Page 16 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"You made a contract for fake dating?" I ask, trying not to laugh.
"I run a failing business. Contracts are all I have left." She hands me what appears to be a very official-looking document. "Terms and conditions."
I scan it, fighting back laughter. She's outlined everything. Public displays of affection, hand-holding required, kissing optional but encouraged at strategic moments, event attendance is mandatory, backstory coordination, we met at the tree lighting, bonded over my apparent hatred of joy, and even an exit strategy, mutual breakup citing different life goals.
"This is thorough," I comment.
"I may have Googled 'fake relationship contracts.' There's a surprising amount of information available," she confesses.
"Including the clause about 'no falling in love'?" I read aloud. "Section 3, subsection 2a: Both parties agree to maintain emotional boundaries and not develop genuine feelings."
"That's important," she insists.
"Is it legally binding?"
"I don't think feelings are admissible in court," she says thoughtfully.
"Judge Judy might disagree."
"Judge Judy isn't presiding over Snowfall Creek," she points out.
"Our loss." I tease.
She pulls out a pen with determination. "So, do we have a deal?"
I look at her—desperate, determined, ridiculously hopeful—and know I should say no. This is complicated. Messy. Exactly the type of entanglement Sterling warned me against.
But it's also a perfect cover. And she needs help. And I'm apparently the person who can't resist a woman in a Christmas sweater wielding a contract. I should note that for future transactions.
"Deal." I take the pen and sign 'Holden Clark' with a flourish that would make my actual signature jealous.
She signs her name with much less flourish and much more relief. "Thank you. Really. This is... you're saving my life."
"Your business," I correct.
"Same thing in Snowfall Creek," she says quietly.
"We should probably establish our story," I say, trying to be professional about this very unprofessional arrangement. "Make sure we're consistent."
"Right. Yes. I thought about that." She pulls out another paper. Of course, she has another paper. "I made a timeline."
"A timeline of our fake relationship?" I ask incredulously.
"With milestone moments and everything. First meeting at the tree lighting—that's real. First date at Giuseppe's—we should probably actually go there. First kiss—" she trails off.
"You scheduled our first kiss?" I ask.
"Tentatively. With weather-dependent alternatives," she explains, completely serious.
"What if it's raining?"
"Romantic," she says immediately.
"What if it's snowing?"
"Also romantic."
"What if there's a plague of locusts?" I challenge.
