Chapter 14

Noelle

We’re on display again, but today feels different than yesterday. Today, York and I have mastered the art of pretending, like a couple of pros in a romcom. If there were ever an award for “Best Fake Boyfriend,” York would win it hands down, no contest.

As we stroll through the bustling mall, hand in hand, the bright holiday decorations twinkle around us, and I can’t help but steal glances at him. “You know,” I say with a smirk, “if you keep holding my hand like this, people might actually think we’re a real couple.”

York chuckles. “Oh, please. I’m just doing my part to protect your honor. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re single on Christmas Eve, now would we?”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t hide my smile. “Right, because the world is just dying to know if Noelle Pearl is still available.”

“Hey, with a name like that, you should be on the cover of Holiday Hotties Monthly or something,” he teases, giving my hand a playful squeeze. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to date a girl who’s a walking Christmas card?”

I laugh, feeling warmth spread through me. “I’ll take that as a compliment, even if it does sound a little cheesy.”

“Cheesy’s my specialty,” he replies with a mock-serious expression. “So, what’s next on our agenda, Miss Christmas Card? Shall we visit Santa and tell him how much you want to keep this fake dating gig going?”

“Absolutely! I’ll ask him for a lifetime supply of awkward moments with you,” I shoot back, nudging him playfully.

He feigns shock, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me! I thought we were having a magical time together.”

“We are! It’s just… the idea of being stuck with you forever is a bit much,” I quip, feeling giddy.

He grins, his laughter echoing in the crowded mall. “Well, I guess we’ll have to take it one holiday at a time.”

As we navigate through the bustling sea of holiday shoppers, the festive atmosphere feels electric, and I can’t help but relish the fact that this fake relationship with York feels strangely real. The awkwardness from last night? I’m brushing it aside like a stray snowflake. Instead, I’m acting as if the thought of actually dating York Steele is the furthest thing from my mind.

But a nagging question dances in my thoughts: Do you think he’s buying it?

York suddenly stops in front of a quaint toy shop, his expression shifting from playful to pensive. He frowns, and I notice the way his jaw tightens, a hint of vulnerability flickering in his usually confident demeanor.

“Everything okay?” I ask, concern creeping into my voice as he drops my hand.

“My mother used to bring me to this store every year,” he replies, his gaze fixed on the window display filled with colorful toys and twinkling lights.

“Oh,” is all I manage, the word hanging heavily between us. I don’t press further; I can feel the weight of the moment. In all the years I’ve known York, I’ve never heard him talk about his mother. I’ve met a few of his family members—his cousin just the other night—but his mother has always been a blank space in his life story.

A soft smile spreads across his face, and I watch as a flood of memories washes over him. “She’d give me fifty dollars and let me buy whatever I wanted,” he continues, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “I remember feeling like a millionaire as I browsed the store, eyes wide with all the possibilities.”

I can picture the little boy he once was, filled with wonder and joy, and it tugs at my heartstrings. “That sounds amazing,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “You must have been the coolest kid on the block.”

He laughs softly, the warmth of his smile creeping back in. “Yeah, until my sister came along and stole the spotlight. She was the real star of the family.”

The playful banter is back, but I can sense that this moment is more than just a memory for him. It’s a glimpse into his past, a window into the man behind the confident facade. I want to ask more about his family, about his mother, but instead, I just stand beside him, letting the moment linger.

As we continue to walk, I steal glances at him, trying to decipher what’s going on in that handsome head of his. Maybe this fake dating gig is more complicated than I thought. And for a split second, I wonder if I’m ready to uncover all the layers that make up York Steele.

“Ice cream?” I nearly scream, my voice rising in disbelief. “It’s like twenty degrees outside, and you want to eat ice cream?” Seriously, are there even ice cream shops open at this time of year? The very idea seems absurd.

York beams at me, his smile wide enough to light up the entire street, like it’s the best idea he’s ever had in his life. “It’ll be fun! We can walk with our cones down the street, and the paparazzi will think we’re crazy.”

“Um,” I stall, trying to muster a valid counterargument. “You are crazy. It’s too cold!” I shiver just thinking about it, the icy air biting at my cheeks, but York seems undeterred.

He doesn’t listen to my whines of protest. Instead, he grabs my hand, his grip warm and reassuring against the chill of the air, and starts leading me down the cobblestone path toward the nearest ice cream shop.

I can’t help but glance at the shop as we approach, half-hoping that the lights are off and the doors are locked, so I can avoid the embarrassment of indulging in ice cream in subzero temperatures. But of course, they’re open.

As we reach the entrance, I catch a glimpse of the colorful ice cream cones displayed in the window, and I feel a mix of excitement and dread bubbling in my stomach.

“See? It’ll be fun,” York insists. I can’t help but chuckle at his enthusiasm, despite my reservations. Maybe I’ll just have to embrace the insanity of it all. After all, who wouldn’t want to share ice cream with a guy like York Steele, even if it feels utterly ridiculous?

I step up to the counter, my heart racing. “I’ll have a cone of vanilla ice cream with sprinkles, please,” I say, flashing a bright smile at the woman behind the counter. York orders a rich chocolate cone, his own smile infectious as we joke about how we plan on walking outside with our ice cream despite the freezing temperatures.

The lady behind the counter chuckles, shaking her head at our apparent madness. “You two are definitely a bit crazy,” she says with a wink, and I can’t help but laugh.

With our cones in hand, we step through the glass doors of the little shop, the brisk air greeting us with a sharp bite. York’s smile is radiant against the winter landscape, and as I watch him, my mind drifts back to his earlier words about his mother. It suddenly dawns on me how much this place must mean to him.

