Page 4 of Fake It for Christmas

“I’m Shane,” I said. “And wait a minute. How is thateasy? You want to share your deepest secret with a stranger?”

“No. Trust me, I don’t want to tell anyone my darkest secret,” he said, turning back to glance at me as he started to walk to the pool table. “I just know I’m going to win.”

2

ROWEN

He doesn’t know who I am.

Thank the fucking skies above.

That was the one great thing about hiding out in middle-of-nowhere, Tennessee: it wasn’t like New York City, where I’d seemed to carry a repelling cloud around me anywhere I went.

When it got really bad, near the end of my time there, people hated me just from reading my last name. I’d tried to get a coffee one morning, and when the barista had scanned my credit card, he’d had the balls to say across the counter: “Sorinelle? Rowen Sorinelle? Your family should be fucking ashamed of yourselves.”

Needless to say, I never got my cappuccino.

But that was my secret. A secret this guy Shane wouldneverknow.

I felt bad pool-sharking the poor guy, because he seemed nice enough and was clearly lonely tonight.

But it was very, very rare that I ever lost a game of pool. And one thing thatwasn’ta secret about me was that I was always too curious about people.

I wanted to know why a tall, fit, pretty-boy jock was sitting at this bar alone, looking so sad. Shane looked more like he belonged on a soccer field or a farm, smiling and glistening under the golden sun.

Abercrombie type, as I used to call it in high school. An all-American Tennessee guy—nothing like the artists, writers, and self-professed proud freaks I used to hang out with in New York City. Shane seemed earnest. I knew if I won the bet, he’d probably even tell me the truth about why he was sad.

And blissfully, no one here in Tennessee had to know my secrets.

“This is an abomination,” I said as we approached the pool table. I pointed at the mini pumpkins and big, carved Jack-O-Lanterns still sitting on the shelves nearby. “Halloween wasyesterday.”

Shane looked amused. “One day after Halloween is too long for you?”

“It’s outdated,” I said. “Christmas decorations should go up—”

“On November first,” he said, finishing my sentence.

I gave him a nod. “I knew I liked you.”

He cocked his head to one side as he grabbed a pool cue. “Liked me? Thought you said I lookedsad.”

I shrugged. “Who says I don’t like sad?”

Shane seemed fine with that answer. He said nothing as he held my gaze for a moment, some quiet question behind his eyes. He reached for the knob of chalk, pushed it onto the end of the cue, and started in on some practice shots.

I knew he wasn’t trying to show off his biceps, but the practice shots really did a nice job of that. He racked the balls, putting the 8-ball at the center and then removing the triangle.

“Mind if I break?” he asked.

“Go for it,” I said.

Shane hit the white cue ball with a satisfyingcrack, scattering the rest of them all around the table. I took a sip of my drink as I watched him take his first shot, pocketing one ball and claiming stripes for himself.

He missed the next shot and turned to me, standing up straight again.

“What are you having?” he asked, nodding at my glass.

“Espresso martini,” I said.

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