Page 62 of My Favorite Holidate

As he sits on the navy-blue chair, I relate what went down in the hall with the fake fur and the stylist and Mac saying I needed a dress.

He alternates between chuckling and wincing, before asking with an amused lift in his brow, “She actually said that?Do I look like a murderer?”

“Yes! She did. And I still had no clue it was the team party,” I say, plucking at my blouse.

I slump farther onto the couch, wishing I could curl up and nap. That was exhausting.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says with genuine remorse. “It truly slipped my mind.”

“And she’s sending me to her stylist. He’ll probably hate my hair and tell me to do ten million crunches.”

Wilder scoffs. “You don’t need to do ten million crunches.”

I flap a hand toward his obviously flat stomach. “You probably do one crunch and get instant abs. Is that your secret?”

His lips twitch in a smile. “How do you know I have abs?”

“Because the universe is unfair.”Also because your shirts fit nice and tight, and it’s unmistakable.

He rises, moving from his chair to sit next to me on the couch—closer but not too close. He draws a breath then, when I’m meeting his gaze, says, “One, you’re gorgeous as you are, and you don’t need to change a thing. And two, the universeisunfair.”

I sit up, ears pricking. He called me gorgeous. I feel like Rudolph when he learns Clarice likes him. “I am?”

I should shut up. Really, I should. But I’ve never been that good at shutting up when I’m savoring an unexpected compliment.

And that was a tasty one.

Wilder’s green irises blaze with intensity. “You are, Fable,” he says, his tone so serious, so intense that my foot would pop again if I were standing. Instead, a million hummingbirds flutter inside me. “Thank you.” I pause, wondering if I should bring up the next point. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. “Am I yourMy Fair Lady?”

“Fable,” he says, gentle but firm too. “Why would you say that?”

I frown, then look around his office, pointing to the window overlooking the stadium that he owns. “We don’t live in the same world. Your aunt has a stylist named Arbor who serves Veuve Clicquot. She’s sending a fancy car. And I made you a thank-you ornament from yarn,” I blurt out, and his eyes widen at the last point, but I keep going. “And I spilled Christmas glitter dicks on you, and I live in a tiny apartment and?—”

I swallow the wordsI’m sweating. I don’t need him to know that whole encounter threw me off. But it threw me off because I don’t want us to fail. I like this ruse with him. It started as a necessity, but it’s also become fun.

Because of the kisses. Because you liked the kisses. Because you can’t stop thinking about your boss’s lips on you.

Oh my god, the voice in my head needs to shut up. I try my best to silence it as Wilder reaches for me and takes my hand, clasping it.

His touch is both reassuring and a turn-on. “You’re notMy Fair Lady. You’re not a project. Bibi just likes…to do those things. To treat people to the good life, I suppose.”

“It’s not because she thinks I’m wrong for you? I mean, she was going to set you up with the executive director of the museum, not the director of team merch.”

He smiles, confident and magnetic, and doesn’t let go of my hand. “I like the team. And I like the merch.”

There’s an undercurrent to those words, but I don’t dare let myself read into it. Instead, I breathe out calmly. My pulse settles. I’m being silly. I smile apologetically and squeeze back, maybe so he won’t stop holding my hand. “Sorry. I just want to do the right thing. I don’t want to mess this up for you.”

His eyes pin me with intensity. “That would be impossible. For you to mess it up.”

I furrow my brow. “Why do you say that?”

He doesn’t answer. He tips his forehead toward my other hand. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the gift confession.” A sly smile teases his lips. “You made me an ornament?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s nothing,” I say.

He drops my hand and raises a finger. “It’s not nothing.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet.”

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