Page 45 of My Favorite Holidate

Wilder: If you insist on thanking me by picking a costume, have at it. But I’m not going as Santa Claus.

Fable: Please. Santa’s not hot. Of course you aren’t going as Santa.

Wilder: You want me to go as someone hot?

Fable: You’re my fake boyfriend. You’ll look hot.

Wilder: Then, you should pick. Also, thank you.

Fable: I could tell you didn’t want to pick. And I like costumes.

Wilder: I had a feeling.

Fable: Why?

Wilder: You seem like the type who can always have fun.

Fable: Do you ever have fun?

Wilder: I’m having fun right now.

I shut the door to my place and quickly change,then write back.

Fable: Me too. I’m wearing my fuzzy snowflake socks…

I pause, considering my next words. Then, what the hell?

Fable: They look hot.

Wilder: Of course they do. They’re on you.

I gasp. And once more I replay the kiss. Then I tell him what his costume is.

The fake boyfriending doesn’t stop at shopping. The next day while I’m working, an email lands on my computer from Shay.

Dear Fable,

Wilder has arranged for a private suite for you at this Thursday’s game. He said you can invite as many friends as you’d like. Hors d’oeuvres included of course. Can you let me know by end of day if you can make it?

Thanks so much! We paw-sitively hope you can!

Shay

Once more, my jaw drops. Is he for real?

No, he’s fake, girl. But seriously. This is elite-level fake boyfriending. I write back in all caps with extra exclamation points and a thousand thank yous.

And on Thursday night, I roll up to the stadium in my Renegades gear with Maeve, Josie, Everly, Charlotte and Leo, and also Rachel and Elodie. Josie brings Wesley, and Everly brings Max. Elodie brings her husband while Rachel brings her sister, Juliet, since her husband—Carter—is on the field prepping to play the game.

I’ve been to private suites before at the Renegades. I’ve stopped by the owner’s suite. But I’ve never—naturally—had my own private one.

I’m giddy as I head up the elevator to the suite level, bouncing as I walk down the hall, and more excited than I think I’ve ever been when an attendant opens the door, and says, “Enjoy the game, Ms. Calloway.”

But then, when I look at the spread, I’m simply touched. It’s all my favorite foods, from olives and cheeses and nuts to mushroom bruschetta, to corn flautas, to zucchini fritters.

And there’s no mayonnaise or shellfish in sight.

My heart pounds. I don’t deserve this level of fake boyfriending, but holy fuck. I am going to enjoy the hell out of it.

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