Page 51 of My Favorite Holidate

“And you like to understand people,” I say.

He holds my gaze for a beat. “I do.”

That warmth I felt earlier spreads. He understood how frazzled and hurt I was that time in his office when I spilled glitter Christmas dicks on him. He understood me the next time when I felt guilty overnottelling my sister the full truth. He understood me at dinner when we talked about snow and winter and songs.

And he’s trying so damn hard to make sure we pull off this fake romance. Brady hardly tried at all with our real relationship. My own father barely tried to fix things with my mother after cheating on her over and over, and she still gave him chance after chance. And sure, some of my past boyfriends tried, but not to the extent of this man.

Wilder? He shows up every single time for every single thing. It’s admirable. It’s attractive. My throat tightensbriefly with emotions, but I swallow them down as we leave.

I face a new battle when we reach his room next. The suite is three times the size of my tiny place and fifty million times nicer, with warm cream walls, soft carpeting, and floor-to-ceiling windows. I swear I try not tooohandaahthe whole time. The bed, low to the ground on a blond wood platform, looks like it’s made of sweet dreams, with soft gray, blue, and white pillows. The windows show off the whole city and the ocean beyond. His bed is neatly made, and this feels entirely him too.

I’m about to say that when a loud thud echoes from the corner of the room. I spin around, alarmed. “What was that?”

Wilder drags a hand through his hair. “Penguin,” he says.

“Penguin?”

A second later, a large tuxedo cat saunters out of the closet, stretches luxuriously, then sashays over to Wilder. The cat has white gloves, a black body, and a half-face, mostly black, but with a white mouth. “You have a cat,” I say, stunned.

“The rumors are true.”

I spin around, swatting his arm. “Stop it! You never even dropped a hint that you had a cat. You didn’t mention it at dinner or in your office dos and don’ts.”

“I guess there was so much else we covered, it slipped my mind,” he says, but there’s something else in his eyes—the hint of an excuse? A cover-up? I’m not sure.

“Well, you ordered me to come early so we could pull this off.” I park my hands on my hips. “Now I learn you’ve been hiding a cat?” A cat who’s…a little in love with Wilder. The feline is rubbing against his leg. Purring. “Is your cat marking you?”

With amused resignation, he bends to pick up the critter. “She was supposed to be Mac’s. A few years ago, she wanted to adopt a cat, so I took her to Little Friends, and she picked this cat. Then, once we returned home, the cat…well, she picked me.”

As if on cue, Penguin rubs her head against his chest. A laugh bursts from me. “Your cat is obsessed with you.”

A smile teases his lips like he can’t quite believe he’s enchanted this feline. But judging from the rumble of her purr, he definitely has. He scratches her head. “Yes. She is. So there you go. I have a cat. Mac named her,” he says, then sets the fluffball on the bed. She flops down, sticking a leg up in the air and bathing for all the world to see.

“She matches you, tuxedo cat and all. She’s the perfect feline for you.”

He glances down at his suit. “I’m not wearing a tuxedo right now.”

“No, but I bet there’s one in your closet.”

He steps closer and holds my gaze, his eyes gleaming. “Two, Fable. Two.”

He doesn’t look away. I roll my lips together, liking his stare more than I should. I shake off this feeling blooming in my chest—whatever it is—and sweep my arm around the space, indicating his home.

Yes, it’s luxurious, out of nearly everyone’s league. But it’s also lived in and loved. “I like your house. It looks like home,” I say.

Tilting his head, he studies me, his eyes soft, vulnerable. “Thanks. Hardly anyone says that.” A pause. “Actually, no one.”

“Then they’re missing the obvious.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

For a few seconds, the air feels charged. Like we’ve crossed some line, more than we did with our practice kiss. Or maybe the crackle and pop comes from being, well, seen.

Before we leave his room, though, he sets a hand on my arm. His expression serious, he says, “Let’s be the best best man and maid of honor there is. And let’s show Brady that he’s the one who lost.”

He takes my hand, and we walk down the stairs like that—even though no one’s looking.

---