“Your mother used to take you here, huh?” I ask, curiosity piquing in my voice.

He nods, his tongue swirling through the rich chocolate ice cream in a way that momentarily distracts me. I can’t help but watch in rapt fascination as he savors the treat. “Yeah, she did,” he replies.

“Will you tell me about her?” I venture, a hint of worry creeping in as I think he might shut down. But I want to know more about the person who shaped him.

He sucks in a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to share something significant. “I’ve never opened up to anyone about my mother,” he admits, and my heart sinks a little, knowing how difficult it can be to talk about such personal things.

I nod in understanding, giving him the space to share. I want him to know he can trust me. “She was a great mother, but she had depression. Among other things,” he continues, his eyes growing distant as if he’s wandering back through memories, some bittersweet and others maybe painful.

The weight of his words hangs in the air between us, and I can see the vulnerability in his expression. I wish I could reach out, to comfort him in some way, but I remain still, offering my silent support as we stand together in the middle of this bustling holiday scene.

“She’d have good days and then she’d have some really bad days,” he whispers, his gaze fixed on the cone in his hand as if it holds all the answers. He abandons it, letting it droop in his grip, the chocolate ice cream slowly dripping down the side. “We didn’t know how to help her, and my father tried to pretend everything was fine.”

I feel a pang of sympathy for him, my heart aching at the thought of the struggles he and his family faced. “I’m sorry,” I offer softly, wanting to ease the weight of his memories, even just a little.

“My father pushed me to play hockey, and my younger sister to play the piano,” he continues, his voice low and heavy with unspoken emotions. I vaguely remember hearing about his younger sister, how she plays for an orchestra in New York City.

“That must have been hard on you all,” I say gently, trying to validate the struggles they faced.

York nods, his expression a mix of sadness and resignation. “Yeah, it was.” His words hang in the air, a poignant reminder of the sacrifices and pressures they endured.

My heartbeat quickens as I sense the depth of his pain. “What happened to her?” I ask, my curiosity piqued but laced with caution, aware that I’m treading on sensitive ground.

York wipes at his eyes, his tears glistening in the cold air. “This is all a bit much for ice cream talk, isn’t it?” he says, attempting to lighten the mood even as the emotion lingers in his voice. With a sigh, he tosses his cone into the nearby trash, and I follow suit, suddenly losing my appetite for the sweet treat that felt so innocent just moments ago.

York turns toward me, his gaze penetrating to the very depths of my soul. I want to live in this moment with him, and he raises a hand to my cheek to brush a stray strand of hair that he tucks behind my ear. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers, and I feel an intake of air rush out of me.

I hold my breath, caught in the tension of the moment, waiting for something— anything —to happen. But just as the air thickens with unspoken words, the sharp sound of a camera shutter snaps me out of my reverie.

York bows his head, the heat of our earlier conversation evaporating under the harsh glare of a flash, and a surge of rage bubbles up within me. We just shared this beautiful moment, a glimpse into each other’s lives that felt so raw and genuine, and it’s been ruined by the ever-watchful eyes of the paparazzi. I see red, my emotions flaring as I stomp off in the direction of the man wielding the camera.

“Hey!” I shout, my voice laced with indignation. “Have you ever heard of a little thing called privacy?”

York rushes after me, a look of alarm mixed with concern etched on his face. “Noelle, it’s okay,” he says, his tone trying to soothe me, but I’m not having any of it.

I turn to face him, frustration radiating from me. “It isn’t okay! Maybe not everyone wants every single minute of their life recorded for prosperity.”

York smirks at my passionate outburst, tilting his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You mean posterity?”

“Yeah, you know, for the record books,” I retort, spinning around again to direct my anger at the man with the camera.

The photographer glances over my shoulder at York, a silent plea for help flickering in his gaze. I follow his line of sight, feeling a rush of defiance, and snap back at him, “He’s not going to help you.”

York chuckles, stepping up beside me with an easy confidence. He crosses his arms, his stance casual but protective. “I’d run if I were you,” he advises the cameraman, a playful glint in his eyes that clashes with the tension of the moment.

The man stumbles backward a step, clearly taken aback, and I can’t help but feel a rush of satisfaction at having York by my side.

“That’s right. You better run!” I yell after the fleeing photographer, my voice echoing in the chilly air. “And I better not see any of those pictures online later, either, or I will seek you out—”

York cuts in, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Noelle, he’s gone.” He laughs, the sound warm and infectious.

In that moment, my anger vanishes like a puff of smoke, replaced by something electric in the air. The way York smiles at me draws me in, and I can feel my heart fluttering wildly in my chest. It’s as if the world around us fades away, leaving just the two of us standing there in the midst of chaos.

Before I can fully process what’s happening, York leans in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against my cheek. He captures my lips with his, and everything else falls away. The kiss is soft at first, a tentative exploration that sends shivers down my spine. His lips mold perfectly against mine, a sweet, tender pressure that ignites something deep inside me.

As the kiss deepens, it transforms into a dance of passion. I feel his hand find the small of my back, pulling me closer, and I instinctively lean into him, our bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. There’s a thrilling urgency in the way he kisses me, as if he’s pouring every unspoken word and emotion into that single moment.

Time stretches, and I’m lost in the sensation of him—the taste of chocolate on his lips mingling with the sweetness of the moment. When we finally pull away, breathless and wide-eyed, I can see a flicker of surprise mirrored in his gaze.

“Wow,” I whisper, my heart racing. The kiss feels like a promise, one that suggests this fake relationship might lead to something so much more real.