while I reassure Charlotte, “I’ll find a place, so stop. Just stop. I can handle this.”

Carter pauses beside me, eavesdropping. Pointing to the phone, he mouths,“Need a place for something? You can use our house.”

I tell Charlotte to hold on a sec. “You’re sweet to offer…”

Before he can answer—before I’ve finished my sentence—a familiar voice cuts in.

“I’ve got this.”

Deep, rich, warm…I spin around, and my heart flutters to see Wilder walking up behind me. Maybe he came down the other hallway.

I look away to hurriedly finish the call. “I’ll call you back, Charlotte. And I will find a place. I promise.”

“Thank you,” she says fervently. “You’re the best.”

Hanging up, I look at the two men. I’m a little confused, but I’m grateful. “That’s nice of both of you,” I say.

“Yes, thank you, Carter,” Wilder says to his star player. “But if this is about the wedding shower, I have it under control.”

“No problem, Mr. Blaine,” Carter says. The man is technically his boss too.

Wilder chuckles, shaking his head.“It’s Wilder,” he says, clearly not for the first time.

Carter nods and turns toward the exit. “Right, Mr. Blaine.”

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