Page 58 of My Favorite Holidate

Wilder

“I don’t know why you think it was me,” Mac says dryly—too dryly—after she spits out her toothpaste that night.

I lean against the bathroom door, arms crossed, shaking my head. I will get her to break. It’ll just take a little more time. “I can’t imagine.”

As she sets her toothbrush in the holder, she shrugs nonchalantly. “I mean, do I look like the sneaky type?”

With her blonde hair in a braid, and her too-big eyes, she’s the picture of innocence. “You? Not at all.”

“Exactly,” she says, then rinses her mouth with water and spits it out, setting the cup on the vanity like it’s a gavel. “Case closed.”

“Have you considered law?” I ask as she reaches for a towel and wipes her mouth.

“Actually, I have. Environmental law. I think I’d be a good attorney protecting the forest and polar bears.” Hergaze drifts pointedly to her pajamas—they’re covered with cartoon polar bears wearing Santa hats.

“I’d hire you,” I say as we head down the hall to her room.

“I already have my first client, and I haven’t even gone to law school yet.”

“Let alone high school,” I say as she turns into her room and flops down on the bed. Her desk is still a mess, but she helped with the party clean-up, so I table the request to tidy her desk till tomorrow. She grabs a book from the nightstand but doesn’t thrust it at me. “So howwasthe party?”

She sounds too eager for a report.

I could tell her, but two can play at her game. “Good,” I say evenly, giving nothing away since she gave nothing away when I asked if she’d hung the mistletoe.

“Just good?” Her little voice pitches up.

“Yes, just good.”

She heaves a sigh. “Dad. How could it have beenjust good?”

I adopt an intensely curious expression. “Why would it have been more than just good? Any reason in particular?”

She rolls her eyes. “Dad!”

“Mac,” I deadpan.

She drops her head into her hand, then mutters, “Fine. I hung the mistletoe.” She lifts her face, scowling. “There. Are you happy?”

“Very much so.”

“Now tell me. Was the party good? Did the mistletoe work?”

“Now you tellme. Why did you hang it?”

She pushes up on her elbows. “Because you’re fakedating,” she says, so amusingly impatient that I nearly double over in laughter. “And you want it to be believable. Couples kiss under the mistletoe all the time. I know the drill. I’ve seen the movies. Now, did it work?”

Too well.

But I won’t tell her that. I won’t tell a soul that Fable’s kiss is playing on an endless loop in my head and it will be for days. I won’t utter a word that Fable’s scent—strawberries and champagne—is branded in my mind, and the soft, sweet taste of her lips is intoxicating me hours later. That if our first practice kiss in my office did a number on me, this one will be my downfall.

“It worked to help sell the romance,” I say since that’s true, and since my kid is damn good at being a sidekick.

“Good.” Then she pats my arm. “I know you didn’t want Bibi to set you up. So I want this to work for you.” She pauses, brow knitting, cogs turning. “And I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” I say, trying to figure out if there’s more to her sidekicking than meets the eye.

“You’re happy with work and me,” she says, then curls her hands tighter around the covers, “but maybe the mistletoe made you happy too?”

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