“You cry when you’re happy?” he asks in disbelief.
“It’s what we girls do,” Mallory calls out from across the room.
I bury my face in his chest and release a short laugh of embarrassment.
“Come on, love birds,” Mallory says. “You can be all cute and lovey later, but right now, I want to watch a squirrel jump out of a Christmas tree.”
Alex gives me a squeeze, then kisses the top of my head before he releases me. To my surprise, he takes my hand and leads me to a love seat. We sit down together, and he wraps an arm around me, tugging me into his side. I curl up next to him as he tosses a blanket over my legs, and I rest my head against his chest, our hips pressed together.
This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
Alex is not my boyfriend. His family is not my family. This isn’t my Christmas. I’m an interloper.
We watch the movie while a fire roars in the fireplace, the only light in the room coming from the tree and the television. It’s all so perfect. The family Christmas I’ve always dreamed of. I push down the fear that I’ll be destroyed when it’s over. But there’s no backing out now. I signed a contract.
When the movie’s over, Mallory wants to watch The Santa Clause. I’m on board, and Alex agrees, but his parents bid us goodnight and head upstairs.
It’s after eleven when the second movie’s over. Mallory tells us she’s going to bed, leaving the two of us on the love seat.
We sit in silence, watching the fire with the Christmas tree twinkling in the corner. Alex still has his arm around me, and I’m snuggled into his side, our feet next to each other on an ottoman. There’s no one to convince right now—it’s just us—and I know I should move away from him, but I want to enjoy the illusion for a few minutes more.
Finally, Alex shifts slightly and whispers, “We should discuss the sleeping arrangement for tonight. I can sleep in the chair?—”
“No,” I say quickly. “The whole point of this was so you could sleep in your bed. You gave me a perfect day, the least I can do is give you the bed.”
He shifts and looks at me, emotion brewing in his eyes. “Finley, absolutely not. There’s no way you’re sleeping in the chair again.”
“How about this,” I say carefully, as I watch for his reaction to what I’m about to suggest. “We can both sleep in the bed.” Surprise fills his eyes, and before he thinks that I’m begging him to sleep with me, I add, “Look, we’re both adults, perfectly capable of controlling ourselves.” I give him a wry grin. “Besides, I know you’re not interested in me like that.”
Frustration fills his eyes, and he takes my hand. “Finley, I didn’t?—”
“Alex,” I say firmly, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay, and honestly, it’s actually reassuring. This way there’s no confusion.”
There’s no denying it could get messy and complicated, but I can’t deny that I’d be open to… more. At least to myself. Which is humiliating considering he made it very clear this morning that sleeping with me is the last thing he wants.
But I’m a grown woman, and I’m perfectly capable of controlling myself. Besides, the last thing I’d ever do is throw myself at a man who doesn’t want me. I’m not sure I could bear more mortification.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice tight. “You’re perfectly safe from me taking advantage.” He says it in a teasing tone, but his eyes don’t sparkle like they have all day when he’s joked around.
He slips the blanket off our laps and nudges the ottoman away with his foot before standing. Then he turns to face me and holds out a hand. “It’s time for my Georgia peach to go to bed. We have a full day ahead of us tomorrow.”
I reach out, and he pulls me up with a little more strength than I expect. I stumble, and his hands catch my hips, steadying me. Our chests brush, and I look up at him, the firelight flickering on his face.
“I’m not very graceful,” I say with a nervous laugh, trying to bury the ache rising in my chest.
“I’m not complaining,” he says, his voice low, his gaze locked on mine
The tension between us hums—so real I can almost feel it against my skin. If I hadn’t overheard his conversation with Roland this morning, I might think he was about to kiss me. It’s ridiculous.
Except…it doesn’t feel ridiculous.
Before I can decide what to do, he lets go of my hips and takes my hand instead, leading me to the entryway. When he drops it at the staircase, the loss of contact feels sharper than it should.
What am I doing? The Alex I’ve gotten to know on this trip is a paradox—snobbish and arrogant one minute, sweet and thoughtful the next. He’s a contradiction I can’t seem to figure out. And worse, I’m starting to want to.
But the sweet part of him has to be real, right? Still, a part of me is terrified it’s just another layer of the act—because it’s easier to keep pretending, even when no one’s watching, than to turn it on and off. And if it’s true, I’ll end up looking like a fool for falling for it.
So why do I want to fall for it anyway?
