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“Go put this on.” I reach into one of the various bags in the kitchen and produce a fine knit sweater for Patrick. It’s a fair isle, the kind with patterns and an old-school feel. Patrick takes it and stares down at it for a long moment, then looks back at me, skeptical. “The sale, remember?” I prod, and he sighs, turning and walking toward the bathroom.

I wait until he’s gone, then grab my own sweater and duck into a guest bedroom just down the hallway from him. I do not think about him pulling his shirt and jacket up over his head. I do not think about what the sweater feels like against his warm skin.

When we return to the living room, it takes my breath away all over again.

It’s not just the tree—though that’s doing most of the work. I also lined each of the surfaces with twinkling garland and scattered a Christmas village over the fireplace mantel. The lights glitter and shine in the mirror and window, making the room look bigger than it is.

And it’s already massive.

Being here feels luxurious. It feels impossible.

Patrick and I set up the camera, and I insist he sit on the ground with me, on the tree’s skirt. There are gifts set around us, like this is a real tree that will get to see a real Christmas morning.

“You have to pretend like you like me,” I insist, when he keeps a full six inches between us at all times. I don’t miss the way the tips of his ears go pink as I slide closer to him, laying my head on his shoulder.

And I don’t miss the matching flutter in my own chest.

It’s just the fact of playing the part like this. Living through a version of what could have been with Jeremy and me.

Except, not with this nice of a tree. And not in this big of a living room.

And even without the occasional flutter in my stomach when Patrick’s hand brushes against my own, or when his breath blows over my neck.

Not for the first time, I wonder what it would be like to turn my head and catch his lips with my own. It’s a wild thought, one that creeps in around the edges and finds a sneaky way in. It’s not a professional thought. Not the thought of a fake fiancée.

As we smile and look at the camera, I remind myself that’s what I am. Nothing more, as much as it might feel that way.

“What do you think?” Patrick asks when I’m standing and reviewing the photos on my phone. We look good—flushed and happy, not a trace of awkwardness in the pictures.

“I think the tree would look better with a homemade touch,” I say, instead of any of that, because I could never admit to him that I think we look good together. Flipping mindlessly through the pictures, I say, “I can’t wait until my kids are bringing home handmade ornaments from school. It makes the tree look real, you know?”

Patrick goes quiet and still, like even the mention of kids might summon them here.

“Right.” His clipped, professional tone is back. He runs a hand through his hair. “Well, if you’ve got the card thing handled, I have some work to get done.”

And with that, he turns and walks down the hallway to an office, quickly shutting the door.

CHAPTER 13

PATRICK

Cami and I are, of course, not making this little arrangement public knowledge at work. That means that, although she’s staying with me, we don’t carpool together. And I notice her slip off her ring at the door, setting it on the entry table before she walks out to her car.

For some reason, I don’t like the sight of it. Probably just because my mother’s ring had a home for such a short time before returning to a table. I slip off mine and set it next to hers before I walk out the door behind her.

The workday goes by at its normal pace, with me in and out of my office, heading to meetings and working with my associates. When I stop in at my office around six in the evening, Cami is already gone, which is good. I expect my employees to work eight hours, no more.

I’m the CEO. I put in the extra hours. All studies point to additional time for employees reducing morale, which ultimately reduces productivity. It’s not a tenet I’ve always followed, and we’ve been known to occasionally push the new hires a little harder, but for the most part we don’t penalize anyone who simply wants to put their time in and go home.

After gathering my things and answering a few more emails, I finally leave for the day, taking the winding roads back out to my house. Tonight, there’s traffic from a Miami Heat game, so I don’t get home until around seven.

I’m not sure what I was expecting when I got home, but it wasn’t this.

The house is…alive.

Lights on, music playing gently inside, muffled through the walls when I park in the garage and climb out of my car. Cami’s car is in the driveway. I’ll have to make room for her in the garage. It’s not fair to ask her to park it outside.

When I walk through the door, the inside of my house is unrecognizable.